Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

She whisked the mittens out of the basket and out of sight. The irritable stockbroker headed for the queue at the till and Dulcie melted away in the opposite direction. Two minutes later, while she was investigating denim dungarees, she heard a bellow of fury over by the till.

‘Who the buggering hell has made off with my sodding gloves?’

He didn’t sound so much like a stockbroker now.

Dulcie kept her face averted. She didn’t want to get embroiled in a nasty attack of mitten rage.

By seven thirty Dulcie was carrying fifteen bags, her arms were practically out of their sockets and the soles of her feet hurt so much they burned.

Queueing in a newsagent’s for a can of Coke, she overheard a woman say there had been a pile-up outside the Blenheim Street car park. Apparently the place was gridlocked, no one was getting in or out.

With a sigh Dulcie paid for two cans of Coke, carried them outside and looked around for somewhere to sit down. She may as well rest her feet and wait for the car park to unblock itself before heading back to the car.

A Salvation Army band was playing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ in the centre of the precinct, and all but one of the benches around them were full. Limping, Dulcie lugged her bags over to the only bench that wasn’t, and realised her mistake two seconds too late.

‘Here, let me give you a hand with those,’ said the boy who was the only other occupant. From a distance he’d looked okay, but now she was close up, Dulcie saw the mousy matted dreadlocks, the filthy clothes and the bottle of Tennant’s Export sticking out of his coat pocket. He smelled awful and — oh help — something furtive was going on in the vicinity of his lap.

Dulcie tried to hang on to her bags but they were out of control, slithering in all directions.

Leaning over, the boy helped her to pick them up. She wondered if he was about to do a runner, make off with her Christmas shopping, and if he did would he be pleased with the Penhaligon’s bluebell soap and foaming bath oil?

‘Been buying presents?’ His tone was conversational. Dulcie nodded, flipped the ring pull of the first Coke, and determinedly didn’t look at his trousers.

‘Wish I had money to buy presents.’ His tone was sorrowful. ‘Some Christmas we’ll be having this year.’

‘Mm,’ said Dulcie.

‘Couldn’t spare a few coppers, could you? Not for me,’ the boy assured her earnestly, ‘for my dog.’

Daring to look at last, Dulcie saw that the movement in his grubby lap was in fact a squirming beige puppy. Relieved that he hadn’t been exposing himself to her, she fished around in her pocket for change.

‘Sixty-five pence?’ The boy gazed at the coins in the palm of his hand. He looked disappointed.

‘I mean thanks, but I’m not going to be able to buy little Squatter much of a Christmas present with that, am I?’

Dulcie was beginning to feel like a plague victim. She appeared to be sitting in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle; everyone was giving her bench an extraordinarily wide berth. Some were shooting her sympathetic glances. Others, observing her predicament, were clearly thinking: sucker.

She took her purse out of her handbag and opened it while the boy looked on, his eyes bright with interest. She had, of course, used up the last of her change buying the cans of Coke.

Hating herself, knowing she was being half conned, half intimidated, Dulcie gave him a fiver and prayed he’d go away.

The boy grinned, revealing surprisingly white teeth, and tucked the rolled-up note into his sock.

‘The thing is,’ he said chattily, ‘if you can afford a fiver, you can afford a tenner.’

‘What?’

‘That wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?’

‘This is called pushing your luck,’ said Dulcie.

‘It’s called trying to get by. Come on, look at you,’ the boy drawled, indicating the fifteen glossy carrier bags with a grubby thumb. ‘Look at the places you shop. How can it be fair, eh? You’ve got everything and I’ve got nothing. So tell me, how can that be fair?’

The Salvation Army band, having stopped for a breather, now picked up their instruments and launched into a jaunty version of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’.

‘You haven’t got nothing.’ Dulcie had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the sound of the brass instruments oompa-ing away with gusto. ‘You’ve had a fiver from me and you’re not getting any more, so just leave me alone, okay?’

The façade of friendliness had gone now. His eyes were cold as he jeered at her.

‘Oh help, I’m sooo scared.’

Damned if she was going to be the one to get up and leave, Dulcie stared back. If he’d been one of the yuppie types at the Cat and Mouse, she would have told him exactly what she thought of him by now. But because he was hungry and homeless, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Which was weird, because he could.

‘Go on, you can afford it. Don’t be such a selfish bitch,’ he snarled. ‘Give me a tenner and I’ll go.’

‘There are two policemen over there,’ Dulcie lied coolly. ‘Shall I tell them you’re harassing me, demanding money with menaces?’

He snorted with laughter.

‘Menaces! I’ll deny it. I’ll tell them you were harassing me.’

‘Oh right. And who do you think they’ll believe?’ Dulcie retaliated. ‘The woman with everything, or a repulsive little creep like you?’

‘You can’t call me that,’ said the boy, stunned by the derision in her voice. ‘I’m homeless.’

‘I can call you anything 1 like,’ Dulcie snapped back, ‘because you’re a git.’

He went, loping off with his Tennant’s Export in one hand and the wriggling puppy in the other.

As he made his way across the precinct to the off-licence he turned and winked at Dulcie, and mouthed, ‘Worth a try.’

Dulcie stayed where she was. The encounter had depressed her; she wasn’t proud of the way she’d reacted to the beggar’s taunts. I’m just a horrible person, she thought wearily. No wonder Patrick prefers Claire.

The Salvation Army band played on, and when a young girl came round shaking a tin, Dulcie slid a tenner in. Anyone who wore one of those unflattering bonnets, she decided, deserved all the help they could get.

‘That’s really kind of you,’ whispered the girl in the bonnet, and all of a sudden Dulcie wanted to cry. She shook her head. ‘No it’s not.’

The girl moved on. Dulcie took another swig of Coke. What had the beggar called her, a selfish bitch?

Well, that was true enough.

His bitter, accusing voice rang again in her head: ‘You’ve got everything,’ and Dulcie felt a lump expand in her throat.

‘I don’t, she thought, feeling horribly sorry for herself. ‘I used to have everything, but I don’t any more.

A mother with two young children came and sat on the bench. Dulcie shifted her bags to make room for them.

‘Mum. Mum, I’m thirsty, can I have a Coke?’ clamoured the boy.

‘Me too, Mum, I’m thirsty too,’ his younger sister chimed in.

The woman, who had just eased off her shoes with a groan of relief, closed her eyes and groaned again.

‘Robbie, we’ve just sat down. Can you wait five minutes?’ Dulcie wasn’t a mother but even she knew this was a request doomed to failure.

‘N000! Mum, I’m thirsty now.’

‘So am I, so am I, Mum, so am I-I-I!’

‘Oh God,’ croaked their mother, wearily fumbling around for her shoes. ‘Okay, okay.’

‘Here, they can have this one.’ Dulcie leaned across and offered the woman her second can. ‘I bought two but I’m not thirsty any more.’

‘Are you sure?’ The woman’s gratitude was overwhelming. ‘Oh, thank you so much. You’ve saved my life! That’s really kind of you.’