a mistake. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll have to come back for the beer later,’ she muttered as the man walked past, carrying his shopping perfectly easily. She stared daggers at his back, feeling her good mood dissipate.
‘I’m sorry, but we can’t keep anything by the tills today. We have a very large order coming in for the weekend. It’s our biggest delivery of the year.’ The girl jerked a thumb over her shoulder, towards the window. Sure enough, pallets of boxes were being unloaded from the ferry, destined for here.
‘Oh, what?’ Bell cried, noticing the long queue forming behind her. Great! ‘For God’s sake . . .’ she tutted. ‘Well, can you at least help load me up, then?’ She wondered if there was someone’s wheelbarrow she could use. Surely an enterprising teenager would be happy to earn some easy cash? The girl, shooting her an annoyed look, put the box into her outstretched arms, then two of the six-pack cartons on top, with the third six-pack just under her chin and the basket of flowers resting in front of that. It was very precariously balanced.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ the girl asked, looking concerned as Bell started to stagger away. She could barely see anything, certainly not her feet.
‘Well, I’m going to have to be, aren’t I?’ she muttered. ‘If someone would be so kind as to open the door . . .?’
Someone – she couldn’t see who – did, and she walked carefully down the ramp, people side-stepping out of her way as they saw her overloaded progress. ‘Talk about beast of burden,’ she muttered under her breath as she passed the man easily dropping his small box and folded newspaper onto the trike’s vast wooden tray.
She walked eight paces, stopped and turned back. ‘Excuse me.’
He took a moment to respond, turning around with a quizzical look. ‘Yes?’
‘That trike.’
He looked down at it, as though needing to confirm first. ‘. . . Yes?’
‘Do you really need it?’ He frowned, perhaps because he had picked up on the indignation in her voice. ‘Because I would happily pay twice what you’ve just paid to hire it.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry, but I do need it.’
‘As much as me?’ she panted, her arms already beginning to ache.
‘Yes, I—’
‘Three times, then.’
‘Miss, it’s not a question of money.’
‘No, you’re quite right, it’s a question of need and forgive me if I’m sounding rude, but right now, honestly? My need is greater than yours.’ She changed her stance and improved her grip. ‘So tell me, how much will it take for you to let me put this lot down?’
He stared at her for a moment. She wasn’t a tall woman anyway, but she was truly dwarfed by the pile of shopping in her arms. ‘Let me.’ And he reached for the beers and set them down on the wooden tray; immediately, the load on her reduced by half. She gave a groan of relief.
‘Thank you,’ she said as he took the box and basket from her too, and she stretched her arms out. They were already stiff. But any hopes that he might be a knight in shining armour were short-lived.
‘Why did you buy so much if you knew you couldn’t carry it?’ he asked.
‘Well . . . because I saw the trike out here.’
‘Didn’t you know it was first come, first served?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t you see me ahead of you at the till?’
‘I did, but it didn’t look like you were going to need the trike,’ she said, a hint of sarcasm in the words as she scanned the scant, utterly middle-class provisions.
‘I’ve bought some gas,’ he said, kicking his foot lightly towards three large canisters set beside the bags of compost outside.
‘Oh.’ Dammit. She looked back at him, embarrassed. ‘I see.’ An awkward silence bloomed. ‘Well then, I’m sorry about that. Clearly you do need the trike. I’ll just . . .’ She sighed and bent down to pick up the box again, immediately feeling the strain in her arms. ‘If you wouldn’t mind reloading me up again?’
She waited as he stared at her with an air of bafflement. She could scarcely see his face behind his glasses and cap. ‘Where do you need to get to?’ he asked finally.
Oh thank God! ‘Just past the Yacht Hotel, that first right up the hill.’
His mouth pursed a little. ‘That’s gangplank access.’
‘Yes – but I usually go up and across the back when I’ve got the wheelbarrow.’