Just the Ticket

Just the Ticket

Alison was torn between rump steak and Chinese ribs.

The usual battle would rage when the kids found an undisguised piece of carrot or onion swimming in their food. The mournful, but defiant, wailing would reach screaming pitch at the same point as her patience. ‘I'm not eating this and you can't make me.’ And the, ‘I hate this,’ followed by, ‘I hate you,’ would bounce off the walls, making her want to hide behind the Welsh dresser.

One day a meal would be eaten without conflict and food would loose all of its relevance. Meals weren't sustenance in the Carver household; they were a line of defence to separate one warring faction from the other. The dining table was the trenches.

At the next chill display she agonized over Sunny-D or strawberry milkshake. She took one of each. But Sam preferred chocolate. The last time he'd had strawberry, he'd projectile vomited on the bathroom floor, and walls, and ceiling. He’d managed to puke everywhere but down the toilet. That gleamed in porcelain perfection while the rest of the room resembled a Warhol painting.

She collided with a pensioner, flung her arms out to steady the old dear, and sent a pyramid of Cornflakes flying.

She was still flustered when she queued at the checkout. The lane she’d joined closed after ten minutes of waiting for her turn. She was told to move down one and waited behind a woman who’d shopped for the entire British army. The checkout girl pushed the items through the bar-coder slowly and her sun shone the same shitty custard colour as Alison’s.

On the way out a group of people were in the foyer protesting about road safety. One of them tried to give her a leaflet, she manged to side swerve her with a polite smile, a shake of the head and a muttered, 'No thank you.'

She had the only trolley in the whole supermarket that had a wonky wheel and its own idea about which way to go. She tried to control the gathering momentum but with its wheels off kilter and bulging with shopping, it was heavy. The incline of the ramp caused her to veer off course at an angle of forty five degrees. She pulled the beast around just in time to avoid crashing into the wall. The old hag was sitting on a bench at the side of her.

The homeless woman grinned inanely at Alison’s struggle with trolley. Biting down on her irritation Alison tried to regain what little dignity she could muster and hoped that the blasted trolley would steer a direct course as she walked past the old bat.

‘Change missus? Spare some change.’

She was going to walk straight past. The old crow had mocked her. But something made her stop. The lady was dirty and dishevelled. She was fat and the flesh on her hips had congealed with the flesh of her stomach, and was infusing with the flesh of her thighs so that she spread over the bench like a dirty, melting snowman. She was hit by the thought, there but for the grace... she wondered what had brought the old woman to begging for coins. Inside her eyes was a shrewd awareness and intelligence.

Despite her irritation, Alison rooted inside various bags to find her purse. She wanted to change her mind. It was inconvenient and she could feel the heat rising to her face. Why didn’t she just stand up and walk on? She’d tried to find her purse? She’d made the effort. She didn’t even have to give the woman an explanation. She could see that Alison couldn’t find it. Nothing would even be said and the beggar would move onto the next shopper. The old lady sat with patient amusement on her face. Alison felt ashamed, but didn't know why.

She found her purse in the fifth bag she’d delved into and pulled out a pound coin. She was about to hand it over and then, on impulse, added a two pound coin to it. She dropped the two money into the woman’s outstretched hand.

‘Ta, duck’

The coins flew into the huge pocket that the woman held open with her other hand. Before Alison could withdraw, the woman gripped her around the wrist. She’d struck fast with reflexes that belied her age and size. Her eyes burned into Alison’s, the intensity forced her to hold the stare. She was unable to look away, panicked by the sudden and fierce assault. She didn’t want the filthy creature touching her.

‘Get a ticket dear. Be sure and get a ticket this week. Old Daisy mebee daft, but I knows things, see? I sees yer aurora, dearie, and its glowing fierce with bright, lucky orange. I thank you for the coins, buy yerself a ticket. Concentrate hard afore you go t’sleep t`night, `an look to your dreams for the numbers. Buy a ticket tomorra. A word of warning, though, lass, There’s more to life than money, you’ll see. Don’t be too hasty, don't be too ...’

Allison shook her hand free from the crazy old woman. She was shaken, her pulse throbbed. The onset of a headache threatened to settle itself in for a visit, in much the same way as her Mother-in-law did every so often.

The night was hot and muggy. She couldn't sleep. Harry was snoring as only a boxer dog can, and Bob, her husband, was rising to the challenge, going full snort to show that humans can make impressive noises, too. Harry had him hands down on both snoring and farting.

She turned, kicking the duvet away from her hot legs, giving them clearance and freedom to move. The crazy woman drifted into her mind. She thought about her words. In spite of herself she was thinking about lottery numbers. It was as though the strong personality of the witch had come along with her memory.

Alison drifted to sleep…

She was in a park, by the pond and watched a duck with her brood of fluffy ducklings swimming behind. She was reminded of the song and sang—five little ducks went swimming one day, over the hills and far away.

An old lady stooped to feed them. Her head came up and Alison saw that it was the hag from the supermarket. The beggar was laughing her. It was one of those dreams where Alison knew that she was dreaming. She was indignant that the woman had the audacity to invade her dream.

Alison moved, running through invisible treacle trying to get away from the burning eyes of Daisy. Her eyes looked inside you and she knew things.
Her legs wouldn’t work and she couldn’t get away. She was dream running in slow motion. When she stopped at the bandstand, leaning against a tree to get her breath back, she reminded herself that it was all a dream, just a dream. Her breath came in ragged gasps and her heart thudded in time to the boom, boom, boom, of the drum.

