The cheese and pickle sandwich by Conrad Bloxley


THE CHEESE AND PICKLE SANDWICH

 

“ Fourteen across; Mythical winged-creature can burn, six

 

letters.” said Doug.

 

“Yeah, that bird thing, a phoenix!” declared Fat Fred.

 

“No. That doesn’t fit with Goering…”

 

“Dragon,” said Col peering over his Morning Star. ”And keep it

 

down, I’m trying to read, you two should try it sometime.

 

“Yeah, thanks Col, that fits; phoenix.” said Doug contemptuously

 

looking over at Fat Fred.

 

“Cheese and pickle sandwich.” said Doug.

 

“How many letters?” asked Fat Fred.

 

“No, you plank, that’s what our Kath’s put in my lunch box. She

 

knows I hate pickle.”

 

“Thin end of the wedge old son.” said Fat Fred, reaching over and

 

taking the sandwich. “Waste not, want not,” he continued, spraying

 

bits of pickle across the loading bay steps they were sitting on, their

 

usual lunchtime haunt.

 

“What do you mean ‘thin end of the wedge’, you think it means

 

something? She has been narky lately. She’s started putting the

 

cap on the toothpaste and putting it back in the cabinet, she always

 

used to leave it off ready for me to use, with my toothbrush laid

 

next to it. And she’s not recording Eastenders on Tuesdays ‘cos I

 

miss it due to footie practice – what’s happening between Phil

 

Mitchell and the Branning brothers, I’ve no idea. Gonna make

 

practice this week Col, that ankle’s taking a long time to heal?”

 

“Mmm, sounds serious Doug, looking after her alright in the

 

bedroom department?” said Fat Fred, mischief dancing in his eyes.

 

“What, you think I’m not enough for her, she wouldn’t stray, not

 

our Kath. You know her well don’t you Col, she wouldn’t play away

 

would she?” said Doug, desperately staring at Col.

 

“No, no course not mate, faithful as a hound dog, your Kath” he

 

said, glaring over at Fat Fred.

 

“Well, what do I know?” said Fat Fred catching Col’s stare.

 

“Perhaps she’s just not feeling 100 per cent.”

 

“You thinks she’s ill, not cancer, she knocked smoking on the

 

head a few weeks ago, she’s a non-smoker like you now Col.

 

“Why does everybody say cancer every time someone’s ill it

 

could be anything, maybe she’s preggers” added Fat Fred.

 

‘No can’t be” said Doug.

 

“Well how do you know, she might be.”

 

‘I know alright. She’s not pregnant. He said staring at Fat Fred,

 

who was still munching on his cheese and pickle sandwich, crumbs

 

dropping everywhere.

 

The hooter sounded and Doug and Fat Fred went back inside.

 

“Coming Col?” called Doug.

 

“Yeah, right behind you” he replied, glaring at the cheese and pickle

 

sandwich crumbs blowing across the steps in a sudden chill wind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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