Short story

Rocket Salad

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She first introduced herself when I was glancing over the rocket salad. Well, not introduce exactly, just interrupted my train of thought, just barged in while I was deep in contemplation over forfeiting the rocket to buy Mediterranean. Surely they didn’t fly the stuff over from Italy or wherever? We could grow it here perfectly well. We’re the ones with the rain.

 

‘You get it 50 pence off if you buy it unwashed.’

 

I turned towards the voice. The woman was in a wheelchair. Round, pretty face. Total stranger.

 

‘Rocket,’ she continued. ‘over there. It says it’s unwashed, 89 p. Could you get me a bag?’

 

I stretched over and grabbed one.

 

‘Get one for yourself while you’re there.’

 

I hesitated. I was still holding the remnants of an idea about Mediterranean.

 

‘Not that I’m going to buy it for you. But there’s no reason to pay 50 pence just to save the bother of washing a few leaves is there?’

‘I rather thought I might buy Mediterranean.’

‘Of course you’re not. Rocket’s much nicer. All that peppery flavour.’

 

It occurred as she said “flavour” that she was American. She would have left the “u” out had she written it down. Had she arrived in a wheelchair? What a hassle.

 

‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’

 

She looked at me and smiled. A big open smile, like the sun was shining out of her face. I tried not to respond. I was preparing to get annoyed. Who did she think she was, telling me what food I ought to buy? But she wasn’t going to let me get annoyed. And anyway, in a wheelchair. What can you do?

 

‘You wouldn’t be an angel and walk round with me would you?’

‘Erm, well…’

‘…Only I can’t get to the top shelf.’

 

She had auburn hair that wrapped neatly round her face, a light yellow top and jeans. Simple yet elegant.

 

‘Yes, sure.’

‘I’d really appreciate it. Thanks.’

 

She pressed a button and glided silently towards the tins of soups and veg. Cans I suppose she’d call them.

 

‘How do you normally get to the top shelf?’ I asked.

‘I ask someone nearby. Or a friend comes with me. Do you think dried apricots are a good idea?’

‘I like them.’

‘Good, so do I.’

 

She had a basket on her lap which was already half full.

 

‘If you want some bigger things and can put them in my trolley if you want. How will you get home?’

 

We were off now to the wine section.

 

‘I have an adapted car. I’d have trouble with heavy things, shifting them when I got home. But thanks for the offer.’

 

I got a wine box and started filling it with three reds and three whites.

 

‘I’ll have a bottle of Californian red,’ she said, ‘and you’re going to buy some as well aren’t you?’

‘Is that where you come from?’

‘No, I was born in New England. Have you visited?’

‘No not yet.’

 

She smiled again. ‘Well you should. It’s lovely. In the fall, autumn. Great colours.’

 

‘Go back a lot do you?’

‘I used to.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘I haven’t been back for some time.’

 

I looked at her and suddenly wondered if I should have asked the question. Should I have assumed it would be too difficult in a wheelchair or do I simply treat her as though an abnormality did not exist?

 

‘So having told me what food and drink I need you’d like to organise my holidays.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘When you have problems like mine you get used to demanding things. Nothing happens otherwise. Or at least not the things you want. People like to help but they don’t know how unless you tell them.’

After a while she said, ‘Do you think I’m rude?’

I shook my head. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Kimberley. And yours?’

‘How very American. Richard.’

 

I offered my hand.

 

She took it and laughed. ‘How very British.’

 

I guessed she was in her forties, quite a bit older than me. But she had a spark that knocked the years away.

 

‘As a matter of fact, Richard, I’d quite like to take some other things home. I could do with one of those giant boxes of washing powder. You couldn’t do me a big favour and help me unpack them, could you?’

‘You want me to follow you home?’

‘That would be a new experience,’ she said. ‘I assume.’

‘You assume? Do you think I’m in the habit of following strange women home?’

‘No I doubt it. You don’t seem the type.’

‘There’s a type is there? How many have you met?’

‘None so far. Tell me you’re not the type, Richard.’

‘What sort of question is that?’

 

She looked at me with wide eyes. ‘Are you the type?’

 

‘No I’m bloody not.’

 

My voice raised to the point when people look around and stare. Without thinking about it, I turned and walked away but couldn’t remember where I was supposed to be going. I decided to buy some crisps. I stared along the row, stuffed with bags from floor to ceiling, trying to think straight. How was it possible that my flippant remark had so quickly turned into a serious cross-examination? Had I confirmed my innocence or guilt by walking away? And why should I feel the need to justify myself anyway for Chrissake? I’d come in for little more that a pint of milk, not to get abused by a complete stranger.

 

It was easy to find her again. She was by the cheese, stretching for a piece of Brie. She picked one up, put it down again and fumbled for another. I walked up behind her, stretched out and took a few pieces in my hand. She turned round.

 

‘What size would you like?’ I asked.

 

She stared at me for a while. It wasn’t a cold stare but it penetrated, as though searching inside me. ‘I’m sorry I upset you,’

 

I said nothing. She hadn’t got any make up on as far as I could see but her lovely brown eyes were all she needed.

 

‘I know I’m a bit direct. I wasn’t being serious.’

‘It’s okay. Sorry I over reacted.’

‘100 grams will do. Thank’s Richard.’

‘They’re all bigger than that. Anyway they’re not ripe yet.’

‘Really? How do you know?’

 

I showed her the pieces. ‘If you look along the centre you’ll see a faint strip of paler yellow. That means it’s not ripe.’

