Page 111 of Special Delivery
‘Excuse me,’ she called lamely, looking left and right for a polo-shirted staff member.
Predictably, no-one came. She lifted up her t-shirt to wipe the sweat off her face, squinting at the packaging in front of her. Maeve whined more loudly.
‘Far out,’ Poppy muttered under her breath. What was the difference between ‘extreme heavy duty’ and ‘industrialstrength’? They sounded the same but the price difference was huge. Was this some secret code designed to confuse her?
She scanned the shelves for the second-cheapest brand. It was flimsy logic but hopefully it would do the job. She chucked a dark green tarp into the trolley and Maeve grumbled at the jolt. Poppy patted her head. ‘It’ll be over soon,’ she promised, steering the trolley back towards the central aisle.
Playing a half-hearted one-handed game of peekaboo to distract Maeve, she made her way to the outdoor section, which was a giant steel greenhouse tightly packed with plants, cubby houses and acrid-smelling potting mix. Poppy took a half-breath in shock when they entered. It was so stiflingly hot she could taste the heat on her tongue. Maeve began to wail, so Poppy pulled her out of the trolley and onto her hip, steering the trolley with her spare hand. She needed this sand and she needed it fast.
She finally found the aisle with bags of sand piled up in towers. She plonked Maeve on the concrete floor at her feet and went to grab a bag from the top of the pile. Jeez, they were heavy. She looked left and right for help. Again, there was no-one in sight. This was becoming a common theme.
She turned back to the sand tower and tugged at one of the bags. She yanked again and the bag shifted two inches towards her. Progress. She gave another almighty yank and the bag came with her as she fell to the floor, her tailbone hitting hot concrete.
A pain tingled up her spine and Poppy felt tears of helplessness prick her eyes as she heaved the sandbag into the trolley and hoisted her daughter onto her hip. Deep down she’d known it was ridiculous to build a sandpit, but that stupid, stubbornpart of her had wanted to impress everyone with how capable she was.Look at me, just casually building a sandpit. Don’t mind me, just single-mothering like a boss. God, if this past year had taught her anything it should have been to lower her standards to the lowest possible degree, not try to be a hero.
She moved Maeve from her hip, lowered her into the trolley and began pushing it towards her last stop: the timber section.
‘Okay,’ breathed Poppy, more to herself than to her daughter. The walls of timber were threateningly high and the lengths were preposterously long. Maeve banged her hands against the trolley handle. Poppy looked up and down the empty aisle, feeling a familiar sinking feeling, when suddenly—like the sun peeping through the clouds—a red polo shirt appeared.
‘Need some help, ma’am?’ asked another teenager with a mullet.
‘I need four pieces of timber, please—about a metre long each.’
‘I can give you one four-metre length for you to cut into one-metre lengths,’ suggested the kid.
Poppy found his assumption that she would own some kind of woodcutting implement both fortifying and irritating. Kids these days knew nothing about how people actually lived.
‘No, thank you, I’ll just take four one-metre lengths.’
‘I can’t do that,’ replied the kid.
‘Excuse me?’ asked Poppy, raising an eyebrow.
‘The tradies all prefer four metres, so we only stock those. We don’t get many lady customers up here in the timber section.’ He paused as if to remind her of her own femaleness. ‘Can’t you get your husband to cut it up for you?’
Poppy stared at the kid, a fire igniting in her belly that had nothing to do with the heatwave. Was this really happening on the first of January? Was she going to have another whole year of this assumed husband crap? She hadn’t even made it to Australia Day. Wasn’t this generation supposed to be woke? Oh, the things she could teach this mullet head.
She was about to give him an education in heteronormative stereotypes when she heard a voice behind her, say, ‘I can help.’
Poppy turned, knowing in some part of her body what she was about to see. Thoughts of strangling the mullet kid faded. It was as though every bad decision had led her here. As she spun, it was as though her brain had retired. She was muscle and energy, a beating heart and a clueless soul.
‘James?’ she squeaked.
‘Poppy.’ He said it like an incantation, his eyes on her, unwavering.
‘Budda ludda budda baaa!’ cried Maeve happily, reaching towards James. He picked her up and kissed her forehead, letting her tiny legs wrap around his torso.
‘What are you doing here?’ Poppy asked.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was—’
‘Awesome,’ interrupted the teenager. ‘Your husband can cut the timber for you.’ He turned to James now. ‘Mate, grab any piece you want and take it through the checkout at the back. Saves carrying it through the whole shop.’
Poppy watched him lope off, oblivious to the mess he’d left behind.
‘He’s not my husband!’ she yelled at his back.
The teenager just shrugged as if to say,Whatever, lady.
