Chapter 3: The Shopping List
The courtroom smelled of polished wood and wet coats.
Arthur sat at the front, his walking stick held between both hands.
His shoulders were hunched.
His shoes were neatly polished.
He had worn his best grey suit, the one Margaret had bought him for their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
It was slightly too large now.
Everything about him seemed smaller.
The prosecution explained the case.
Months of incidents.
Repeated shoplifting.
Security footage.
Warnings from the supermarket.
A total exceeding two thousand dollars.
Graham, the manager, was called to give evidence.
He stood straight, holding his notes.
"Mr Whitmore was observed taking merchandise on numerous occasions," he said.
"He was approached several times and admitted taking the items.""
The prosecutor nodded.
"Did he ever attempt to pay?""
"Sometimes he offered. Sometimes he apologised. But the behaviour continued.""
"Did your store suffer financial losses?""
"Yes.""
"Thank you.""
I watched Arthur.
He hadn't looked up once.
The judge leaned forward.
"Mr Whitmore, I've seen the footage.""
Arthur lifted his head.
"What troubles me is the combination of things you kept taking.""
The judge paused.
"Can you tell me why you needed them?""
Arthur swallowed.
His fingers tightened around the silver handle of his cane.
"No, Your Honour.""
"Why not?""
"I took them. I'm guilty and I'm sorry.""
"You understand this could mean a custodial sentence?""
"Yes, sir.""
His voice cracked.
"I'm a hundred and one. Whatever you give me.""
A murmur moved through the courtroom.
The judge studied him.
"Nothing at all in your own defence?""
Arthur shook his head.
"No, Your Honour.""
And that was when I stood up at the back.
"Your Honour, please. You can't send this man to prison.""
The judge looked sharply in my direction.
"Madam, sit down, or I will have you removed.""
I stayed standing.
"I've lived next door to him thirty years. I know why he was taking those things.""
Arthur turned around.
His face had gone completely white.
"Eunice.""
I took a breath.
"You promised," he whispered.
"I know, love.""
His eyes filled.
"I can't let you go to jail for it.""
The judge motioned for me to continue.
I reached into my handbag and removed a folded piece of paper.
One sheet.
Folded into four.
Arthur's handwriting covered it.
Nine things were listed.
Soup.
Batteries.
Bread.
Hand cream.
Washing powder.
Teabags.
Cat food.
Light bulbs.
And a birthday card.
Each item had a little mark beside it.
At the bottom, in large uneven letters, was one word.
PAID.
Underlined twice.
I held it up.
"Your Honour, this is what he writes after every shopping trip.""
The judge adjusted his glasses.
"A shopping list?""
"Yes.""
I unfolded another sheet.
Then another.
Then a fourth.
"Four months. Four separate lists. Every item crossed off. And every time, the same word at the bottom.""
"Paid," the judge read.
"Yes, Your Honour.""
Graham shifted in his seat.
"With respect, that doesn't change what the footage shows.""
I turned toward him.
"Then perhaps you'd like to explain why your cameras never show what happens after he leaves your shop.""
The judge looked at me.
"Please explain.""
I placed the four lists on the table.
"Arthur has lived alone since Margaret died. His memory has been getting worse for two years. Sometimes he remembers buying something.
Sometimes he remembers carrying it home. But sometimes he cannot remember whether he actually paid.""
Arthur stared at the floor.
"So he writes everything down," I continued.
"He puts the shopping on his kitchen floor, stands in the hallway, and makes a list. If he's paid, he marks it. If he hasn't, he goes back and pays.""
The judge looked at the papers.
"Then why does the shop have footage of him concealing goods?""
I hesitated.
Because this was the part Arthur had begged me not to reveal.
I looked at him.
He gave the smallest shake of his head.
But I had already broken the promise.
I wasn't going to stop halfway.
"Because he sometimes forgets that he's already paid, Your Honour. And sometimes he picks things up, puts them in his coat, then gets frightened when someone approaches him. He believes he's made a mistake. He doesn't know what he's done.""
The judge glanced toward the prosecution.
"Is there any evidence of payment?""
I nodded.
"Yes. I brought the receipts.""
I removed a small envelope.
Inside were receipts from the supermarket, some folded so many times they were almost falling apart.
I had found them in Arthur's kitchen.
Every single one matched an item on his lists.
The judge examined them.
Graham looked uncomfortable.
Sophie, sitting behind him, covered her mouth.
But the judge wasn't finished.
"Mrs...?""
"Mrs Eunice Palmer.""
"Mrs Palmer, you've explained the shopping lists. But why these particular items? Why cat food?
Why birthday cards? Why so many tins of soup?""
I looked at Arthur.
He was crying silently now.
I opened my handbag again.
This time, I took out a photograph.
It showed a little girl with dark curls, holding a ginger kitten.
"Her name was Emily," I said.
The courtroom went quiet.
"She was Margaret and Arthur's daughter.""
The judge looked surprised.
"But the records indicate—"
"She died when she was seven.""
Arthur closed his eyes.
I continued.
"She had a serious illness. During her last months, Margaret and Arthur spent nearly every waking hour looking after her. The doctors had told them there wasn't much time.""
I placed the photograph beside the lists.
"Emily loved tomato soup. She loved buttered bread. She loved cats. And every year, on her birthday, Margaret bought her a card and put it beside her bed.""
My voice broke.
"After Emily died, Margaret couldn't bring herself to throw away the things they'd bought for her. She kept a cupboard of cat food because Emily had always wanted to feed the strays. She kept birthday cards because she couldn't stop thinking about the birthdays her daughter would never have.""
Arthur wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.
"Margaret continued doing it until she became ill herself.""
The judge spoke gently.
"And after her death?""
I looked at Arthur.
"He carried on.""
A long silence followed.
Then the judge asked the question I had been dreading.
"Mr Whitmore, are you buying these things for your daughter?""
Arthur lifted his head.
His lips trembled.
"No, Your Honour.""
He looked at the photograph.
"She's gone.""
He took a breath.
"But Margaret always said that if Emily ever came home, she shouldn't find an empty cupboard.""
Nobody moved.
Arthur's voice became almost inaudible.
"I know she won't come home. I know that. But sometimes I forget.""
He looked down at his hands.
"And when I forget, I think perhaps I've forgotten to get something for her.""
The judge took off his glasses.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he asked, "And the money? The payments?""
Arthur looked confused.
"What money, sir?""
"The supermarket receipts.""
Arthur glanced at me.
I knew then that there was another piece of the story.
One I hadn't seen.
I leaned toward him.
"Arthur, what is it?""
He slowly reached inside his jacket.
From the inner pocket, he removed a small, yellowed envelope.
He placed it on the table.
"Margaret left me something," he whispered.
The judge opened it carefully.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
At the top was a date.
November 14, 2019.
And beneath it were seven words that made the judge stop reading aloud.
Arthur, if you ever forget, read this.
But when he turned the page, there was something else.
A bank transfer confirmation.
And the name of the person who had been paying for Arthur's shopping all along.
It wasn't Arthur.
May you like
It wasn't Margaret.
It was someone none of us had expected.
