“I’m not disturbing anyone,” says Clemence.
“See, this is why Idon’t like renting to women. Everything is more complicated.”
Thirteen
Crampton receives new stock at the grocery store every Thursday, which Clemence finds surprising, because it didn’t seem like the store received new stock ever, but she knows now that if she goes in on Thursday after her shift at the bookstore, she has a good chance of finding bread and milk whose best-before dates are still on the horizon. She also thinks it might please Crampton to have a customer, but Crampton doesn’t seem bothered either way. Apparently she makes enough selling cigarettes to subsidize the loss from the rest. She sees no problem with this approach, and that she keeps her store at all, she explains, is community service. Not everybody has the energy to make the trek up to the superstore, or can afford the luxury of having groceries delivered.
“Once,” she tells Clemence, “the store was the centre of the neighbourhood. When my mother ran this place, she knew everyone. We used to do sandwiches up here at thecounter.” But the neighbourhood is changing. Crampton says, “It’s always been changing.” Someone has started sleeping in a tent popped up in front of the organic dog food store, and it won’t be long before there’ll be no sign that either the tent or the business had ever been there. “Not all change is bad, though,” Crampton adds. And change, at least, is how you know that a neighbourhood is alive.
Clemence wants to talk to her about updating the window displays, but Crampton dismisses her suggestions. “I’ve been running this business since before you were born.”
But the problem is that’s exactly what it looks like. There are cans of SPAM that have been on the shelf ever since then.
Crampton says, “Don’t start. It didn’t work the last time.”
“The last time?”
“Don’t you people have anything better to do than walk up and down the street criticizing the way Irun my businesses?”
“‘You people’?”Whopeople? “I’ve come to buy cheese,” says Clemence. Not the fancy cheese, those ones that are soft and come in a wheel, but just a brick of cheddar, perfect for a tuna melt. “Ireally don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And so Crampton tells her about the time the tyrannical woman who runs the artisan market got involved with the Business Improvement Association and tried to get bylaw enforcement officers to issue tickets because herwindows were so filthy. “There aren’t even bylaws about that. So you can leave my windows alone.”
“Oh,” says Clemence. She wouldn’t have mentioned anything if she’d realized this was a sore spot. She was mostly here in pursuit of the tuna melt. “Hey listen, Ineed a grater, too.” The one that came with her apartment is rusty. Crampton’s shop has a tangle of dusty housewares down the far aisle, from which Clemence had already bought a Pyrex measuring cup. It was the first vintage item she’d purchased that wasn’t second-hand.
She unearths the grater and Crampton rings it all up. “So, Ihear you’ve been going to church,” she notes, feigning nonchalance but doing it poorly.
“Ionly went once,” says Clemence. “How did you know?”
“I’ve got spies.” Crampton doesn’t even smile as she says this. “Ididn’t take you for the churchgoing type, what with the rabid feminism.”
“Iwent to church once. It’s not rabid.” Clemence can’t keep up with the onslaught of accusations. “I’m helping with the sale, the jumble.”
“You meanjunk,” Crampton says as she packs Clemence’s shopping in the plastic bag with the smiley face that she insists on every time.
After her satisfying lunch,Clemence walks up the street to the bookshop, goes inside and right up to the desk where she rings the bell obnoxiously.
“You’re back,” Toby says. He doesn’t even put his bookdown. He’s not reading a play today, instead the collected poetry of John Dryden.
“Are you tired of drama?” Clemence asks him, and now he lowers the book, looking confused. “The book, Imean,” she continues. “You’re reading poetry. Ididn’t know you did that.”
“Why are you here?” Toby asks. “This is the part of the day where Idon’t have to talk to you or anyone.”
“Some job you’ve got.”
“You should talk,” says Toby.
And Clemence sings, “Ido!” Toby’s apparent lack of a personality seems to give Clemence permission to behave in ways that magnify her own to a most absurd degree. She says, “Toby, I’m kind of bored. We didn’t even talk that much this morning. Do you get a break? Do you want to go get a coffee? Icould buy you a muffin?”
Toby shakes his head. “I’m gluten-free.”
“You eat every meal at Burger King!”
“Burger King gluten isn’t the kind that gives me trouble.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” says Clemence. “And you know, there are entire cafés now that don’t bother with gluten at all.”
Toby says, “Why?”
