Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop by Amy Witting Read Free Book Online Page B

could they have to complain about? But after all, there was plenty to complain about. One thing she could be sure of: she wasn’t the only one in trouble in this world. She liked to watch, however. It was good to know that things were still going on.
    There was something wrong with the back of the seat, some projection sticking into her below the right shoulder blade. She couldn’t be bothered to change her seat. She wriggled into a more comfortable position and the pain disappeared.
    Now the people on the screen were in Antarctica watching a lot of penguins waddle down to the sea like odd little manikins, then with a leap transform themselves into creatures of exquisite grace in the sea. A lesson there if she could think of it.
    Then there was a woman launching a ship, having trouble with the champagne bottle, which refused to break. She never did discover if the woman had succeeded at last. She must have dozed off, for she opened her eyes to see the same procession, the multitude of people united in one emotion, whether it was joy or anger.
    The sleep had done her good. She felt quite steady now, quite able to walk out and back to David Jones’ food basement, buy her stores and go home. All problems were solved.
    She got up and walked out into the night.
    She stood in the dark street among the lights that shone from foyers, restaurants, shop windows and tried to make out what had happened. She had slept, not through one session, but through two. The shops were shut and she had still not bought food.
    Why had she got on the bus? She could have sat at the bus stop long enough—she could have stayed longer in the attic practising minimal living and gathering strength…never mind all that. What could she do now to retrieve the situation?
    Get something to eat, take a taxi home and try again tomorrow.
    She walked to the corner, walking well now that it was of no use. Across the road in George Street light was coming from a doorway above which shone the name The Soup Kitchen. That would do.
    Hunger wasn’t a problem. It had been, but it had been balanced by a disgust of almost all food. Now getting food into her stomach was a mechanical act needed for survival. Soup would be easy.
    She crossed the road, shivering in the cold night air, went down a short flight of stairs into a warm, bright room furnished with long tables flanked by benches. It was a cafeteria. There were a few people waiting in a queue at the serving area; she lined up, took a tray, moved along the display cases, ignored salads and desserts, took a bowl of minestrone and a glass of wine, paid at the cash register and walked to a table, quite elated by her competence. What a pity she hadn’t thought to add to her tray one of those plates with a small pack of cracker biscuits and a foil-wrapped wedge of cheese. She could have taken it home; it would have done for the morning meal, till she got to the corner shop next day.
    There were baskets on the tables full of hunks of bread. She took one, ate her soup without difficulty, chewed at a piece of bread and thought she would go back and get the cheese and biscuits. The problem was solved.
    It was with the glass of wine that the muttering began. She did not know that the voice was her own until staring faces located it at her centre. This had happened somewhere before; she could not remember where or when. She felt sorry for the people who were looking at her with such embarrassment. She said punctiliously to the nearest diner, a few places down at the other side of the table, ‘I am not drunk. I am strapped to the black horse of madness.’
    The apology, which had been intended to smooth things over, seemed to have made them worse. The man had turned away. Everyone had turned away.
    But I can’t turn away, she thought. There was the whole terrifying problem in four words. I can’t turn away.
    One thing was certain. She had to get away from here, and at once. Unfortunately, the little spurt of energy which