Oswald was the youngest of five boys. Oswald was sixteen. His entire football team was coming around on Saturday afternoon to watch a video of the game. They would squeeze into “The Den” around an old television set and shout at the screen.
Mrs Borrie was used to it. She’d done it dozens of times before. Teenage boys on a Saturday afternoon. Patiently she buttered sixteen loaves of bread and made sandwiches with a dozen different fillings. She put out bottles of homemade cordial.
The football team ate while watching the game. Then it was games on Mrs Borrie’s old pool table.
Eventually they all went home. “Gotta get home now, thanks Mrs Borrie. It’ll be dinner time.”
“I don’t know how you do,” said Mrs Prout to Mrs Borrie. “Let me rephrase that: I don’t know why you do it. If they want to eat they should bring their own food.”
“The cost of sixteen loaves of bread is a small price to pay to know where they are,” said Mrs Borrie. “I’d rather they were messing around in the den than messing around in the God knows where.”
Mrs Prout took it to heart. Most Saturdays after that she sent along a large plate of sandwiches. “For the boys”.
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