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The morning began with the sun over the Ysgyryd. It was a clear May sky, the kind of sky one gets here once in a long, long time. He left the house after breakfast, wearing a jacket, just in case the weather turned. He didn’t think so, though. He had taken a couple of plastic bags for the shopping, rolled up in his pocket. He walked down the hill, past the new Georgian houses, and, on a whim, turned into Croesonen Road. ‘It’ll be quieter than the Hereford Road,’ he thought. ‘The scenery is better too.’ He went under the old railway bridge. A line used to run here years ago. There were few cars and fewer people about. The hedgerows were full of grass, leaf, and bird. He passed an old man walking his dogs. They were big, golden dogs almost shining in the sunlight.
‘Nice morning.’
He concurred. He went further down to where the Ross houses were set back from the road. He went on past the church, one of many in the market town, but this one alone. The others went on the opposite town, grouped together. He went to the café near the bus terminus for a cup of tea in the sun. Then, he walked up the main street, with four names, depending on where one is. The Town Hall clock showed 11 30. He looked into windows to see what would be on in the theatre over the next few weeks. There was nothing.
He went to the Post Office first, waiting in the queue, listening to the announcements in both languages. Next stop was the greengrocer. He picked his usual selection; some leeks, courgettes, tomatoes and so on. The butcher was next.
‘I’ll have two pounds of that lamb there, please.’
The scales went higher.
’I mean two pounds money.’
‘Oh, sorry, daydreaming.’
He put the wrapped meat into one of the plastic bags. The other counter sold cooked meat. He bought a pasty from the old lady there.
‘Thank you, bye.’
He walked back towards the Post Office and through the car park towards the wall. It might be unusual to have lunch in a car park, but the wall made this place different. You had to look over it to see why. Beneath you, some hundred metres away, was a farm, and after that, the Usk. In the far distance, the mountains were now a warm golden brown waiting for time. He ate the pasty, watching the time go by.
He turned to go. He made his way to the west, to go past the rugby ground.
‘How many places have a ground with a view like this?’ he thought.
In front was the Sugarloaf, the beginning of the National Park. He waited there, just looking. A couple of schoolgirls walked by, laughing. He continued back up the hill, past the old railway again. He suddenly noticed the darkness creeping up. Key in hand, he opened the front door, the plastic bags banging and twisting against his legs. One of his neighbours went by.
‘What’s the time now?’
‘Nearly eight.’
‘Eight? It can’t be,’ he thought.
‘It’s going to be cold tonight. They’re forecasting snow.’
‘Snow?’
He heard his own alarm. Why would they have snow now?
The neighbour laughed, and went on.
‘It’s November, don’t forget.’
He went in. The house was cold. It was very cold. He began to tremble.
‘November? No, it can’t be.’
Through the rear windows, he saw the first flecks of snow. There wasn’t one leaf on any tree.
(595 words)
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
The chapati Urdu: چپاتی, Hindi: चपाती,
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He thought about his mother. He thought about the curries she used to make. They were hot, with chicken or lamb, meaty, with a fine array of condiments - pineapple, nuts, currents, egg, cucumber etc. They were something, they really were. What made her curry making rather unusual was that she wasn’t an Asian, nor actually ate curry.
The car pulled up in front of the house. The door opened, and she came in.
‘Here are some chapatis for your tea.’
She went to the back.
‘Do you want me to bring them in there?’
‘No, thank you, I’ll come.’
He carried on with the writing. She came through the house again, opened the front door, then went out. He heard the sound of the car going away.
A few minutes later, he went to the rear, and opened the oilpaper pack of chapatis. There were
four. She had already poured the sauce into a bowl. He picked up his mug of tea, to find it popular with a large gang of small ants. He placed it in the sink, letting them escape. He thought it a bit unkind to drown them when they were just after a little sugar. He got another mug and poured in some water from the jug. Picking up the bowl of curry sauce, he walked to the worktop; he put the bowl next to the paper with the chapatis. He thought, ‘if I take them to the desk, I might make a mess, so better have them here. There’s no-one else.’
