David Charters: 'Aspirins always remind me of heart failure,' she said, breezily

May 6 2008 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

IT WAS to me a strange environment. I skulked along the chilled and soulless aisle to the supermarket’s cash-point with the startled and up- reaching gaze of a porcupine, who has just strayed into a balloon parade.

"How can I help you?" asked the gum-chewing girl at the till, all pert and pretty, honey-shaded hair gathered tightly around her head, so the removal of a few combs, pins and grips would release its flow for the pleasure of a young admirer.

"Help?" I thought to myself. "Maybe a bag of hope would serve my needs. But I fear it will be out of stock."

Instead, I said, "May I have a sachet of aspirins."

"Aspirins always remind me of heart failure," she said, breezily, fetching them from the shelf behind, before turning back to me, one hand clutching the left side of her chest in a theatrical manner. Shocked by her use of "failure", and wondering if my colour was a cause for concern, I followed her example.

"Other side," she said.

I smiled, foolishly.

"Other side," she repeated, unleashing vapours of synthetic juice through glossed lips. "Your heart is on the left," she explained, clearly a star of the first-aid classes. "It’s just that we’re standing opposite each other, like looking into a mirror."

"I’m sure, if you stared into the mirror and I appeared, you’d have a heart attack," I said.

She pinged the money into the electronic till without further comment. I slipped the sachet into the pocket on my green corduroy jacket and felt there a card of much greater importance.

Outside, pregnant sacks of cloud rubbed together and the first drops of rain darkened the pavement. It was still raining that night when I rummaged for the front-door key and felt again the reassuring edges of the card.

My wife was sitting on our quite-new sofa, her lovely turquoise eyes searching for the eternal truths. "I saw a frog in the shop today," she said at last.

"Was he wearing a beret at the classic tilt?" I asked. "You know, sweetheart, we have to be careful about our use of language in these sensitive times. After all, many years have gone since tensions were stirred across the Channel by our plotting with the Burgundians to roast Joan of Arc. To make up for that lapse, we allowed Concorde to be spelt with a final "e", thus helping secure the entente cordiale."

"Don’t be silly," chided my wife, crossing her slim legs demurely. "I didn’t see a Frenchman. I saw a real frog made of pottery. It would go well with our ornamental owls and be company for Milly and Molly (our rabbits, for newcomers to the column)."

"I shall deliberate on this one," I said. "Meanwhile, would you like to go to New Brighton at the weekend? I know some old chaps who play great jazz in the cellar at Fort Perch Rock on the last Sunday of every month. After that we could have a spot of lunch.

"Oh yes," enthused my wife, who seizes any opportunity of dragging my carcass from the armchair and into the happening world. "I’ll drive."

"Drive," I said in a disappointed tone. "I had hoped to go by train."

Anyway, the Sunday was peculiarly warm. Those clouds were still in the sky. To ancient eyes, it seemed that they were suspended by faith between Heaven and Earth. Steam rose from the roads like passing spirits, as our car hummed down the hills to the resort, held forever in memories.

The Tony Davis Jazz Band was in superb form, men in their late seventies, blowing the tunes – China Town, Memphis Blues, Beale Street and even a swinging version of our own Maggie May. Between numbers, they laughed and bickered in their red shirts, the way old friends do. They’re back where they started, where they have always been happy, playing in a cellar to friends, now old ladies, still swaying to the rhythm.

On the curved timber benches of the Seaside Cafe, my wife and I enjoyed chips, mushy peas and delicately battered cod with bread and tea.

Our 12-year-old son had roast chicken, veg, mushy peas and gravy followed by chocolate fudge cake and ice cream. You’ll never forget a meal as good as that.

My hand slipped into the pocket for the money to pay the bill and my thumb touched that card again. "One day soon, I’ll use my bus and train pass for older people," I vowed.

My wife smiled vividly to clear the grey over the river’s timeless roll.

* LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpool dailypost.co.uk