D Day, 1971

Levenshulme, Manchester -
Stockport road -
Monday morning, February 15^th, 1971 -

I’m working at my Uncle Bob’s greengrocery shop. I’ve got a Saturday job there – at least, it used to be a Saturday job, but it’s gone full time since my A level disaster.


It’s a terraced shop, open at the front, and set back from the road under a wide veranda. Uncle Bob takes full advantage of this. It doubles the size of his selling space, and he fills the pavement beneath the veranda with his fruit and vegetables, piled up in wooden boxes, row upon row. They spill out on to the wide, dirty pavement beside the busy Stockport road.


To the right of the shop is the Union Inn. To the left, the terrace continues; dry cleaners, chip shop, newsagent, bookies, florist.


Today, the queue is much longer than usual. It’s Decimalisation Day, and everyone’s checking their change, thinking decimal, getting impatient, worried that Uncle Bob’s cheating them, the long division far too challenging for everyone this morning.


        “How much is that in old money,” a customer asks him. “Are you rounding the prices up?”


Auntie Margaret, Uncle Bob’s wife, is serving an old man.


        “Are these grapes sweet,” the old man asks. “They’re for my wife. She’s confined to a wheelchair”.


        “Well you can eat them standing up or sitting down,” snaps Auntie Margaret.


Political correctness is a still long time off.


I’m serving a pretty, dark haired girl. She’s wearing a black mini skirt, cropped red t-shirt and black boots. It’s February though, and her legs are marbled blue and white. We’re hard in the North.


At least, the girls are.


I can’t take my eyes off her belly button, the way it reveals itself between her skirt and t-shirt whenever she raises her arm to brush her hair back from her face.


         “Five pounds of King Edwards please Chris,” she says. She knows my name, but I don’t know hers.


I dig into the bag of potatoes, the soil fresh, earthy, smelling like mum’s allotment. I can’t feel my fingers, it’s so cold. I drop the spuds as I put them on the scales. She laughs. I pick them up add an extra one for good measure.


        “That’ll be one and sixpence,” I say. She gives me two shillings and I give her sixpence change. The till is stuffed full of shiny new ten pence pieces, but I’m not ready for decimalisation. I’d fumble, add it up wrong. The girl would correct me and I’d look stupid.


        “See you later,” she says, dropping the change into her purse, and she walks away up the Stockport Road. At the newsagent’s, she turns, sees me staring after her, and smiles.


        “She fancies you,” Uncle Bob says behind me. “She told me yesterday. You should make a move, my son.”


He takes the Kensitas cigarette that’s tucked behind his ear, lights it from the stub of the one he’s just finished, and inhales deeply.


        “What’s her name?” I ask him.


        “Dunno. Maybe you should ask her next time. Anyway, you’ve got another visitor.”


He nods in the direction of the ‘phone box next to the shop. Bill is leaning against it. Uncle Bob reaches for the Kensitas pack next to the cash register, puts a fresh cigarette behind his ear, and begins serving another customer. I leave them both arguing about how much cheaper everything is at that new Tesco up the road, and join Bill at the ‘phone box.


Bill is also smoking. He pulls the packet out of his parka, and offers me one. Embassy Regal.


        “Not here,” I say. “It’ll get back to mum before I’m even home tonight!”


He puts the pack away, and blows smoke in my face. It’s delicious.


        “How you doing?” I ask.


        Not good. Can’t stand it at home any longer. I need beer. What time you finishing tonight?”


I hesitate. I’m thinking about the girl I’ve just served. See you later, she’d said. Maybe she’ll be coming past the shop later on, and I’d rush out, pretend I’d given her the wrong change, maybe see what she was up to tonight –


        “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “But I thought you should know thatI’m going to do it. I’ve been stealing a few of mum’s mandies. One a day. She never notices. I reckon I’ve got enough to do the job properly. No one’s going to miss me-“


        “Six thirty,” I say. “In the Union. Let’s talk about it.”


        “When you’ve got a moment Chris, there’s some customers want serving,” says Uncle Bob. I go back to the shop. Bill flicks his cigarette into the road and walks slowly away.