Sausage
Our bustling flat, a hive buzzing with life, was tucked into the corner of an old block of flats, flaking paint and all, right where Shepherds Street met Queens Road. Dont even try and find itneither street nor house exists now. The building was bulldozed years ago, the streets renamed, and where they once stood runs a grand, floodlit avenue, bright with the golden glow of modern lamps. I havent visited in years; life gets in the way, and honestly, who really wants to go? Id rather not rub salt in old wounds, or confront the present.
Let it all remain just as it was, in my mind. Me as a child, knees baggy under corduroy leggings and a woollen frock, Mum with her signature beehive hairdo. Only shemy mumcould style hair so beautifully! No one else managed it quite like her. Sometimes, especially just before holidays, our room would be transformed into a makeshift salon. Thered be curling tongs heating at the hearth, rollers stacked like a battlement, a tin box with pins and hairgrips. Aunt Nora would sit in the armchair left behind by previous tenants, waiting for her thick, coal-black hair to dry a bit while Mum worked her magic. “Just try to do something half-decent with this hopeless head,” Aunt Nora would complain. Her hair, a family inheritance, was stubborn and heavy. She was fiercely proud and, though her father was from some far-off placethe stories variedshe never married, always waiting for a man “worthy” enough, but none were ever quite right.
“Youre too picky, too honestly! Theres no such thing as perfect,” MumBarbara, and sometimes Miss White to the neighbourswould scold, pincushion-tight and stern.
“Well, better that than the alternative,” Aunt Nora would huff, and the room would suddenly drop into silence.
Aunt Nora had never really forgiven my father for walking out on Mum and me when I was just about toddling. I never knew the details; but on countless nights, theyd pick apart his failings, right along with the pork bones Mrs. Penny brought from the market. Mrs. Penny had been resettled into our block after her Staffordshire village was flooded for yet another reservoir. She grumbled about the lack of hens, muttering that Londoners didnt know what they were missing, then got down to work. A few beds for veg, “for the vitamins, love,” a greenhouse at the back, watched over by Buster the dog (also an evacuee), and a stream of honest, filling food. “But where the devil do you get it all?” my mother asked. The answer was always “contacts”old neighbours, new friends, a little nod here and there. Mrs. Penny always had something salted down, or jars of stewed apples, homemade brawn, even the odd fish or hare.
Then one day, Mrs Penny dragged in a great slab of meat, fussing round the kitchen before summoning my mum.
“Barbara, Ive got a bit of bear here. Cant fit the blighter in the pot, any ideas?”
Mum nearly dropped a teacup. “A bear! Why on earth”
“Oho, you can joke, girl. We’ll be sorry if it spoils, mind!”
After a thoughtful moment, Mum rolled up her sleeves and they soon got to work. Dumplings. They made so many, the icebox couldn’t hold them all.
Mrs Gale, another neighbour, gaunt and permanently unimpressed, a former local councillor, owned the largest fridge any of us had seenwhich was, frankly, still tiny by any normal standards. Mrs Penny asked if they could stash dumplings in hers, but Mrs Gale turned her beaky nose up.
“Come now, Gale! Theres nothing in there but cold airlets fill it up!” Mrs Penny brandished a fist, as if to show how dumplings would fill the space. “At least youll make the electric bill worth it and we wont waste food. Think of the children! Look at Lucys eyesnearly as big as her whole head! Gale, open up, will you! Barbara, get those pans!”
But Mrs Gale stood her ground, arms folded. And that was that.
Mum shrugged and grinned at me, “Never mind, Mrs Penny. Lets simply cook a batch. Im still curious where you found such a large bear!”
Soon enough, we were all eatingme, Aunt Nora, the lonely retired history teacher Mr. Michaels, Mrs. Penny, and Mum. Only Mrs Gale refused, picking at sausage and brown bread on her own, before slinking off to brew coffee.
“Stubborn old soul,” Mrs Penny muttered, “Wouldnt do her any harm to fill her belly and cheer up for once!”
Mum shook her head gently. “Leave her be. Shes got a lot on her shouldersher son you know.”
Everyone fell silent. I never knew what happened to Mrs Gales son, but the air weighed heavy, so I never asked.
But, drifting off, I remember hearing the women talk of my father.
“The scoundrel! Left her with a child! Barbaras a good womannot a Queen, but loyal! How she wept, the poor dear, when he left. Pleaded with himhe still took the lot! All his, by rights, he saidhard earned? Hah! Id have chased him out with a broom! No pride, thats the troubleno pride!” Aunt Nora finished with a snap.
“Ah, hush,” Mrs Penny chided. “I wasnt there when it happened, thank the Lord. Women, were trusting. Give everything, get our hearts broken, and still cant believe it. Your Michael, my Borismen are much the same. The only question left: wheres the pride then, hmm?”
“Aunt Penny, whats that got to do with Michael? Mums was called Alan,” I piped up from behind my homework.
Mrs Penny looked embarrassed. “Point is, all men are much the same. Michael, Brian, Boriswhat difference? Watch the soup, child, Ill fetch the milk. Here comes the cart!”
