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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.’
