Daffodil Yellow

Daffodil Yellow

 I hate shopping, and Saturdays are the worst. B&Q at four-thirty feels like purgatory: stale warm air, fluorescent lights humming like they’re about to give up, and couples arguing over lampshades or the colour of paint for the garden shed. I suppose for some it is a matter of anything for a quiet life.

         Mary wants the kitchen painted, and we need to choose the colour. She has a bad back, so I’m the designated lifter and shifter. I trail behind her like a condemned man on his way to the gallows.

         We’ve already been to Homebase and two other DIY stores. I’ve seen more colour charts today than I can shake a stick at.

         By the time we reach B&Q, the place is thinning out. The late-afternoon shoppers are the serious ones, those who’ve spent the whole day arguing about skirting boards and now need to decide before the store closes.

         Mary pauses at the entrance, rubbing her lower back. “You okay?” I ask.    She nods solemnly. “I will be. Don’t let me stand too long.” It’s the kind of smile she gives when she’s trying not to complain. I touch her arm, a tiny gesture, but she leans into it for half a second. Then she straightens and marches forward like a woman on a mission.

         We end up in the paint section, surrounded by towers of tins stacked higher than they should be. Every colour looks wrong under the lights. The air smells faintly of turpentine.

         Mary studies a colour chart as if she’s decoding ancient scripture. “You choose,” she says. “I trust your judgement.”

         “You’re having a laugh.”

         “This green would look great in the living room.”

         “I thought I was painting the kitchen.”

         “You can paint the living room when you’ve finished the kitchen.”

         “No way. The paint will end up in the shed.”

          “This burnt orange is warm.”

         “Warm? It’s radioactive.”

         “This red?”

         “Even brighter.”

         “Light blue?”

         “Boring.” I see where this is going. “Text me when you need me to carry something. I’m going to the gardening centre.”

         She gives me a look, the same look she gave me the day I proposed, when I dropped the ring, and it rolled under a table in the restaurant, and I spent half an hour trying to find it. I never did.

         “Don’t disappear,” she says.

         “I’ll be five minutes.”

         “You said that in Homebase.” She’s right. I grin. She rolls her eyes but squeezes my hand before letting go.

         Bad decision. The gardening aisle is full of couples building instant gardens, all chippings and compost. I bounce off trolleys stacked with bags of soil and plastic fountains. The air smells of damp soil and cheap barbecue charcoal. A toddler is crying because his father won’t let him buy a plastic gnome. I agree.

         I find a wooden bench and sit for five minutes of peace. I watch a man trying to fit a six‑foot trellis into a trolley already full of paving slabs. His wife is giving him instructions like she’s directing a military operation. He looks like he’d rather be watching football at home sipping a can of beer.

         My mobile rings. It’s Mary.

         “Daffodil Yellow for the wall and gloss white for the woodwork,” she says. “It’ll look great.”

         Her voice is bright, pleased. She likes choosing things. She likes making our home nicer. I sometimes forget how much she puts into the small things.

         “Wonderful. You go to the car. I’ll queue.”

          I lift the two five‑litre tins. They’re heavier than they look. My arms already ache.

         She wanders off toward the lighting section, already distracted by lampshades. I watch her go, wondering how she can still have the energy to browse. She turns once, checks I’m still there, and gives me a tiny wave. It’s ridiculous how much that wave warms me.

         I pick the wrong queue. The customer ahead of me doesn’t have enough money and spends ten minutes deciding what to put back. The checkout girl gives me a sympathetic smile as I hand over my card. I punch in my PIN, take the receipt, and lift the paint.

         Then I have to think: which level did we park on? It was three, I think. I take the lift.

         The doors open and the atmosphere changes. The multi‑storey car park is almost empty, the concrete echoing every sound. The daylight is fading, turning everything a dull blue-grey. A cold breeze snakes through the open sides of the structure.

         My heart drops.

         A large man in black jeans and a black hoodie is struggling with Mary beside our car. Her handbag is on the ground. He’s got one hand on her arm. His other is holding a knife. A proper one. Not a kitchen knife. Something nasty and serrated, the kind you’d use to cut rope or frighten strangers.

         She’s trying to pull away, her face tight with pain. I don’t know what it was, but something inside me snaps.

         I charge across the concrete. My first thought is to murder the bastard.

         He sees me coming and turns, knife raised. “Back off,” he screams. His accent is guttural.

         I drop the bag of paints and grab him, but he ducks under my arm and clamps a vice‑like grip around my neck. His free hand punches my face, sharp and fast. The knife flashes past my eyes.

         Mary screams my name. I’ve heard her angry, annoyed, laughing, exhausted, but never like that. It hits me harder than the punches.

         I wrench myself free, but he keeps swinging. A kick to my knee makes me stumble. His breath smells of stale beer and garlic. His eyes are wild, unfocused, like he’s not thinking.

         He slashes again, catching my jacket. “Give me the keys!” he shouts. “Take the bloody car!” I shout back. “It’s a diesel, old and worth zilch.”

         He doesn’t appreciate my humour. He lunges again, knife first.

         While he lands more punches than I do, Mary slips behind him, grabs the bag of paint tins, and swings. She swings it like a hammer thrower at the Highland Games and strikes him square on the back of the head.

         The bag splits. A tin bursts open. Daffodil Yellow explodes.

         He staggers, blinded, flailing the knife. Mary hits him again. He drops so fast his nose cracks against the concrete. The knife skitters away. The paint spreads around him like a puddle of cold custard.

         For a moment, everything is still. The only sound is the distant hum of traffic.

         Mary rushes to me. “Let me see,” she says, touching my face with shaking fingers. “I’m fine.”

         “You’re bleeding.”

         “So are you.” She laughs with relief and shock. “I thought.”

          “So did I.”

         We hold each other for a moment, surrounded by concrete and custard‑yellow chaos.

         I can see the headlines in the local rag. Mugger Downed by Daffodil Yellow. Local Couple Repaint Criminal. Knife-Wielding Thug Gets Gloss Finish.

         Someone calls the police. When they arrive, they radio for an ambulance. The mugger is still unconscious, lying in a puddle of yellow paint like a failed street art.

         Mary and I give our statements. The two officers almost wet themselves laughing.

         “Well done,” one says. “We’ve been after this bugger for a while. Didn’t expect him to be decorated.”

         The other officer nudges the mugger’s leg with his boot. “Gloss finish,” he says. “Nice touch.”

         Mary squeezes my arm. “Come on, my hero. Let’s go home and put TCP on those cuts.”

         As she drives away, I say, “I’ve had a great idea. Let’s call a firm of decorators. Daffodil Yellow might give me a headache.”

         She laughs, then winces. “Next time,” she says, “we’re buying paint online.”

         She reaches across the gearstick and takes my hand. And for once, I don’t complain about shopping.