I am not writing. I’m not even doing a #VSS365 every day. I was just considering putting this story in for a big competition. The food-themed one. It is not good enough. It’s not worth paying fifteen quid to enter. A fifteen quid that would end up as a nothing within the ten grand prize. So … I’ve decided to put it here.
A Lovely Spread
‘What a lovely spread! Looks grand, Edie.’
‘Thanks. Been run ragged all morning. Is that the cake?’
I stand by the door. Mum places the cake on the table where a space has been reserved. My mouth remembers the sweetness of the butter icing from scraping the bowl straight after my porridge breakfast. I blush, recalling Mum’s disapproval.
Edie hugs me ‘Sit yourself down, Karen.’
I sit awkwardly on the far-too-low sofa, my knees heading for the ceiling. I seem to have grown a foot in the last month. When would it stop? I pull my skirt down, self-conscious about my pale legs. Mum nips to the loo, Auntie Edie unveils Uncle Charlie’s fiftieth birthday cake and I eye up the buffet.
There’s an enormous pork pie, sliced and surrounded by tomato lilies. A small hillock of mini sausage rolls rises up behind it. Cheese and pineapple on sticks. Cold sausages, also on sticks. I know there’s a pair of grapefruits under the foil balls they’re sticking out of, hedgehog style. Ham and turkey slices garnished with cucumber twists. Vol-au-vents; chicken and mushroom with a mini parsley sprig, prawns in pink mayonnaise topped by a dash of paprika.
Edie brings in a wooden bowl of lettuce scattered with cucumber, carrot strips, radish rounds, spring onions done in frills and hard-boiled egg quarters. As she digs in the spoon and fork servers one each side, she looks across and smiles.
‘You’re getting tall, Karen. Those legs aren’t from our side of the family.’
Mum returns in a haze of Blue Grass and hairspray.
‘I was just saying she’s got her father’s legs.’
They look at each other and laugh. I wish I didn’t take after Dad, who lives in Clitheroe now and is ‘six feet four in his stockinged feet’, as Grandma used to say. Height-wise, I’d left Mum and Edie behind two years ago, at thirteen. And size-wise too. I was a totalled-up eighteen to their ten and eight.
‘Auntie Edie, how do you make those spring onion frills?’
She wanted me to ask. Part the script we’d followed for years.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. I’ll tell you on your wedding day.’
I fake a laugh. I don’t really care about spring onions and I’m mystified by the idea of anyone wanting to marry me. Mum is opening bags of crisps and tipping them out into bowls. My stomach does a little lurch of desperate need. Salt and Vinegar. Cheesy Wotsits. Skips. Mum glances up and gives me that look. No one else could know but it says ‘Just have turkey, lots of salad and a small bread roll. Don’t start on these.’
I feel rising panic and sinking despair meet at my core. I try to say the names the boys at school call me but inside my head only. It should stop me wanting to eat crisps, cheese and pastry. It doesn’t though. There’s a bottle of Heinz salad cream next to the pepper mill. I want to dip sausage rolls in it and feel that sharp vinegary-ness along the sides of my tongue. I want a couple of vol-au-vents, a salmon bridge roll and a slice of pork pie. I want to feel full.
Fatty. Fatso. Hey, Fatty Boom, Boom. Tank. Two Ton Tessie, whoever that is. Big Bertha.
And I want to scoff all the crunchy, salty crisps.
Edie hands me a glass of Coca-Cola. ‘Betty from over the road’s coming across soon. Bringing her son. Nice boy. Goes to St Joseph’s.’
A boy. I hope he will be horrible. Not speak to me or look at me like something the cat dragged in. It’s what I’m used to. Anything else is too confusing. Too upsetting. I wish I’d told Mum I had cramps. I could be tucked up in bed now, with a hot water bottle. Cup of tea and a handful of Rich Tea for dipping. Reading one of the Mallory Towers series Mum thinks I’ve outgrown. Or just staring at the ceiling thinking of nothing with Suzi Quatro on full blast & no one screaming at me to turn the volume down.
Are those Scotch egg halves on the far side of the table? Next to the bowls of beetroot and pickle. Yes, I want one of those and all the Skips and a piece of cake and more crisps.
Someone’s at the door. I sip my Coke and pull my skirt down again. I hear Edie ushering them inside.
‘This is Betty. And Simon. Simon … say hello to Karen.’
He’s dark haired and tall. Maybe even taller than me. Head down, he mumbles. Edie hands us a plate each and suggests we get started. I can hear Uncle Charlie and Peter in the kitchen, having come in the back door from the pub.
‘You two get in quick before they realise where the food is. Would you like a sherry, Betty?’
Standing next to Simon at the table I realise we’re the same height. We can’t look at each other. We take modest amounts of food. I grab a handful of salt and vinegar crisps and he takes a few Wotsits.
Simon’s wearing jeans and a green shirt. His hair’s thick and jet black. I wonder what colour his eyes are. His obvious shyness suddenly makes me feel brave.
I point to the door into the conservatory. ‘Why don’t we eat through there?’
He nods and follows. We sit side-by-side on the wicker sofa and eat. When I’ve finished this plateful, I’ll ask him a question. Once my scotch egg and all my crisps are gone I will say something, anything. I take more swigs of Coke to combat the dryness in my mouth. I will say something soon.
He puts his unfinished plate of food on the floor, stands up and rubs his hands together. I look up and see his eyes are as dark as his hair. He gives me a nervous smile. He looks a little bit like David Essex. Lovely.
He stumbles over his words ‘Can I get you another?’
I grin and hold out my glass.
SalPage 