highly Commended in Writing Rammy 2019
Two plates of food lie on the worktop, each with a bowl covering them.
“Yer tea’s on the bunker.”
He has already started eating his when I sit down. Neither of us have said anything to each other yet so I ask how his day has been.
“Did a bit of the gairden, then the rain came oan. By the time I’d put everything back in the garage the rain had stoapped.”
He chuckles a little before the silence resumes. He doesn’t return the question.
I turn to concentrate on my dinner – a huge portion of Homepride’s finest curry. They sell the stuff in a weird tin now, rather than the jar that it came in when I was wee. I used to pick the sultanas out, lining up the offensive dried fruit on the edge of my plate. They don’t put sultanas in any more. I find myself missing them, as if their absence ruins the nostalgia.
He’s turned the TV so it faces the table. We eat without talking to each other, the silence punctuated by both of us mumbling the answers to Bradley Walsh’s questions. This is our Wednesday routine. I come round to his for dinner and we watch whatever he wants.
“Whaur’s Alasdair the night?” He asks, as if the thought has only just occurred to him.
Alasdair. Alasdair has begun joining me on my weekly trips to my Dad’s. At first I had seen the ease with which he got on with my Dad as a sign that everything was exactly as it should be – normal, comfortable. Boring.
“Alasdair’s working late.” I lie, keeping my eyes fixed on the TV.
Later, as I leave, he holds out the second plate of Homepride curry as I wrap it in clingfilm. Maybe next week I’ll tell him.
(c) Liam Furby