Homecoming

A man comes home from war and goes shopping.

Luckily, the door hadn’t fully closed behind him when he remembered that he’d left his keys on the kitchen table. Catching the door, Tom turned back swiftly and sulked his way to the dusky room. Snatching up the burnished keys, he patted his jeans pocket.

‘Wallet - check. Now where’s that list?’ Tom surveyed the room while checking his jacket pockets, finally finding the offending scrap of paper hidden between the countless receipts that had invaded his wallet over the past week.

Making his way back down the hall, Tom stepped out once again into the cool evening air, his shaved hair at attention in the breeze. He still found it strange that he didn’t have to wrap himself up in layer upon layer just to keep the biting sub-zero winds at bay.

Weird how you can acclimatise to that, he thought, making his way down the street towards the Tesco Metro.

Trees lined Stankirk Street just like they did before. But now the branches that stretched out above Tom were sprouting pale lime leaves that were shining neon with the lamplight. There were new bins here and there, and as he passed a wooden barrel, Tom smelt the almost forgotten scent of spring flowers. Twisting his head for a glance, he saw the barrel was filled with soil and wilting daffodils, though new greens seemed to be springing up between the browning stems. Paper stuttered beside his feet as he made his way along the chewing gum spotted pavement, Tom butted it with the side of his foot and it dropped down into the gurgling drain. Glancing down at the fluttering scrap, Tom could see head-scarves billowing in the sand-drenched wind. He blinked and the image was gone. He looked up, half expecting to see the brilliant stars that had been dominating his nights’ sky for the past six months. All that he saw, however, were a few bright stars. The rest of the constellations faded to nothing when competing with the orange blush of light pollution, reflecting off the bottom of darkening clouds.

It’s strange to be back, he thought as he stepped into the light the Tesco Metro allowed to pool across the pavement before him. The door groaned as he walked through, and a hot blast hit his face. Tom instinctively held his hands up before him to protect himself, only to remember there was no sand here to rip at his skin.
Assessing the shop, Tom noted a few small clusters of people milling around the aisles. He picked up a basket and it swung back and forth as he made his way methodically down each aisle, checking off each item on his list.

Ok, thought Tom, got oranges, bread and milk. Will get cigarettes on the way out. What else do I need? Got potatoes and veg at home... could get some beef? Or lamb? Nah, beef. With that decided, Tom made his way to the meat aisle.

Tom knew selecting the right piece of beef was important, and usually he’d walk the extra way to Ronny’s Butchers on Narberth Road. But the old man always closed the shop at 1730 sharp, so the supermarket it was.

Still, he thought, I’ve had much worse these past few months. At least I get proper grub now.

Meat placed safely in the basket, he continued down around the shop until he reached what his mates called the “immigrants’ aisle”. Rows of different pastas, rices, popadoms, naan breads and spicy sauces stood at ease on both columns. Checking the pasta prices, Tom noted how some of the wheat was from the very place that he’d just left. He remembered the susurrus of the wind whispering its way through the tall fields. They’d just missed the harvest as they arrived, a successful one in the Helmand Province by all accounts. He’d seen a lots of wheat fields, sure, but a whole lot more poppy fields. He still shuddered to think of the harsh landscape covered in those beautiful, but deadly, flowers. The hills had been like green canvases, dotted with blood. Tom chose to leave the big bag of pasta where it was for today, and rambled his way along the gleaming floor to the checkout.

The tills were quiet as he reached them, with only punctuating hums of the conveyer belts reaching over the low murmur of the sparse groups of customers. Tom noted a hairstyle he half knew and checked his pace as he sauntered over.

‘Alright, Michelle?’ he asked, placing his basket heavily on the end of the counter.

The blonde headed girl smiled back at him, brushing wisps of hair back from her face. ‘Tom! Long time no see. How was it, being off fighting the good fight?’

Tom unloaded his shopping items onto the revolving black belt, thinking uncharacteristically carefully about the ‘good fight’ as the belt came to a stop, the forward objects having reached the front line.

‘It was . . . an experience,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll be glad to be back on the normal job to be honest with you.’

Michelle began to scan the items through. ‘Ain’t it strange for a TA to do a tour?’

‘Not particularly, though there were only five of us in the Welsh Cavalry. It was a bit tougher on some of the guys, but I was alright. Loading and gunning Tanks isn’t too taxing.’ For the most part, he left unsaid.

‘Good to be back then?’ asked Michelle. ‘That’ll be £13.22 please.’

‘Man, meat isn’t half getting expensive, is it?’ remarked Tom as he pushed his card into the slot. ‘Yeah, it is good to be back, you know. I miss the boys, you can’t help but get close to your comrades in Afghanistan of all places but . . . normality beckons I guess!’

‘Would you like any cashback?’ asked Michelle.

‘Ah, yeah. A tenner please, Mimi.’

‘No problem, if you could just enter your pin then.’ She waved a hand in his general direction, and Tom paused in packing his bags to insert the numbers.

As she was handing over his note and receipt, Tom felt her warm fingers linger for a moment on his. He grinned.

‘So, Mimi, what does a war hero have to do around here to get a drink with a stunning checkout girl?’

‘Hmmmm . . . wait until 11pm when she’s finished her shift? You’d think a smart soldier like you would know that, Tom’.

‘Hey now!’ said Tom in mock disapproval. ‘That’s Lieutenant Tom Haynes to you, missy!’

‘Yes Lieutenant! Sorry Lieutenant!’ Michelle gave a flamboyant parody of a salute before covering her mouth with her hand and giggling.

‘Keep that attitude and I’ll have some corporal punishment thrown on you!’ Tom winked. ‘Now, I think you have a job to do. So I’ll see you at 11, yeah?’

The two said their quick goodbyes and Tom purchased his cigarettes at the small counter near the door. His shopping bags swung at his sides as he turned one cigarette upside down, and picked out another. The white stick rolled along his lips as he rifled through his pocket for a lighter. Stepping once again through the hot air, he heard the door sigh at his departure. Guarding himself against the cold breeze, Tom lit up the cigarette and, with images of tonight’s possibilities already playing through his mind, he made his way down the street, home.

Author's Note

Any interpretation is welcome, and I am extremely grateful for constructive criticism.