 

‘I’m impressed.’

‘I can take you to the deli counter. They might have some better stuff.’

‘I can take myself thanks.’

‘Oh yeah, right.’

 

She put her hand out and touched my arm. ‘That wasn’t a put down. I really appreciate your help.’

 

I’d never seen a car converted for hand-driving before. Though it was more of a van than a car.

‘How long does it take to relearn how to drive?’

‘No time at all when your survival depends on it.’

‘Do you need any help?’

‘No, thanks Richard. It’s all pretty much automated.’

 

And so it was. The rear doors opened, a platform moved out on to which she manoeuvred the chair. Once she was raised to floor height she pushed herself to the driving position and locked herself in. I dumped the washing powder, a box of beer and several large jars and all the other bags and pots on the passenger side.

 

‘It’s a couple of miles,’ she said, ‘near the American school. Let’s hope you can keep up.’

 

That was another of her unintended put-downs. She drove like she’d only just learned and it was easy to follow her to her house.

 

‘Where do you want all this stuff?’ I asked once I was in the kitchen. ‘It’ll be as difficult to lift here as it was in the supermarket.’

‘Believe it or not I’ve thought of that.’ She showed me the appropriate cupboards and the range of dispenser spoons and containers.

‘I guess that was a stupid question.’

‘Yes but never mind. You’ll get used to it. It’s difficult for people to get a disabled view of the world. Coffee?’

‘Yes please. Shall I do it? Oh, no. Sorry.’

 

She didn’t answer.

 

‘That car of yours needed some conversion,’ I said. ‘Must have cost a packet.’

‘Yes, but I sued the driver who caused the accident. I used to be a lawyer for an international firm in London. The good news is I know how to sue well. The bad news is that I needed to. I had to resign my partnership.’

 

As we drank our coffee she said, ‘I lost both my legs. Above the knee. Do you mind that?’

 

It was a question that I had no answer for. A meaningless question. Or meaningful but for someone else. Someone close. I should mind that people lose their legs in a car crash but only as a generality. She was looking at me, with large eyes, waiting for an answer. A lawyer’s enquiring face, catching the witness off balance. But she wasn’t asking if I minded people losing their legs. She wanted to know if I, in particular, minded her losing her legs.

 

‘What happened to the driver?’

‘He broke an arm. A year later he divorced me.’

‘Oh, I see,’ was all I could find in response.

‘He couldn’t share his bed with a woman with no legs so he cleared off. It was his drunken driving that caused the accident but that was just history. Of course you can’t get divorced based on the total number of legs between you but “irretrievable breakdown” and all that does perfectly well.’

 

This uncomfortable tirade was said without apparent bitterness. The words were severe but her manner was friendly, almost jocular. She sat there resting her head on one hand and using those eyes again to pierce me, to get to my soul. I couldn’t find anything to say.

 

‘What are you thinking Richard. You wouldn’t be like that would you?’

‘You seem to be coping incredibly well,’ I said hoping that I didn’t sound patronising.

‘Thank you. It’s a trick really. You solve your problems or, if they’re insoluble, they become part of the foundation of your life so you build on it.’

‘Positive thinking.’

She nodded. ‘Are you married, Richard?’

‘No. I’ve a long term girlfriend.’

‘Could you share her bed if she had no legs?’

‘Jesus, you don’t hang around with your questions do you? How would I know? How would anyone know until it happens?’

‘Then what do you think of my husband’s reaction?’

‘Well, if he caused the accident, maybe it’s different for him. He should take his…’

‘…His punishment. Sleeping with his wife is his punishment?’

I stood up. ‘I think it’s time for me to go. Look, I’m not on trial. I came round because you asked me to help. I’ve done my bit, now I’m off. I’m very sorry about all your troubles. It’s been…interesting meeting you.’

‘Don’t go,’ Kimberley shouted as I marched to the front door. ‘I need to talk, that’s all.’

 

She had reached me by the time I’d worked out how to get the door open. She held my jacket.

 

‘I’m not cross examining you, really I’m not. It’s just my way. My way of coping.’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘God knows I couldn’t have dealt with what you’ve been through. You’re an incredible woman. But you haven’t dealt with your problems. Not properly. There are ways of saying things.’

 

Suddenly she looked a little lost. The bravado was no longer there. Her face softened. She was a beautiful woman.

 

‘But then I’ve no idea what to say either,’ I continued. ‘You can’t ask strangers if they’d sleep with a woman without any legs. What sort of crazy conversation is that?’

 

She looked intently at me again. This woman unnerved me. She was trawling through my head trying to find the words that I couldn’t say.

 

I tried to smile. ‘If we’re talking rocket salad, it’s easy.’

Kimberley took hold of my hand. ‘But not when we’re talking missing legs.’

‘You see? You’re going to have to let them go sometime. You can’t keep throwing them in my face.’ I turned away. ‘Oh, shit.’

‘It’s okay, Richard,’ said Kimberley her grip tightening. ‘That was quite funny if you think about it.’

 

We smiled at each other. She let my hand go and tried to conceal an impish grin. I grinned back, almost chuckled.

 

‘Would you come and see me again?’ she said. ‘Please?’

 

As I drove home, I wavered between excitement and anxiety. She was going to cook me a meal the next time. I imagined Kimberley’s legs spinning passed my ears like Wellington boots. Then I imagined them still attached to her body but felt guilty and ashamed. But I couldn’t work out precisely what it was I should feel guilty and ashamed about.