The Calligrapher. Edward Docx

as providing a private minicab service. Most important, the sheer range and quality of the produce that the Roys stock is staggering; and, if by some chance there’s something I need which they haven’t got in, then they pride themselves on their unrivalled ability to get hold of any ingredient large or small at less than two hours’ notice.

      ‘And a packet of your cashew nuts,’ I said.

      Having offered up my basket, full of provisions, ready for the reckoning, I stood at the smooth wooden counter with my laundry folded over my arm.

      ‘Right you are, Mr Jackson,’ Roy Senior nodded, rotating to reach down a packet from the extensive nut display behind the counter.

      ‘How’s Roy?’ I asked.

      ‘He’s off in Keele this week. Organizing things.’

      ‘Right.’

      There was a pause. Roy Senior smoothed his little moustache. Then he said: ‘You know they’ve gone up again, don’t you?’ He dangled the cashews before me for a moment. ‘I’m afraid they’ll be five … er … sixty-nine. Er, yes: five sixty-nine.’ He punched the numbers in quickly and dropped the nuts into one of his blue plastic bags.

      ‘Why’s that? Is there a shortage?’

      ‘No shortage. No.’ He began going through the other items one by one, slowly and carefully, entering the price of each item, using only the index finger of his right hand.

      ‘Global price-fixing agreement?’ I volunteered, not that interested, and wondering idly how much Brylcreem he must get through in a year.

      Roy Senior stopped what he was doing. I looked up from his scrubbed-clean hands to his scrubbed-clean face. He seemed to struggle with private demons for a moment. Then he returned my glance with an expression that mingled concern with frustration: ‘Actually, Mr Jackson,’ he said, ‘I’ve been putting them up every seven days for the last fourteen weeks. Ten pence each week.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. I was going to tell you before but I didn’t want to ruin my experiment.’

      ‘Experiment?’

      ‘Yes, my experiment, Mr Jackson,’ he said, smugly. Then, taking his time, he weighed my tomatoes on the electronic scales. He rang in the cost per pound. (The price came up as £1.435 and they were thus entered on the till at £1.43; Roy is scrupulous in all things and always rounds down to the nearest penny with fruit and up with vegetables, confirmation that the English eat more vegetables than fruit, I always think, and useful verification of the status of tomatoes if ever it is needed.) He turned his attention to my single green pepper and smiled in what he obviously believed to be a superior fashion before saying: ‘I have to own up, I have been using you as a guinea pig.’

      ‘Right.’

      He drew breath. ‘As you know, I am a capitalist. And like the great woman herself, I am a grocer –’

      I started to interrupt but he held up his hand.

      ‘I am a grocer. A while back, I thought to myself, why not try a little experiment? Why not? OK, I thought, so what are the facts?’

      ‘What are the facts?’

      ‘One: I know that Mr Jackson buys cashew nuts every week. Two: I know that he lives very locally. Three: I know that he doesn’t pay any attention to how much things cost. Witness this damson jam.’ He held it up and then entered £3.99 into the till. ‘So, I cogitated further and came up with an idea for an experiment in basic economics. Why don’t I put the price of his cashew nuts up by exactly ten pence every week, I thought, and that way find out what their true value is – their value, that is, to you as a customer?’

      He rang up the grand total and I got the impression that he was becoming more agitated. ‘And I have been doing this, as I say, for fourteen weeks now and still nothing. Nothing, Mr Jackson. Not a thing. You haven’t noticed.’ His index finger came up from the till. ‘I have had to tell you about the cashews.’

      ‘You mean these cashews should really be two pounds whatever it is? And I’ve been –’

      ‘I can no longer stand by and watch you pay such a ridiculous price for them, Mr Jackson. The experiment is at an end. At an end. I can no longer stand by. This isn’t the way the system is supposed to work. You’re supposed to notice, go elsewhere, refuse to purchase. As a guinea pig, you are a failure. At five pounds and sixty-nine, you are being … you are being … you are being fleeced, Mr Jackson. It’s daylight robbery.’

      ‘I had no idea, I mean –’

      ‘Listen to me.’ He leant forward over the counter and lowered his voice threateningly. ‘For the next few weeks I want you to buy your cashew nuts elsewhere … I want you to take your cashew custom away … I want you to …’ He waved his arm, mortified, close to breaking down, lost for words.

      ‘Eschew your cashews?’ I said, helpfully.

      ‘Exactly. Exactly. That way I can build up an unacceptable surplus and that will force me to have a half-price sale to clear stock and that will bring the price back down to more or less what it should be and that will get us out of this … this mess.’

      A single lick of thick black hair had come loose and now looped across his shiny forehead. He thrust the blue plastic bags across the counter. I left in chastened silence, the shop bell jingling behind me as I went out.

      A Renault was parked at the end of the street. The female driver was talking into a mobile phone. For a heart-splintering moment, I thought it was Lucy.

      I slogged all the way back up to the Himalayan summit of number 33 and managed to crawl, breathless, teeth-gritted, sinew-strained, up the last few steps into my own hall. Instantly, the telephone began to ring – as though it had been sitting there like a pining dog, waiting for my return. I put my bags and my laundry down quite slowly by the hat-stand and then stood, eyes shut, breathing deeply, and counted to five.

      I snatched up the receiver.

      ‘LUCY, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE STOP RINGING ME UNLESS YOU WANT TO TALK. PLEASE. I WILL TALK TO YOU IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT. OR WE CAN MEET UP OR I’LL COME OVER BUT FOR GOD’S SAKE STOP CALLING ME EVERY TWO SECONDS. I DON’T –’

      ‘Jasper?’

      ‘– KNOW WHAT I AM SUPPOSED TO –’

      ‘JASPER. JASPER!’

      It was a man’s voice.

      ‘What? What? Sorry, who is it?’

      ‘What’s going on?’

      ‘William?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Is that you?’

      ‘Of course it’s me. Will you stop being an arse and tell me what is going on? What are you doing with your phone? You’ve been out of order for a week and a half and when you do pick the fucking thing up you start calling me Lucy.’

      ‘Sorry, Will, sorry. Things have been a bit awkward lately. She’s gone insane. I am being harassed and silent-called. Almost stalked.’

      ‘Well, you’d better do something about it and quick or else the few friends you do have will give up on you for the worthless fucker you are.’ He took a sip of something. ‘So, has the sham come to an end and everything fallen apart?’

      ‘Yes. Totally.’

      ‘Do you care?’

      ‘Of course I care. I mean, I know it wasn’t going to last forever … But I wasn’t intending … Oh Christ, Lucy more or less found me in bed with that girl from the fucking Tate. Now she’s ringing me up all the time … I think she’s in quite a bad way. I care about that.’

      ‘Very