She grabbed her jugs, her own, ours, and Mrs Gales, and bustled off for the milk van, calling, “Wheres yours, Nora?”
“In the hall! Go on, Ill mind the soup.” She waved her off. “What about the cash?”
“Well settle up later!” Mrs Penny called as she scurried out.
The milk van came thrice a week, never enough to go around, so Mrs. Penny always made sure she was at the front of the queue.
And in between tending her vegetable patch, minding the food, and sorting us all out, Mrs Penny would sit and grumble about my dad.
You see, Im Lucy Allan. I dont remember my father; Mums never shown me photos. And its alright! Were just fine on our own.
Our bright, breezy room had two beds, a single table for schoolwork, Mums dressing table, and the wardrobefilled with books rather than linen. Mum worked as a typist at the city office all day, translating papers by night under a newspaper-tented lamp so the light wouldnt wake me.
We both did our bit: I kept the place tidy, watered the plants, tried my best at school, and Mum worked hard and never minded my low marks, always promising a trip to the seaside. Mum had a work friend with cousins somewhere in Devon who could let a room. I clung to that dreamthree years and counting.
“Sorry, darling, not this year” Mum would say sadly, “But next summerpromise!”
She saw my eyes brim with tears; Id hope to swallow them back, but one always betrayed me, landing on her hand. Id bite my lip, not to cry but out of shame and frustration.
“You know we had big expenses this yearyour coat, boots, mine too Lucy, next year, I swear.”
Oh, the shame! That Mum felt she must explain herself to me. She was my heroalways. At night, she sometimes cried. Id ask why and shed reply, “Im just tired. It helps to let it out.” Id stroke her hair, fetch her a glass of water from the kitchen, and join her in bed till we both fell asleep.
No seaside perhaps, but wed have the park, carousels, ice creams, butterfly nets, andlife itself. Isnt it grand, just living?
The only person who seemed to look down on Mumnever outright but with veiled disdainwas Mrs. Gale. The minute anyone mentioned my scoundrel father, shed purse her lips, tilt her chin, and say Mum brought it on herself. Not a proper wife, was she? Took up with himAlanand they were lucky to get that room. Shouldve married him, or else not complain. No tieswhat did she expect?
Everyone would fall silent. Mrs. Gale was right in her way, and as sorry as we felt for Mum, there was truth there, too.
Our room was officially in my father Alan Robertss name, given by his boss Mr. Grangerthe legal order, all in black and white.
So we lived. Mum, an orphan, found solace with witty, gentle Alan, seven years her senior, polished and smooth.
“Smooth as a grand piano, more like,” Aunt Nora would quip, if conversation circled back to my dad. “Hed leap from the bath, shaving foam everywhere, yelling at Barbara for his razorher due any minute, all puffed up and aching, but shed trot it in and stew up fresh greens for Alan nonetheless. Whod mourn a chap like that?”
“Nora, you know nothing of men. Womens struggles never worried them. Barbara chose not to go to hospitalshe took the lot on herself,” Mrs. Gale would assert with a dignified shrug.
“And you make excuses for him!” Aunt Nora would snap, flicking aside her teacup of seeds, and spring to her feet, indignant. “Is a woman just to be trodden down, then?”
“One should use their head, not their heart. Alan could have put Barbara and her child out, no trouble. Enough gossip,” Mrs. Gale would retort, taking her coffee to her locked rooma place that fascinated me, as it was always securely closed with a neat heart-shaped hole, since boarded over.
Everyone but me seemed to know its story. I always imagined getting a needle and poking a fresh peephole, just to have a look.
To me, Mrs. Gale seemed from another worldsharper, older, faintly of cigarettes and instant coffee.
Each month, Mrs. Gale packed a wooden crate for someone unknowntins, sausage, sometimes towels or socks, all carefully set out, labelled and nailed down, and off she went with it. Fumbling in her pockets for her purse, she was always intercepted in the corridor by Mr. Michaels, the history teacher.
“Off to the post? Waste of effort,” hed mutter.
“Mind your business,” shed bark back, and march away.
Id stand pondering, gnawing my nails, wishing to see inside her locked paradise, then drift off to homework.
But every uneventful day can swell into scandal. And scandal struck us without warning.
The sausage vanished. Truly, just disappeared from Mrs. Gales fridge one day while all were out.
“Who did this?” Mrs. Gale surveyed us coldly. “Ill find out. This is thefta crime! That was for Jamie. Who dared?!”
“No one took it! You mustve eaten it yourself and forgot, love,” Mrs. Penny protested, arms waving.
“I did not! I wouldnt! That was for Jamie! I cant stand you lot. Cold-hearted. You gossip about me and pretend to my face! Only Alan ever helped me. Now you steal. Disgusting. Barbara! Was it you? You stink of garlic! Is it possible you steal as well now?”
Mum flushed crimson, lips trembling. “What are you implying? Lucy, to the roomgo, love.”
I refused. Theyd wronged my mum; I wouldnt give in.
