The Supermarket Stays Lit All Night

In this part of Liverpool

the supermarket stays lit

all night.

Blue-white light

on wet pavements.

Lorries backing in

at stupid o’clock.

A bloke asleep in his car

near the trolley shelter.

Inside

more food

than whole streets

can afford.

Avocados in winter.

Strawberries in December.

Three quid smoothies.

Security tags

on baby formula.

Nathan Silver

sits somewhere

above it all.

CEO.

Millions every year.

The sort of money

that stops sounding real

after a bit.

People like Nathan say

wealth creates wealth.

Leave it alone long enough

and eventually

it trickles down.

Funny that.

Because on checkout twelve

Kelly Mullan is still trying

to work out

whether she tops up the meter

or buys decent food

before Friday.

The trickle never seems

to reach

her end of Liverpool.

Kelly works hard.

Not LinkedIn hard.

Not podcast hard.

Real hard.

Feet hurting

before tea hard.

Up-before-daylight hard.

Smile-at-customers

while your head is pounding hard.

Still she turns up.

During lockdown

they called her

a key worker.

People clapped

on Thursdays.

Rainbows taped

onto windows.

Handprints on glass.

Thank-you posters

drawn by kids

safe indoors.

But clapping

never paid

the gas bill.

Kelly stood

behind perspex screens

while half the country

learned to bake sourdough

and complained online

about boredom.

Some customers

flinched

if she coughed.

Some thanked her

like she was brave.

Mostly

she was stuck there.

Meanwhile Nathan

saw it coming early.

Markets twitching.

Flights drying up.

So he headed out

to the house in Spain

for a while.

Olive trees.

Big terrace.

Enough space

to wait the plague out

comfortably.

Said later

it was important

to protect the family.

And fair enough.

Everybody wants

the people they love

safe.

It is just

Kelly never had

that option.

She kept scanning groceries

through plastic screens

because somebody had to.

So did everyone else

off the estate.

Cleaners.

Drivers.

Care workers.

Warehouse lads

with backs gone funny

before they hit fifty.

The city runs

on people too shattered

to talk about

how shattered they are.

And Kelly knows

everybody.

Knows whose leccy

has gone again.

Knows who has started

drinking heavy

since the split.

Knows the old bloke

who comes in every evening

mostly because

he cannot face

another night alone

with the television

muttering at him.

At the till

she watches people

put things back.

Coffee first.

Then fruit.

Then meat.

Little humiliations.

Nobody kicks off.

That’s the thing.

People just mumble sorry

for being skint.

Kelly works full-time.

Thirty-seven hours.

Sometimes more

when somebody rings in sick.

Still the wages vanish

before the month does.

So every few weeks

Universal Credit turns up

like the government

quietly admitting

the job does not actually pay enough

to live on.

Kelly is glad

the church hall café

is running through half term.

Toast.

Tea.

A proper hot meal.

Kids tearing about.

Volunteers trying

to make the place feel warm

for an hour or two.

Nothing polished.

Just people trying

to stop things

getting worse.

And walking home

people shout her name

through windows.

Somebody asks

how her mum is.

Someone sends her home

with curry in a tub.

It is hard there.

Too many funerals.

Too many blue lights

after midnight.

But it is hers.

The streets know

her footsteps.

Meanwhile Nathan

is booking a skiing holiday.

Talking about snow reports

and chalets

and whether Verbier

has gone a bit corporate now.

His house is massive.

Glass everywhere.

Big kitchen.

Lights on timers.

But nobody knocks

just to borrow sugar.

Nobody checks in

because they had a feeling

something was wrong.

The neighbours wave politely

then disappear indoors.

And maybe that is

the strangest bit.

Kelly has almost nowt.

Yet half the people

off her estate

would notice

if she vanished.

Nathan owns more rooms

than he uses,

but moves through life

like somebody

dragging a suitcase

through an airport.

Then he stands

at conferences

talking about resilience.

Wine afterwards.

Tiny burgers

on little wooden boards.

Applause.

Someone says

the economy

is recovering.

Amos would have

kicked through

the glass doors.

Mary still sings

about the mighty

being dragged down

from their thrones.

And Jesus—

Jesus keeps saying things

we spend years

trying to explain away.

Blessed are the poor.

Woe to the rich.

Though woe

rarely arrives

looking like woe.

Mostly

it looks comfortable.

Airport lounges.

Soft lighting.

A second home

where nobody knows

your name.

Maybe after a while

wealth stops feeling

like wealth.

Maybe it just becomes

distance.

Soon enough

you stop hearing

the panic in somebody’s voice

when their card gets declined.

Stop seeing the tiredness

in the woman

serving your shopping.

Stop seeing Lazarus

full stop.

Meanwhile Kelly

keeps scanning.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Holding bits of the world together

without anybody noticing.

No headlines for that.

No bonus either.

Just ordinary kindness

holding the dark back

for another night.

And somewhere outside

Christ still stands

with the smokers

in work fleeces,

beside the trolley lads

and the night-shift staff,

while inside

the shareholders celebrate

another good year.

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In recent years, major UK supermarket chains have reported billions in annual revenue and hundreds of millions in profit, while chief executives have received pay packages worth several million pounds a year including bonuses and shares.

During the Covid-19 pandemic, supermarket staff were designated key workers and continued working throughout lockdowns, often for modest wages and under significant pressure. Across the UK, increasing numbers of working households have relied on foodbanks, Universal Credit, or emergency support despite being in employment. In-work poverty remains one of the defining contradictions of modern Britain.

Rev'd Jon Swales