Notes from ‘A Cruel Healing’ Rattling

I made my way through London’s evening’s wintry mist to the grocers shop at the corner of Dean St and Old Compton St. I used this shop often and was known to all the members of the family who ran it. I pushed the door open. The shop was bright. By the number of beads of sweat on my forehead the shopkeeper could tell how many cans of lager I wanted. I was rattling, withdrawing. If ever the shopkeeper seen me physically shaking while entering his shop he already had 4 cans on the counter by the time I reached it. If the sweating and the shakes I displayed signified a worse state of wear then a 1 litre bottle of French cider was added by the shop assistant without any acknowledgment. Banter, tittle tattle, pithy exchanges, the nod of a head, a rye wink, a benign smile, signs of human communication that exude the warmth, compassion, and fellowship were absent completely. He knew I was not up for discussing the weather; I hadn’t been motivated by this type of social cohesion for many years. My money was in change clenched in both of my hands. I poured the money onto the counter. The coins swarmed like bees angrily around each other shaking fervently from them the sweaty filth they had collected from me. The shop assistant tidal waved the money with one hand into the open drawer beneath the counter. It was a big fat chunky dark wooden drawer, one of those Victoriana numbers with the big brass handles. The change thumped its way against each other down into the cavernous drawer. As the money was being incarcerated separated from the respectable money filling the till my whole body shook, cold shivers echoed around my face, my neck and my hands trembled as I opened the first can of lager.