Hartsend by Janice Brown Page A

number.

e-numbers
    â€˜â€˜There’s a little custard left,’’ Ruby called through the hatch into the dining room.
    â€˜â€˜No thank you, dear. That was just fine.’’
    Why was there always just a little custard left? Because Ruby still cooked enough of everything for Walter Junior, who had left home three years before. He was always offered the little custard, or the little stew or whatever, and always said no, in the hope that someday, some happy day, Ruby might accept that Walter Junior was not coming back, not even for special days like this. They didn’t make much of New Year down south, he’d told Ruby, trying to help.
    â€˜â€˜Tea? And a biscuit?’’
    â€˜â€˜Just tea, dear. That would be lovely.’’
    â€˜â€˜I’ll bring you a Digestive in case.’’
    He studied the fish tank for several minutes, looking at each of the residents to make sure they were swimming correctly, that their eyes were clear, that each fin was erect. He loved his fish. Their effortless meandering from frond to frond with no contact or conflict seemed to him a way of life little short of perfection. No-one was allowed to touch the tank or do anything to it and its occupants. He had had a bad scare some years back, when Ruby decided to clean the outdoor pond. Happily tonight all seemed to be well with each little Platy and Angel Fish. He dabbed his lips with the napkin, and made his way through to the sitting room. Tonight’s pudding had been tinned pears in fruit juice. He wasn’t over fond of pears, particularly in juice. Sometimes they had a sharpness that annoyed the tongue, but he wasn’t allowed the ones in syrup any more
    Healthy eating was Ruby’s latest thing. The weekly shop was taking a lot longer, now that she had to read for e-numbers and saturated fat. He missed a few of the old favourites. A little of what you fancy, they used to say, even though there was less to fancy back then. You had your carrots, onions and peas, your potatoes mashed or chipped. The young ones had laughed at him one day at work, when he said he remembered where and when he’d first tasted sweetcorn. Ruby was on at him to grow their own vegetables come Spring. The back garden was big enough, but he wasn’t persuaded. Her enthusiasms tended to diminish if ignored for long enough.
    He switched on the TV, turned the sound right down, and rested his head back on the settee, closing his eyes. His uncle, also named Walter, had been a great gardener. There was a greenhouse in the garden in Peebles, not a particularly large one, but inside it Uncle Walter had a vine that produced luscious black grapes year after year, apparently unharmed and untainted by the smoke from Uncle Walter’s pipe.
    â€˜â€˜Piddle,’’ Uncle Walter had announced solemnly, one early summer afternoon, when they were standing together, looking up at the small green fruits, the man puffing on his pipe, the small boy passively inhaling. ‘‘That’s the secret, laddie. Plenty of piddle. Great for the parsley too.’’
    He remembered still the feeling, half terror, half joy that thrilled through his eight year old body. Was he going to be asked to contribute? Would he be able to pee on demand? But the invitation didn’t come. He knew now that Uncle Walter would have used a jug or a bowl when he went to the bathroom, the greenhouse being in full view of the neighbours, but for years the image of his uncle spraying cheerfully in the greenhouse and over the parsley bed cheered him when school or life in general became dull or difficult.
    What would Ruby make of that one, he wondered. Where’s your e-numbers now?
    â€˜â€˜Here you are, dear,’’ she set his cup and plate down and returned to the dishes in the kitchen. It was always tea now. She wouldn’t let him drink coffee in the evening. ‘‘We’re not as young as we were,’’