You are what you eat (II)

For the next few weeks Amanda passed the shop with no urge to look in the window. It was clear from the other side of Wall Street that the display hadn't changed, and would probably have to gather dust until after Christmas. The jars of piccalilli never diminished, but then none of the piles on display seemed to. They must have been restocked during the day, she decided.

The year wore itself down to a solstitic nub, and suddenly it was holiday season and festive spirit. Friends in Leicester, a hundred miles away, turkey and trimmings and you could convince yourself that it snowed mid-afternoon. So some ten days passed before Amanda saw the shop again, and by that time there was a sale on. You could tell there was a sale on, not just because the rough shape of the supplies had changed (visible from the other side of the road), but by the sign saying so. Times New Roman on a sheet of A4 declared disarmingly: "We are having a SALE." Amanda couldn't resist, and jogged across to the shop front.

As the herald of the new year the window was disappointing. It was as packed as before, but not with especially seasonal produce. The tins were more or less the same. There was an extra pile of capers in salt, tiny pods in tiny jars that looked rolled and tossed together on both levels, rather than packed with any care; any gaps were filled with uncracked walnuts; otherwise it might as well have still been September. And although the cheeses looked fine, if they were on sale then how many days were left before the brie nudged the stilton-and-cranberry and they both got up and walked out of the display in protest?

The back of the display had changed the most. Amanda had not seen sweets in those tall glass jars for years—she had probably simply been in too many grown-ups' shops—and the sight of them made her feel young again. Since before Christmas, the shopkeeper had positioned a legion of memories along the side counter, facing the street. Aniseed balls, Everton mints, rhubarb & custards all queued up to tell her who she had been....

... Her sister Charlotte, a year and a half older and with hair like a roll of velvet that had been left to pour down a flight of stairs. Charlotte always used to carry the money when they were sent grocery shopping. Their mother sent them to just one of the two grocers in Brisford, the other neglected due to some historical slight or mis-purchase as dusty and forgotten as the shop's top shelves. After the bell had stopped tinkling, Charlotte had always pretended to an air of parsimony. The grocer mock-suggested all the sweets she had, finally settling on sugar letters to see Charlotte's eyes light up. Charlotte had once claimed to love them far more than her sister. Amanda in turn had decided they were her favourites too, because she always got them whatever she really wanted. Besides, she had wanted at the time, a little bit, to be her.

Not any more, thought Amanda, and the spell was broken once again. But as she started to walk home, turning onto Pallas Way and hearing the guitarist of the band playing in the Victoria fluff a chord, she promised herself she'd ring her sister at the weekend. There was no point calling now. Charlotte would be working till three in a proverbially thankless clutter of midnight bedpans and 3am passings-away. Maybe she'd be able to catch her, hardly tired and nearly cheerful, on Saturday. Amanda would send an e-mail tonight, to find out. For the rest of her walk home and the making and taking of tea-and-ready-meal her mind was wordless, thinking only, formlessly, "poor Charlotte."