A Birthday Dinner

 

 

You have to be early enough to be one of the respectable ones, I say, but late enough for them to start tidying up.  Saturdays are best.  You should look respectable; otherwise you’ll be chased away. 

They’ll give freely to the respectable ones, I say.  The ones after us, the junkies and the alkies will have to sift through the rubbish bins for the really manky leftovers. 

You have to look confident, I say.  You have to look as if you are doing your weekend shopping but left it just a little bit late.

If we are really lucky, the cheese monger may give us a few bits and pieces.  He is one of the good ones.  He isn’t one who cuts two ounces over and then asks: do you mind a little more?  No- he is an honest man and a kind man, and he’ll give us the left-over, awkward pieces, more crust than cheese. 

We’ll get some fruit and veg, I say.  Fruit is plentiful on the Saturday evening.  Most stall holders have a crate behind the stall; it is a matter of timing to be the first to get to the crate, but not too early so as to be shooed away.

I spot a crate with soft fruit, berries and grapes; I spot a crate with vegetables. 

We are very lucky.  The fishmonger calls.  My dear lady, good to see you, she says.  Would you like a fish tea, tonight? She selects two big haddock and pops a couple of handfuls of prawns in a small bag.  I smile and say that I will poach the fish with herbs and eat it with the prawns on top.  Bless her.

The cheese monger also comes up trumps with a plastic bag with cheese pieces.  He tosses in a packet of butter- it is too mangled to sell.

One by one the stall holders start tidying.  I can already hear the municipal sweepers and rubbish vans starting on one end of the market.  We go home.

Food fit for a queen, I say.  You don’t answer and I don’t expect you to.  I cook: Salad with tomatoes and herbs, followed by: poached haddock fillet with herb butter and prawns, with boiled potatoes and green beans.  I place the cheese on the chopping board and prepare a bowl with a medley of summer fruits. 

I set the table for two.  The cutlery is mismatched, and the plates chipped, but it looks nice anyway.  I tuck in.  You don’t eat and I don’t expect you to.  Day by day you are getting vaguer, farther away.  There are moments I can hardly see your face anymore.

I look past you, to your photograph on the mantelpiece. You are smiling, confident.    The photo was taken just days before the accident. You will never grow older; just a bit more transparent perhaps.   It would have been your nineteenth birthday today.