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“I think you’ll find the amount is £32.21,” replied Vincent.
Rachel glanced at the queue forming behind him.
“No point looking at them, they can’t help us.”
It was Saturday morning – the busiest day of the week – and Morrisons in Guiseley was fit to bursting. Piped music mingled with announcements over the speaker system about the day’s special BOGOF offer. Vincent ignored them. They wouldn’t force him to spend more money than he wanted.
“Sorry,” said Rachel, “but I think you’re mistaken.”
“One of us is.”
The man behind Vincent joined in the conversation. “Look, mate, why don’t you just pay the girl, and we can all be off? Some of us have work to do.”
“Why should I pay her when she’s wrong?”
“It isn’t her,” said the woman behind the man. “She hasn’t added it up. The tills these days are electronic.”
“They’re calibrated and tested once a week,” said Rachel. “They can’t be wrong.”
“Oh come on, Vincent,” shouted someone at the back of the queue. “Do we have to have this performance every week?”
Vincent ignored the last comment, noticing other customers now avoiding the line he was in.
He turned back to the cashier. “Young lady, I am not moving until this is sorted. I don’t care if we stand here till five o’clock, or the store closes. A mistake has been made with my shopping, and I want it checked out.”
The customers behind him started placing their shopping back into their trolleys so they could move on.
Rachel stood her ground. “There’s nothing to check out. All the items have gone through, the barcode has been checked, and the amount comes to £34.61.”
Vincent started removing each item from the shopping basket. Glancing behind him, he noticed only one couple in the queue. Other shoppers in other queues were casting suspicious expressions his way.
Vincent didn’t care. Right was right. Wrong was no man’s right. Life was pretty much black and white. There were no shades of grey – fifty or otherwise – as far as he was concerned.
He was no idiot when it came to mathematics. He could add up faster and more accurately than any machine, having spent a lifetime with horses and bookmakers. No one pulled the wool over his eyes.
With all the shopping back on to the conveyor, he stared at Rachel. “I suggest we go through that receipt item by item, and we find out which one is incorrectly priced.”
Rachel’s expression grew grim. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age: blonde, slim, wore a little too much make up. To her credit, she had been polite, and still was. He agreed it probably wasn’t her fault.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ re holding everyone up.”
“As I’ve said, we’ll stay here as long as it takes.”
The couple behind Vincent moved to another checkout. A voice to Vincent’s right joined in the conversation.
“Morning, Mr Baines. What seems to be the problem, as if I didn’t know?”
Eric Johnstone, the supermarket manager had made his appearance. He was big and lumpy and his face was bland: his grey suit summed him up perfectly.
“It’s this gentleman, sir,” said Rachel. “He seems to think we’re charging him too much.”
“I don’t think it, I know it,” replied Vincent.
There were more announcements over the speaker system about cheap bargains. He half-expected the voice to boom out “Would the man in aisle six please pay the bill and fuck off?”
Johnstone asked Rachel to tear off the till receipt and pass it over.
“Are we ready then, Mr Baines?”
