Pretty Companion

Softly, we scoot into the fruit and vegetable aisle. My nephew, rosy-faced from the park, shiny-shouldered in his jungle vest and clip-on safety belt, seems temporarily content to sit inside the trolley now that we are cooling down a bit. Wobbling above his fist is a drizzling rainbow lolly, which I long to lick.

Parked beside him, stubby-limbed Dolly, absorbs more than the occasional splash. She is made of a particularly scratchy type of linen, bone-white where she isn't mud-freckled or jam-handled. Poor Dolly. Why can't we get along? Maybe it's the unnatural Velcro slit which runs all the way down her back, or the wide, red smile, too far-reaching for her face.

Whatever the reason, every time we pass by something flesh-coloured on the shelves, I get a lurid vision of her puffed, fingerless hands lunging, grabbing.

What's wrong with me? The heat, must be the heat.

All the same, it makes me sick to think of her smuggling away newborn-pink ham, bloody rhubarb and plums inside that Velcro hold-all.

Shoppers coo over my nephew and his pretty companion. We attract attention as we glide between great pyramids of nappy rash gel and building blocks of toilet rolls. When confronted by admirers, my nephew becomes a little shy. He waggles Dolly's stumps and presses her to his face for cover, her stitched nose squashed into her throat. Perhaps not used to seeing a little boy enamoured with a dolly, a few passers-by raise their eyebrows, but most concede to baring fuzzy-duckling grins.

Somehow, I think Dolly senses her fame. While my nephew is busy pointing out items he wants, leafy packets of pancakes and small toy cars, I'm certain I catch her smirking, crooking those over-long lips into a hook. As I bend to retrieve my preferred brand of ratatouille, I try to suppress a gratifying daydream in which I find a way to accidentally drop her in the carpark on the way out, and then grind her open under the tyres.