“Out, Lucy!” she snapped, and my stubbornness broke. I hid under the table, sobbing, as the argument rolled on.
“I meant youre not houseproud, and now this! Perhaps its just as well Alan found anotherhe left you the room, he couldve thrown you out, you know. Disgusting!”
Mrs. Penny shielded my mother, puffing out her chest. “She was out! So was I. Norah doesnt eat this stuff. Michaels can barely manage porridge with all his aches! Who then?”
We stared at each otheruntil Mr. Green, the caretaker, poked his nose in. Hed left the door unlocked for Alan to pop in and “wait for Barbara,” but Alan had left after a bit. “He said hed be back,” Mr. Green nodded, disappearing into the hall.
Everyone glanced knowingly.
“So, he wolfed it down,” Nora said bluntly.
We all dashed to our meagre fridgesAunt Noras soft cheese for Friday night was gone, as was Mrs. Pennys buttered spuds meant for supper.
In our fridge? Just an empty dish.
“What was here?” Mrs. Penny sniffed. “Ah! Fishcakes. The rotter. Pinched dinner from his own kid! If I see him, Ill skin him! Tell me, Barbara, did you know hed come by?”
Mum shook her head, lips trembling.
“An uninvited guest, then! All right, well have words tonight.” Mrs. Penny knocked on the wall for Mrs. Gale to hear, then filled her in as she joined us, triumphant and arms akimbo: “Alan, your ‘golden soul,’ scoffed the sausageand the rest. Poor Lucy!”
Mrs. Gale gave a curt nod and left; we eyed each other, anxious for the evening.
Evenings in our flat stretched outthe grown-ups busied themselves but kept half an ear on the door.
I waited too. I wanted to see my fatherout of curiosity, nothing more.
He arrived near nine. I darted from the bath to our room.
He was average height, gaunt, in a threadbare coat and bobble hat, glancing at me briefly.
“Is your mother in?”
“Which one are you after, my dear?” Mrs. Penny interrupted, fussing over me. “Go put on a jumper, Lucy.”
I obeyed.
“Im not talking to you, make way,” Alan barked at Mrs. Penny, banging on Mums door. “Feed me!”
Mum sat quietly at her needlework, hands trembling.
“Hello, Alan. I would, except theres nothing left. Youve eaten it all.”
“Im master here! I could boot you out if I choseyou and your child! Prove shes not even mine!”
He spat a filthy insult at my mother, and she began to cry.
“Well, go on, feed me!”
And at that moment, Mrs. Gale swept in. Shed have forgiven Alan anythingperhaps she even loved him a little. When theyd all lived together, he always turned on the charm, hoping Mrs. Gale would move out and he could have both rooms; bringing her potatoes one week, sealing up her windows the next, or expecting Barbara to scrub Mrs. Gales floors. But her patience wore out that night.
“Mrs. Gale, can you convince her” Alan smirked, poking a finger at Mum.
She slapped him sharply, a crack echoing around the flat. “Thats for the sausage, Alan. If youd come and asked, youd have been fed. Nowthief, thats what you are!”
“Whats thisyour sons behind bars and you call me names? This is my house!”
“Wheres your house then? The room was for a familywhich clearly isnt here. Problems at home? Wife not feeding you? We could help!” Mrs. Penny snorted.
Alan was lost for words.
“Alan, you were cruel. Im embarrassed for you. For Lucys sake. You should leave.”
He blustered, cursed so loudly Aunt Nora covered my ears, and stormed out.
He came back drunk later, babbling to Mr. Michaels about his wife starving him, demanding cash, how hed never pay extra, how he paid for the house on and on.
Soon his new wife, in tears, rang begging us to send Alan home.
Aunt Nora shooed him out of the yard eventually; he cursed women everywhere; finally, he tottered away.
Next day, Mum pawned her plain gold band at the loan office and with the money bought a fresh ring of sausage for Mrs. Gale. She refused it, grumbled at the expensive gesture, but then looked me in the eye and said shed settle her debts. She apologised to Mum, too.
I never knew the pain Mrs. Gale carriedor all that the world had done to her. Mum knew. She invited Mrs. Gale in for tea and apple tart. The apples came from two sackfuls Mrs. Penny acquired from a friend; caretaker Mr. Green nearly collapsed bringing them up the stairs. Mrs. Penny pecked him on the cheekjust a quick thank you, she thought I didnt notice.
For tea, Mrs Gale admitted, shyly, shed never baked before, but her mother had, in another life. “She made the most wonderful pies.” She tucked into Mums, sighing, “it was such a different time, then.”
“Strength is always in short supply, my dear. Opportunitieswell find them! Eat while its warm. Pass the brandy, Nora! A toastone for remembrance, one for good times, and for Alana full belly and a pinch of luck, the silly man.” We all laughed and forgot the sausage and Alan and all the rest. Let it lielet bygones be.
We carried on, believing tomorrow would be better. I believed, and Mum believed.
And that summer? We finally made it to the seaside. And it was glorious.
