Sweet of the Week

Daddy, look at these! Martin was staring up into a big golden container. Toffees – shimmering on the shelf, out at sea in a wave of colour. They’re all stuck there, until the shopkeeper reaches for them. The ritual, the ritual is beautiful.

       Daddy, I want those ones.

       Okay, Martin, says daddy, you can have three types, okay? I recommend the toffee crumble: it’s yummy – it feels like tasty dirt in your mouth, and it’s sticky! Martin smiles. He’s six years old. He doesn’t live with his daddy. His daddy is a naughty man – a bastard: that’s what mummy calls him. The shopkeeper hands Martin a small chunk of the crumble – mmmm….

       He looks around, looks down the long shelves of the slim shop; looks at the regular containers and all the colours; has no idea of the taste, but wants to find out. They go in like a dark thumb, the saliva working the sugar over tastes good, and then you need a drink. Martin’s favourite is cream soda. He sees the window and the flash of green.

       Oh, daddy, what are those? Let me see, says John… chocolate limes. Oh, they’re chocolate limes. They’re good, Martin! Number three? He turns to the shopkeeper: sweet of the week?

       The shopkeeper points to the sign by the window: oh, yes, they’re special! He looks down at Martin: they’re very special!

       The man has a warm face, but it’s a bit scary: it’s big; his hair has receded and he’s bald, more or less – he has long sideburns, more like whiskers, grey and erratic.

       Yes, they’re special, thinks John. They’re special, he tells Martin.

       He remembers, as a child, his nan used to give him sweets every Wednesday when he’d go to see her with his father, her house all hers, big and happy and empty: boiled sweets wrapped in paper, with each fruit on them; creamy fudge; fruit pastels; toffees; crispy fudge… and the chocolate limes. Oh, the chocolate limes! Everything humbugs could never be! He missed them after she died – they just went away. It’s all chocolate, chocolate, chocolate…. The flavours, the flavours! (The flavours go.)

       They look good, daddy! I want those ones.

       So, toffees, toffee crumble, and chocolate limes?

       Martin pauses. Yes! He smiles, big and broad, all lips; he smiles at both of them.

       John scoops the sweets into a bag. Okay, then, friend, says John: you heard ‘im! Right you are! says the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper weighs the bag of sweets.     

       They’re special, thinks Martin: they’re green and lovely!

       They’re special, thinks John: they’re crispy and crumbly. They’re wonderful. They belong to a better time.

       They’re special, thinks the shopkeeper: we’ve got so many of the bloody things and no one ever buys them; we need to shift ‘em!

       He hands John the paper bag, lined with red and yellow stripes. He folds it over, hands the man the exact change - £2.23 – and smiles.

       Right, then, Martin, put your hood up: it’s started raining.

       I’ll save mummy a chocolate lime, he thinks. He smiles up at daddy, and daddy nuzzles his hair, soft and messy.  

       They leave the shop. Outside, it’s Saturday.

       Martin is like a bobble outside in his blue mac, floating down the street with daddy. The rain swallows all.

       Daddy puts the sweets under his long jacket and turns up the collar. The walk to his flat isn’t far – and then later the long drive back to Melanie. He’ll be sleepy and warm, behind the immortal slow rain tapping the windshield, dark in the passenger seat, with a small green hard thing in his pocket for mummy. A small hard thing, thrumming away somewhere – dark, deep, and warm.