Story 9: Egg sandwiches

This is the seventh and final day of seven days in which an earlier story is repeated. Today it is Story 9: “Egg sandwiches”. It was first posted on 19 October 2013.

The truth was, she didn’t get on all that well with her son, although she loved him dearly. At least, she didn’t get on well since he’d reached puberty. They couldn’t seem to talk. And now he was eighteen. So it was particularly special when he asked her to come to a social afternoon at one of his mate’s houses to celebrate a marriage engagement. “Just my mates and their Mums”, he said. “And bring something to eat.” It was their way of getting food.

She rather liked his friends, but he never brought them home. All the other parents seemed to have their share of the young set calling around at their homes. Not that they necessarily socialized with them — but at least they were there and, somehow, relevant. She had felt… well, left out. She thought perhaps they scorned her behind her back.

But now he had invited her. “Bring something to eat”, he’d said. “Bring something to eat.” In some silly way (at last! at last!) she felt as if she was wanted.

That morning she boiled some eggs, forked them to a paste and made some sandwiches. She arranged them on a plate with a piece of parsley.

She was a little bit scared. Since her husband had left quite a few years back, and she was left to manage alone, she never quite knew how she was doing. This little party was her way of saying — perhaps without anyone noticing — “This is my son. I think I’ve done a reasonable job”.

The little social started, and she felt so proud of her son. He walked in with her and said to everyone as they entered, “This is my Mum”, and he seemed to mix so nicely and casually with everyone. She had a lovely conversation too with one of his mates — about fishing, and where the best trout places were in the river. Later she heard someone say, “Shit, who made the fucking egg sandwiches?” And, when at the end of the afternoon she went to get her plate to go home, she noticed that no one had eaten anything she’d made.

959. For the boys

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”.

To listen to the story being read click HERE!