He began to break the soft khaki-coloured flat bread, and dipped it into the sauce. They were quite nice. Four might make it a bit heavy, but it wasn’t everyday he ate them. He continued eating, a couple of drops of the sauce dropping onto the worktop. He tore off another bit, and put it into the sauce. A fly came by; that was something he didn’t want getting on the food. He had known from an early age that a fly is dirty, in particular near food. He flicked it away with his hand; it was instinct. He missed the fly, as he knew he would. But at least it went away. With it, however, went a fine spray of curry sauce, across the wall, the worktop, and the floor; it was rather like a fine coat of paint spray in a car workshop. It wasn’t super- serious, as it could be wiped off with ease, all three surfaces having tiles. He sighed.
‘I’ll finish eating, and then do it,’ he thought. ‘I don’t want to get my hands dirty, and then have to wash them again.’
He heard the car come. She was back with the children, rather sooner than he had thought. She came through the house, and stopped upon seeing him.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ she uttered. The ‘my’ and the ‘good’ were stretched out, in an Asian singsong effect.
‘I’m just going to clean it up,’ he said. The children began to laugh.
‘I cannot believe this,’ she went on. ‘You cannot eat chapatis without making such a mess. Look at your new tee shirt. How are you going to get the sauce out? You are a teacher. You always like to tell people you got a master’s degree, but people with no education can eat cleaner than you.’
She turned, and they left the room.
He sighed, got the cloth, wet it, and wiped the sauce away. He thought about his mother, and her curries.
‘I bet she used to spill a bit now and again.’
He thought about his mother. He thought about the curries she used to make. They were hot, with chicken or lamb, meaty, with a fine array of condiments - pineapple, nuts, currents, egg, cucumber etc. They were something, they really were. What made her curry making rather unusual was that she wasn’t an Asian, nor actually ate curry.
The car pulled up in front of the house. The door opened, and she came in.
‘Here are some chapatis for your tea.’
She went to the back.
‘Do you want me to bring them in there?’
‘No, thank you, I’ll come.’
He carried on with the writing. She came through the house again, opened the front door, then went out. He heard the sound of the car going away.
A few minutes later, he went to the rear, and opened the oilpaper pack of chapatis. There were
four. She had already poured the sauce into a bowl. He picked up his mug of tea, to find it popular with a large gang of small ants. He placed it in the sink, letting them escape. He thought it a bit unkind to drown them when they were just after a little sugar. He got another mug and poured in some water from the jug. Picking up the bowl of curry sauce, he walked to the worktop; he put the bowl next to the paper with the chapatis. He thought, ‘if I take them to the desk, I might make a mess, so better have them here. There’s no-one else.’
He began to break the soft khaki-coloured flat bread, and dipped it into the sauce. They were quite nice. Four might make it a bit heavy, but it wasn’t everyday he ate them. He continued eating, a couple of drops of the sauce dropping onto the worktop. He tore off another bit, and put it into the sauce. A fly came by; that was something he didn’t want getting on the food. He had known from an early age that a fly is dirty, in particular near food. He flicked it away with his hand; it was instinct. He missed the fly, as he knew he would. But at least it went away. With it, however, went a fine spray of curry sauce, across the wall, the worktop, and the floor; it was rather like a fine coat of paint spray in a car workshop. It wasn’t super- serious, as it could be wiped off with ease, all three surfaces having tiles. He sighed.
‘I’ll finish eating, and then do it,’ he thought. ‘I don’t want to get my hands dirty, and then have to wash them again.’
He heard the car come. She was back with the children, rather sooner than he had thought. She came through the house, and stopped upon seeing him.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ she uttered. The ‘my’ and the ‘good’ were stretched out, in an Asian singsong effect.
‘I’m just going to clean it up,’ he said. The children began to laugh.
‘I cannot believe this,’ she went on. ‘You cannot eat chapatis without making such a mess. Look at your new tee shirt. How are you going to get the sauce out? You are a teacher. You always like to tell people you got a master’s degree, but people with no education can eat cleaner than you.’
She turned, and they left the room.
He sighed, got the cloth, wet it, and wiped the sauce away. He thought about his mother, and her curries.
‘I bet she used to spill a bit now and again.’
