trace.
‘I’m not working in one, Ma. It’s mine. I’m the proprietor.’
‘What is a sandwich bar?’ she demands to know. Of course she is out of touch with modern life. How could she not be sitting there in her terraced house, leaving it only to venture to the corner shop and the church? Sandwich bars don’t touch her life, God may be praised for that.
‘A place that sells sandwiches,’ he explains patiently. ‘It’s got nothing to do with a pub. I only sell orange and apple juice in cartons and Coca-Cola, Seven-Up and Irn-Bru in tins.’
‘You’re running one of these things? When I think—’
‘I know, I know!’ He can follow her thoughts. She will be relishing the memory of every sacrifice, every cream bun passed over, every holiday not taken, so that he could get a good education. And then he went to Art College! He might have been better leaving school atsixteen and learning a trade. He could have had his own plumbing business by now and be driving a BMW. But he is being too cynical. She’s a decent woman, after all. And it’s indecent of him to be lampooning her, even in his head. She’s got courage and nerve and holds steady to her beliefs, qualities not to be dismissed. And she brought him up, fed him and cared for him. He sighs and says he’s sorry.
‘But why aren’t you at the school?’ When he went into teaching, giving way, on marriage, to realism, she thought he had come to his senses. ‘You never got the sack, did you?’
He is only half listening. He has been thinking about Rachel on their wedding day, her dark head sleek under a white veil – both mothers had been so happy that it had been a proper church wedding with all the trimmings, even though the bride was five months pregnant – and how she looked up at him with her calm grey eyes and agreed to take him on for better or worse. He thought then that there was no way this bond between them could ever be rent asunder.
‘ Did you get the sack, Cormac?’
‘No, Ma, nothing like that. I just decided to leave.’
‘To leave ! Don’t you realise how lucky you were to be having such a good job? And to exchange it for a sandwich bar !’
‘I always liked cooking,’ he says defensively. ‘It’s creative.’ And easier than sculpture, he adds, and more lucrative, but too quietly for her to hear.
‘Making sandwiches is not what I’d call cooking!’
He remembers hers as white-breaded, triangular, daintily cut, and crustless, with thin fillings of fish paste, egg and cress, ham, and something called sandwich spread which was a kind of salad cream with bits in it. The sandwiches rested on snowy white doilies and were served up when the priest or her sisters came to call. Cormac tells her that sandwiches are a different affair entirely these days; they’re hearty, offered up on long slices of baguette or in thick Italian rolls, and bursting with filling. He rattles off a list of fillings, hoping to stun her into silence, or perhaps even impress her. Tuna mayonnaise, coronation chicken, brie and lettuce, smoked salmon and cream cheese, Stilton and celery, ham and pineapple, turkey and avocado, BLT—At that she stops him in his tracks, demanding to know what BLT means.
‘Bacon, lettuce and tomato. Very popular. Mine is an upmarket sandwich bar, Ma. No greasy fried egg rolls for my customers.’
‘Who buys these sandwiches of yours?’
‘The hungry. Working men and women.’
‘Why don’t they bring their sandwiches with themfrom home? It doesn’t take a minute to spread a piece of bread and put a filling in. Any fool could do that. They must have money to burn. Or else they’re too lazy, more like.’
‘Convenience food, Ma. It’s a new age.’
She sighs. ‘It’s time I was away.’ Her voice goes down like a gas flame dwindling to a peep.
‘Come on now, Ma, there’s plenty life in you yet.’
Silence. He thinks he can hear the waves sloshing.
‘Are you all right, Ma?’ He rattles the receiver
‘I’m not working in one, Ma. It’s mine. I’m the proprietor.’
‘What is a sandwich bar?’ she demands to know. Of course she is out of touch with modern life. How could she not be sitting there in her terraced house, leaving it only to venture to the corner shop and the church? Sandwich bars don’t touch her life, God may be praised for that.
‘A place that sells sandwiches,’ he explains patiently. ‘It’s got nothing to do with a pub. I only sell orange and apple juice in cartons and Coca-Cola, Seven-Up and Irn-Bru in tins.’
‘You’re running one of these things? When I think—’
‘I know, I know!’ He can follow her thoughts. She will be relishing the memory of every sacrifice, every cream bun passed over, every holiday not taken, so that he could get a good education. And then he went to Art College! He might have been better leaving school atsixteen and learning a trade. He could have had his own plumbing business by now and be driving a BMW. But he is being too cynical. She’s a decent woman, after all. And it’s indecent of him to be lampooning her, even in his head. She’s got courage and nerve and holds steady to her beliefs, qualities not to be dismissed. And she brought him up, fed him and cared for him. He sighs and says he’s sorry.
‘But why aren’t you at the school?’ When he went into teaching, giving way, on marriage, to realism, she thought he had come to his senses. ‘You never got the sack, did you?’
He is only half listening. He has been thinking about Rachel on their wedding day, her dark head sleek under a white veil – both mothers had been so happy that it had been a proper church wedding with all the trimmings, even though the bride was five months pregnant – and how she looked up at him with her calm grey eyes and agreed to take him on for better or worse. He thought then that there was no way this bond between them could ever be rent asunder.
‘ Did you get the sack, Cormac?’
‘No, Ma, nothing like that. I just decided to leave.’
‘To leave ! Don’t you realise how lucky you were to be having such a good job? And to exchange it for a sandwich bar !’
‘I always liked cooking,’ he says defensively. ‘It’s creative.’ And easier than sculpture, he adds, and more lucrative, but too quietly for her to hear.
‘Making sandwiches is not what I’d call cooking!’
He remembers hers as white-breaded, triangular, daintily cut, and crustless, with thin fillings of fish paste, egg and cress, ham, and something called sandwich spread which was a kind of salad cream with bits in it. The sandwiches rested on snowy white doilies and were served up when the priest or her sisters came to call. Cormac tells her that sandwiches are a different affair entirely these days; they’re hearty, offered up on long slices of baguette or in thick Italian rolls, and bursting with filling. He rattles off a list of fillings, hoping to stun her into silence, or perhaps even impress her. Tuna mayonnaise, coronation chicken, brie and lettuce, smoked salmon and cream cheese, Stilton and celery, ham and pineapple, turkey and avocado, BLT—At that she stops him in his tracks, demanding to know what BLT means.
‘Bacon, lettuce and tomato. Very popular. Mine is an upmarket sandwich bar, Ma. No greasy fried egg rolls for my customers.’
‘Who buys these sandwiches of yours?’
‘The hungry. Working men and women.’
‘Why don’t they bring their sandwiches with themfrom home? It doesn’t take a minute to spread a piece of bread and put a filling in. Any fool could do that. They must have money to burn. Or else they’re too lazy, more like.’
‘Convenience food, Ma. It’s a new age.’
She sighs. ‘It’s time I was away.’ Her voice goes down like a gas flame dwindling to a peep.
‘Come on now, Ma, there’s plenty life in you yet.’
Silence. He thinks he can hear the waves sloshing.
‘Are you all right, Ma?’ He rattles the receiver
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