She is small and sturdy. He, tall and lean. Looking at him, you’d know that they are over-65s. They’ve been shopping here for years. He pushes the shopping cart. She flits industriously back and forth from the soap powder to the coffee to the cookies. I’m busy filling the bread rack when they pass by me — hello Ma’am — hello Sir — nice weather today! The shop belongs to my son now. But it’s hard to get good staff and it’s getting more and more expensive with all those benefits. So that’s why I help him in the mornings.

I say “Sir” and “Ma’am” with capital letters in the tone of my voice. Old grocers are practiced at that. In the past, only some were obviously Sir or Ma’am with capital letters, but these days, it’s hard to tell. So now I address every customer with the capitals. Customers seem to like it. The shabby old lady who fills her cart with sherry bottles every Tuesday morning feels momentarily lifted out of her alcohol misery. The heavily pregnant girl of about 15 who stocks Drum tobacco for the bloke she lives with finds my M’s a bit exaggerated, but fun nonetheless. God considers all people to be equal, and so should the modern grocer.

I look at Mr. and Mrs. Overstop as I straighten my back for a moment. He is turning the cart around, just like that, for no good reason. “No Jan,” cries Mrs. Overstop as she looks up from carefully picking out four bananas, “this way, please.”  He pauses for a moment, then keeps pushing the cart in the wrong direction anyway. On her short legs, she scurries after him. “Come on Jan, after all, we still have to go to the vegetables.”  He mutters, “Boy, boy, that’s right – crikie, we still have to go to the vegetables.”  Yet, he does not turn his cart. His empty eyes stare at me. But it’s as if he doesn’t even see me. His crisp white shirt has a red and a yellow stain on it. At breakfast, he spilled jam and an egg. She sees it now too and quickly buttons his jacket to cover it. It is not easy to keep him clean.

She takes him by the arm and slowly turns him around. This takes time, because the cart has to turn with them. For a moment, I see her calm disturbed. And then the cart knocks over a stack of detergent boxes. “Sorry,” she flusters softly, “I don’t always remember either.” “That’s my fault Ma’am,” I say, “I shouldn’t have stacked those boxes in the narrow aisle, there is indeed not much room.” 

Sir O stays with me. “Yes, yes, so sorry — are you the grocer?”  “Surely you know that Jan — after all, we’ve been shopping here for years. And remember, in church, didn’t he sit two pews in front of us with his nice family?”  Every Wednesday morning — the same story. “Yes, yes, two pews — well, that’s nice,” he mumbles. With her hand on his arm, she urges him to keep going. He pushes the cart with his good arm. The other arm hangs limply beside his lean body.

Suddenly he pauses again, shuffling quickly towards me with a purpose. “Three pews, not two — and you always wore a brown suit on Sundays.”  His face beams. “And you had three children — crikie!”  He’s right, too. Sometimes a few sparks still fly from one gray cell to another, but that never lasts long. Before I can answer him, I see the twilight of aimlessness cloud his face again. His voice, still clear, loses strength. “Well, that’s nice you know, nice isn’t it, dear?”  “Yes dear, come now.”

Next to the till are the cigars and cigarettes. Now I have to pay attention. As Madam puts the groceries on the counter, Sir O taps her on the shoulder. “Don’t forget the cigars, dear.”  “But Jan, you know the doctor has said that can’t smoke anymore, don’t you now?”  “I need cigars, I’m getting mad at you! You hear me?”

Every Wednesday morning, it’s the same scene. Last year, when his wife kept refusing, his eyes would flare up — he was the old, authoritarian bank manager again. But, unable to communicate with words and eyes, he used his good arm to slap his ‘dear’ wife. After this happened a few times, I helped them at the till, instead of the girl. Being wary of it, I would grab his arm quickly and look him squarely in the eyes.

But these days we do things differently. I take an empty cigar box from under the counter and say; mighty fine cigar, Mr. Overstop, that will last you all week again! Then I tap four zeros on the till, and Sir is as happy as a brooding hen. According to Madam, he has long forgotten about the cigars at home. “Can I have an ice cream for a dime?”  He is back in his childhood, when such an ice cream would be two scoops high. “Sure, an ice cream will be good, but we’ll have it at home.”

The Overstops — I have known them for so long. He was a bank manager — up and coming businessman. In those days, Ma’am was shy, verging on timid — and very clumsy. She often had bruises on her arms. “Ah,” she would complain, “I bump into everything.” “Hey, I’m so terribly clumsy!” Never did she spend more than fifty guilders. When the cashier rang in the amounts of her shopping, she monitored the display nervously. If it was more than fifty guilders, she got very embarrassed. Shyly then, she would hold back a packet of margarine. We thought that was strange — wasn’t her husband a bank manager with a good salary?

My wife figured it out before I did, and it turned out she was right. Madam got fifty guilders for shopping, and she had to make do with that!  At home, the florid, preening, pious Mr. Overstop was the mighty ruler before whom the whole family bowed. He beat his wife and he beat his children with unbridled ill temper. His word was law! His children behaved well enough, went faithfully to the youth clubs, but when they left the nest, it all went haywire. The two boys got into drugs and the girl lived with a rather scruffy, long-haired artist. I was on the church council when Sir submitted a formal letter to say that, due to family circumstances, he preferred not to be nominated for elder. 

For some time, the Overstops stopped coming to church. Didn’t come into our shop anymore either. We sometimes saw them walking around town after he retired. A stately gentleman, beautiful white hair and neatly dressed — she always tagging along a few meters behind in her shabby clothes. Then . . . the stroke.                        

They shopped with us again after that, and from month to month, we saw the Missus’ manner become more brisk, as everything now came down to her. Yet, the shopping was still thrifty — she had gotten used to that. And she was very kind to her disabled husband — that too. But my wife wondered if Missus, after living with him like that, could really love him. “If you had treated me like that, I would have walked away from you a long time ago,” she said. I always know very well where I stand with my wife.

The Overstops now walk slowly past the shop window. The wind is cold. She helps him into his beige raincoat. When he bends down so she can better reach the top button, she takes his gaunt face between both hands and kisses him on the cheek. For a moment he puts his good arm on her shoulder, but then it immediately drops back down to grab the shopping cart handle again, as if he forgot why he was doing it. She slides her arm under his lame arm and looks up at him once more. It moves me, and I know my wife is wrong this time.

Sunday morning. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Go in peace.”  Two benches behind me sit the Overstops. I consider that these words mean very little to him. But that grace has sustained her through her fearful, infinitely sad marriage! Should a person be allowed to suffer so needlessly? I can’t figure that out.