The woman who knew
The morning came on, bright and clear. There were barely any clouds in the sky, and the chance of rain was negligible. By the woman’s side, the eight year-old girl was sitting, looking at the fruit in front of her. She knew some of them of course. Who wouldn’t? Involuntarily, her tongue ran over her lips. She began to think of their names. That one was a papaya. Everyone knew that. The skin was a smooth looking orange. She knew it would taste just right. It wasn’t too ripe, nor was it too hard. Not that she would have cared either way at the moment. Her mother used to squeeze the juice of a lime on it. Her tongue came out of her mouth a little. Ah, there was a lime. There was a small pile of them, about nine or ten. Next to them were three pineapples. She thought long and hard. The interior of a pineapple was yellow, juicy, and sweet. But there was something she didn’t like about them. What was that? Ah, yes, they had a prickly skin, and the leaves were painful too, if they caught you the wrong way. She began to laugh silently, but only for a short moment. She didn’t have the energy these days for much. There were bananas, oranges and apples. But there were also some types of fruit she didn’t recognise. There were some small round ones, with a yellow skin. There was one big one in the centre. It must be heavy, she thought. It looked shiny and hard with a bright green skin. She thought long and hard, but could think of anywhere this fruit might grow.
The ache in her stomach returned, and she looked up at the woman, who was now reclining next to the trunk of a small thorn tree.
‘Mum,’ she whispered.
The woman didn’t move or open her eyes. The girl tried again.
‘Mum, are you alright? Mum, look at this.’
The woman stirred and looked at the fruit.
‘Yes, my dear, they look wonderful, don’t they?’
She wiped a tear away from her cheek.
‘What’s this on?’ asked the girl, pointing to the big green fruit in the centre.
‘That’s a coconut. You can’t find them here. They need water.’
‘Mum, why are you crying?’
The woman wiped another tear away, using the sleeve of her blouse.
‘I am unhappy because I cannot do things for you, I cannot take care of you as a good mother should. That’s why.’
The little girl put her arm around her mother’s thin body.
‘You are a very good mother, and I love you for that.’
They hugged each other. A gentle breeze took the edge off the heat for a few minutes. A few small birds sang on and off in the trees. The muted talk of the other people began to come back to the girl. She picked up the torn magazine photograph, and looked again at the fruit. She turned to her mother. ‘Maybe one day, I can see and touch a coconut. I will share it with other people.’
The mother looked at her, thought of talking, but began to cough. She stroked the girl’s hair.
An army officer walked by, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. A murmur went up from the mass of people in the camp.
On the horizon, they could see the dust of the lorries. They might bring something to eat.
‘Yes,’ said the mother, ‘maybe one day you can have a coconut. That is what I hope for you.’
597 words
© Richard Homer 2008
The ache in her stomach returned, and she looked up at the woman, who was now reclining next to the trunk of a small thorn tree.
‘Mum,’ she whispered.
The woman didn’t move or open her eyes. The girl tried again.
‘Mum, are you alright? Mum, look at this.’
The woman stirred and looked at the fruit.
‘Yes, my dear, they look wonderful, don’t they?’
She wiped a tear away from her cheek.
‘What’s this on?’ asked the girl, pointing to the big green fruit in the centre.
‘That’s a coconut. You can’t find them here. They need water.’
‘Mum, why are you crying?’
The woman wiped another tear away, using the sleeve of her blouse.
‘I am unhappy because I cannot do things for you, I cannot take care of you as a good mother should. That’s why.’
The little girl put her arm around her mother’s thin body.
‘You are a very good mother, and I love you for that.’
They hugged each other. A gentle breeze took the edge off the heat for a few minutes. A few small birds sang on and off in the trees. The muted talk of the other people began to come back to the girl. She picked up the torn magazine photograph, and looked again at the fruit. She turned to her mother. ‘Maybe one day, I can see and touch a coconut. I will share it with other people.’
The mother looked at her, thought of talking, but began to cough. She stroked the girl’s hair.
An army officer walked by, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. A murmur went up from the mass of people in the camp.
On the horizon, they could see the dust of the lorries. They might bring something to eat.
‘Yes,’ said the mother, ‘maybe one day you can have a coconut. That is what I hope for you.’
597 words
© Richard Homer 2008
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