tomato quarter she cut them into narrower, more graceful wedges. These were the ‘sails’ of the Boats.
She spooned a dollop of scrambled egg, to which she’d added a few chopped chives and a dash of pepper, onto each shaped piece of toast, and then put an eviscerated tomato wedge on top of that, neatly attaching the sail to the buttery, scramble-freighted hull with the mast of a cocktail stick.
She came into my room with a whole flotilla of them, arranged in naval formation on a large plate balanced proudly on the upraised fingers of one hand. I didn’t say no. The creamy egg and fresh tomato played such a lovely fanfare of aromas. Reluctantly I dismasted the savoury boat and wolfed down the ambrosial snack. The flavours danced and blended on the taste buds. Somehow the toast kept its crunch despite the moistness of the scramble.
The only shadow on the feast was my knowledge of the next day’s menu. The innards scraped from the tomatoes in the process of sculpting the sails had to go somewhere, in those thrifty ’fifties. In the wake of those delicious boats the abomination that was stuffed marrow, that dismal barge, would be slowly surging towards me.
Stuffed marrow was as disgusting as the Scrambled Egg Boats had been delightful. It wasn’t the tomato innards that I minded but the mince part of the stuffing. That I wouldn’t eat. Fasting was a doddle when you knew in advance it was going to be marrow for lunch, and could prepare yourself. The treat was balanced by the going without. I didn’t consciously thwart Mum’s plans to feed me up, but something in my forming character applauded the symmetry of this arrangement.
At some stage Mum realised that there were such things as indoor fireworks. It would have been poor tactics to lay on a display inside the house, necessarily very muted, on the same night that everyone else was letting off rockets galore just outside. Indoor fireworks are to outdoor what tiddlywinks is to the pole vault. Mum waited for my birthday instead.
One advantage of the indoor fireworks was that I was actually allowed to light them, with a long spill. They were brought in on a tray and laid on the bed. I particularly liked the ones that looked like pills on square pieces of cardboard, but produced a writhing snake when touched with the taper. A serpent made of some grey and fæcal ash would rush from the ignited pellet, and I watched in raptures while it writhed in coils of silent agony. The smell of indoor fireworks is harshly beautiful. I hated for it to dissipate and would plead with Mum not to open the windows. She grumbled that she didn’t want to be smelling that stink on her curtains in a week’s time, but still she agreed to wait for a few minutes, chafing, after the show was over.
Perhaps that was the day when I solemnly announced, ‘This is a very special birthday. Today I am the same age as all the fingers on one hand.’
I had yet to understand the spiritual significance of a birthday. The spiritual significance of a birthday is nil. She who fills a cradle fills a grave. I had yet to read the verse which describes celebrating a birthday as a sort of necrophilia:
Of all days
On one’s birthday
One should mourn one’s fall [into entanglement].
To celebrate it as a festival
Is like adorning and glorifying a corpse …
The left hand which I held up to demonstrate the special significance of that birthday was becoming strange to me. The wrist was twisting of its own accord, and the fingers were losing the knack of staying parallel. Dr Duckett the GP recommended that I wear splints at night to minimise the distortion of the joints.
Collie Boy
Now that my age corresponded to the number of digits on a hand, however well or badly shaped, it was time to think of my education. Not a school, of course, but schooling none the less. A teacher coming to the house several times a week. An elderly school-teacher earning a little money in her retirement. Miss
She spooned a dollop of scrambled egg, to which she’d added a few chopped chives and a dash of pepper, onto each shaped piece of toast, and then put an eviscerated tomato wedge on top of that, neatly attaching the sail to the buttery, scramble-freighted hull with the mast of a cocktail stick.
She came into my room with a whole flotilla of them, arranged in naval formation on a large plate balanced proudly on the upraised fingers of one hand. I didn’t say no. The creamy egg and fresh tomato played such a lovely fanfare of aromas. Reluctantly I dismasted the savoury boat and wolfed down the ambrosial snack. The flavours danced and blended on the taste buds. Somehow the toast kept its crunch despite the moistness of the scramble.
The only shadow on the feast was my knowledge of the next day’s menu. The innards scraped from the tomatoes in the process of sculpting the sails had to go somewhere, in those thrifty ’fifties. In the wake of those delicious boats the abomination that was stuffed marrow, that dismal barge, would be slowly surging towards me.
Stuffed marrow was as disgusting as the Scrambled Egg Boats had been delightful. It wasn’t the tomato innards that I minded but the mince part of the stuffing. That I wouldn’t eat. Fasting was a doddle when you knew in advance it was going to be marrow for lunch, and could prepare yourself. The treat was balanced by the going without. I didn’t consciously thwart Mum’s plans to feed me up, but something in my forming character applauded the symmetry of this arrangement.
At some stage Mum realised that there were such things as indoor fireworks. It would have been poor tactics to lay on a display inside the house, necessarily very muted, on the same night that everyone else was letting off rockets galore just outside. Indoor fireworks are to outdoor what tiddlywinks is to the pole vault. Mum waited for my birthday instead.
One advantage of the indoor fireworks was that I was actually allowed to light them, with a long spill. They were brought in on a tray and laid on the bed. I particularly liked the ones that looked like pills on square pieces of cardboard, but produced a writhing snake when touched with the taper. A serpent made of some grey and fæcal ash would rush from the ignited pellet, and I watched in raptures while it writhed in coils of silent agony. The smell of indoor fireworks is harshly beautiful. I hated for it to dissipate and would plead with Mum not to open the windows. She grumbled that she didn’t want to be smelling that stink on her curtains in a week’s time, but still she agreed to wait for a few minutes, chafing, after the show was over.
Perhaps that was the day when I solemnly announced, ‘This is a very special birthday. Today I am the same age as all the fingers on one hand.’
I had yet to understand the spiritual significance of a birthday. The spiritual significance of a birthday is nil. She who fills a cradle fills a grave. I had yet to read the verse which describes celebrating a birthday as a sort of necrophilia:
Of all days
On one’s birthday
One should mourn one’s fall [into entanglement].
To celebrate it as a festival
Is like adorning and glorifying a corpse …
The left hand which I held up to demonstrate the special significance of that birthday was becoming strange to me. The wrist was twisting of its own accord, and the fingers were losing the knack of staying parallel. Dr Duckett the GP recommended that I wear splints at night to minimise the distortion of the joints.
Collie Boy
Now that my age corresponded to the number of digits on a hand, however well or badly shaped, it was time to think of my education. Not a school, of course, but schooling none the less. A teacher coming to the house several times a week. An elderly school-teacher earning a little money in her retirement. Miss
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