The music made her look up, she saw the shiny people, in their red uniforms, belting out feel good music. It didn’t make her feel good, it jarred and jolted. It was too loud and it played from inside her head. The band members all turned to look at her—grinning.

The man on the Tuba had a purple face and aimed a sinister leer her way in between blasts of discordant exertion. Daisy beat her tambourine with the heel of her right hand, shaking it with vigour and grinning her damned grin. Alison wasn’t surprised to see her this time.

She pulled away from the tree lurching down the path. Thirteen band members. Thirteen. Thirteen. The number played again and again through her mind.

At the pavilion she was surrounded by a group of secondary school children on an art trip. Each child held a clipboard, drawing the magnificent architecture of the Butterfly house. They were milling round her, bumping and jostling. Somebody pushed her, somebody else knocked into her. They were grinning at her with expressionless, glazed eyes.

Time froze, everything stopped moving. Children stuck, mid-stride with their arms extended and mouths open. Alison counted the heads, twenty six pubescent kids. Twenty six. The number danced in her brain and dream time recommenced. Somebody clapped loudly bringing the children to attention. They parted, as the teacher strode towards them. Daisy clapped her hands again and the children all sat and continued with their sketches. Daisy's eyes bored into Alison’s over the heads of the industrious children. Her grin was full of gleeful malice.

Stumbling, Alison ran. She came to the boating pond. It was the height of summer in her dream, and yet, only a solitary boat moved along the still surface of the water. The oarsman rowed while his sweetheart, straight out of a Victorian picture, shaded herself with a parasol.

He wore a boater and a striped blazer and she twirled her frilly, white parasol. Her skirts were like ripples of water in the boat. She trailed one hand in the pond and they turned to face Alison, smiling wide, toothy smiles, remaining in character. The sickly turn of their mouths held no warmth and was more sinister because of the sweetness. The white circle painted on the side of the boat bore the black number Twenty seven. Daisy stood on the jetty with a megaphone in her hand. She faced Alison and grinned her malignant grin.
The gate was in sight; maybe if she left the park the nightmare would be over and she could wake in her bed.

She opened the park gate, almost surprised to find that it wasn't locked. Across the road a man was leaning against the upper windows of a house on a ladder. A window cleaner? As she drew level he turned and grinned at her. The same mirthless cold grin as all the other people. The number of the house was twenty nine.

Number twenty nine.

At that moment Daisy rounded the corner. She was pushing a coach built pram and making cooing sounds at a fat, ugly baby. Her head turned to look across the street at Alison, the infant followed her gaze, and they grinned.

Workers were digging up the tarmac. To get by she had to walk close to the men. She was intimidated, and wanted to cross the street, but she didn’t. They were looking towards her and leering. Two of them wolf whistled whilst another grabbed his crotch and thrust his pelvis towards her. Daisy appeared out of a port-a-cabin on the pavement wearing a yellow hard hat. It looked comical perched crookedly on top of her matted bird’s nest of tangled hair. But Alison wasn’t amused, she was terrified. Daisy carried a tray with mugs of steaming tea for the workmen, grinning her grin.

There were seven builders. The number seven floated round in her mind, as though it was going to take form and float before her eyes like the featured number in a Sesame Street sketch.

She moved in a daze. A van approached from the south end of the street. As it drew level it stopped, a figure leaned out of the window. She was aware of the person shouting at her, the voice came at her from a long way.

‘Wake up, stupid, wake up stupid.’ Wake up stupid. Wake up stupid. The echoes of the snarled sentence reverberated through her as the van moved on.

Daisy grinned from the driver’s seat as she pulled her mammoth upper torso back in the window. The purple van was painted with bright yellow letters a foot high Bonus 22 it read.

‘Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.’

Alison woke up and realised that it was her speaking. She sat up sheathed in a light sweat. Her mouth felt sour and her breath was harsh through her diaphragm. Numbers. Numbers sang in her head. She had to make a note of them. She snapped on the light and reached for her puzzle book and pen.

Furiously she scribbled down the precious numbers before they drifted out of her head to be lost in the night’s darkness.

Harry woke with the glare from the light; He blinked myopically at her, before shaking his huge, dumb head. His tail thumped and he grinned at her. ‘Okay you want to play, that's cool. I don't mind that it’s two o’clock in the morning. Let’s play. You humans really are strange sometimes.’

He got out of his bed adjusting to this new playtime slot. He stretched forward bracing his front paws out in front of his body, pushing out his chest. Then he stretched the other way, bracing pushing his backside out, allowing the stretch to travel down the length of his body. He broke wind. Fetching his rubber ring, he took it to Alison’s side of the bed. Bob rose like Swamp thing from the depths of a bog. ‘Wha` time is it? Waz up? Are you all right? Wha’s wrong?’

‘It's all right, love, nothings wrong go back to sleep.’

‘Alison it's two in the morning, you don't want to make love, do you? Oh please tell me you do,’

She leant over, kissed Bob on the cheek and told him to go back to sleep. The dog went to his basket, sulking at being woken up to play, only to be told to go back to bed. He did what any dog would do in such a situation, he farted.

Bob buried his head under the duvet and Alison turned off the light.

At breakfast, Alison told Bob all about the crazy woman and about her dream. She expected no more than scorn from Bob and she wasn’t disappointed.

‘Mock not, ye of little faith, you'll see tomorrow night when the numbers are drawn.’ She kissed him tenderly and sent him on his way to work.