Woolgathering by Craig Wallwork
At that time in my life when I cared little of the future because I had so much of it in my pockets, I would visit a small café near my home every morning for boiled egg on toast. I do not remember the name of the café. I do not know if the café had a name! I imagine it did, but at that time, I had a stoop, and one can only assume too that the café’s sign was high above the door, far from where my eyes could see.
The woman who ran the café was a woman, and I remember thinking the first time I entered the café that if she tried, she would scrub up quite well. Because I frequented the place I became quite pally with the woman, and we would talk and I eventually married her and now she is dead. That is pretty much the whole story.
Of course, I have missed out many things. I must confess to you all that those missing incidents were in fact happy incidents, but to recall them would only make me sad, and in turn, may mutate into what miserable folk call regret. And I must confess this too; a man can die if his head and heart swells with too many regrets. I know because my father died of a similar fate. I once asked my father of his regrets, and he said he had many, but the single most regret he had was he wished he had slept with more women before he met my mother. I left the room, shortly thereafter, with a red face and much confusion in my mind.
I’m retelling this story now because I recently visited another café to buy boiled egg on toast, and it struck me how different the egg tasted, and how brash and swift my experience had been. The woman I spoke of earlier, the same who I married and is now dead, her name was Rose. I do not know the name of the woman who served me in the café where the egg did not taste very good, given that teeth sucking and grunts were the only means of expression there.
At that time in my life, when my pockets were laden with hopeless dreams and wishful thoughts, Rose and I had plenty to thrash out. And from what I can recall, there were neither whistles nor grunts to be heard from either of us. Not at least until the honeymoon. In truth, my first conversation with Rose involved the suggested cooking time for a boiled egg. It appeared my request had befuddled her, and she took my order to mean I was in possession of this culinary conundrum. I did not have a clue. I had never cooked an egg before because my mother was a woman and that was her job. I could not tell Rose this because she may have deemed the remark a little chauvinistic, or worse, a sign that I was a layabout. I stated that five to six minutes would be ample, adding the caveat that firstly said egg should be immersed in boiling hot water before the clock commenced its countdown.
On that first occasion, I spent those five to six minutes watching the woman Rose with great interest. In my youthful head, images rendered her simple face much more favourably, and turned the shabby tabard she wore into a long red cocktail dress. Fiery red hair draped loosely over her modest shoulders, and around each saddened blue eye, lashes drew dark and curled like those beautiful women I had seen in the movies. During this time, my mind grew jittery with the romance, and I saw myself dancing with Rose before stockpots and pans filled with bacon and broth. Even more peculiar was the passion that overwrought my insides and made my toes tingle. In those five to six minutes I had danced and grew very fond of her, and I dare say a little in love too. I must confess that had Rose been anything other than a woman, my actions would have been immediate and delivered with much spirit. For example; had Rose been a fiddle, then in my hands she would rest, my fingers working her till a sweet sad ballad left her body and warmed the hearts of all near. Had Rose been a timepiece, a pocket watch perhaps, I would have wound her accordingly, sat back, and spent the rest of my days in the welcome presence of each minute and hour she gave, gazing blissfully upon her round face and long, slender arms. As it was, Rose was only a woman, and time had to be bide before courtship could commence.
Opportunity struck me a swift blow that first meeting, and made the egg’s inners soft and runny. This I didn’t know until Rose apologised, and handed me the toast with the yolk spilling from its side. She then did a very queer thing and smiled; not so much a friendly, how-do-you-do smile, either. Her tongue pushed its way between both front set and bottom set of teeth. There it sat, clamped, if you will, while the corners of her mouth pulled wide to reveal each tooth. A man of my age (if you’re looking for numbers here, keep on looking, because none will be divulged in this particular account), with vulnerable limbs and heart, can find himself on his knees quite easily: a strong wind; a quart of whisky; a steep kerb, wet or dry, it makes little difference. Even one so delicate as an infant, if said infant was in command of two or three wheels (for arguments sake, lets imagine a tricycle), could easily, and without protest, topple a man of my age by veering too close as they passed. But at that time in my life, when my pockets were weighed down with apathy and the hunger, to find myself upon each knee would take a much stronger force than that of the elements, alcohol or a vigorous toddler, even with my stoop. But that half crescent beam that presented itself to me that day, one that split the years from Rose’s simple face, and my heart in two halves, found its way to buckled my legs beneath, and provoked many tingles in areas of my body I care to omit during this account for the sake of the children.
And so began an ongoing interchange, each day, very much like the last, upon my entrance each morning at the café, an order would be placed for boiled egg on toast. Rose, dressed with half smile upon her face, would ask me the appropriate cooking time for the egg, and my reply would be one minute more than the previous day. Each day thereafter one minute was added, allowing not only the yoke longer to set in the boiling water, but more time for myself to set the scheme in place that would woo her. Turns out, an extra minute is not long enough for such a task.
Being at the age when one’s pockets are tearing at their seams with inexperience and much incompetence regards the romance, I had little choice but to glean advice from the only man I knew who had wooed and gained a healthy, buxom wife.
My father cared little for the responsibilities of fatherhood; a leaning he extended to my predicament regards the romancing of the woman Rose. Instead of advice, he spoke languidly of preserves instead, specifically his fondness for apricot jam on thick farmhouse bread.
You must understand, he said languidly, that the serving temperature for each preserve in paramount if one cares for its taste.
I knew of the great book of tall tales that folk called the bible, and I also knew that in one volume, named the Old Testament, most of those tall tales served up moral answers to questions neither person reading had poised. For this very reason, I took it that the old man I called my father was doing likewise, and within his account of the preserves the answer to my problem lay. I sat patiently, listening to him ramble on about different preserves and their correct temperatures, and the preferred technique of spreading said preserves so not to rip the bread. He went on to expound how some preserves did not care to be accompanied by the rich salty spread of butter, but instead longed to roam free across the doughy substrate, lounging (which is the word he used) like the neighbour’s cat lazing upon his lawn. And would you believe it, at the end of his account I found no clever subtext, no moralistic tale, and no great advice. The man was talking of preserves, and preserves alone! After all that talk, he and I grew very hungry, and shortly thereafter we shared a fine cut of bread topped with a thick layer of Blackberry jam.
With no advice from my father, and no friends to speak of, or turn to, I had little choice but to pursue Rose using my own methods.
It has just occurred to me I have not addressed the reason for this account. Given the words I have committed so far, you’d be forgiven to think this story is about the courtship undertaken with my wife. Though an interesting yarn in itself, it is not my full and only reason for this particular extract, as that lies in the indifference one is subjected to when purchasing boiled egg on toast these days. One would expect disinterest and ill-manners of the young, because their pockets are laden with such, but the woman who served me recently was a woman of Rose’s age (when Rose served me on that first occasion, that is). She did not ask my opinion on the correct cooking time of the egg, nor did she deliver my food with a half smile. She was, frankly, quite rude. Even this I could set aside had the egg tasted like I remembered those Rose had made. But it did not. Moreover, I have found in recent months most foods I remember from my youth – beans, spam, boiled cabbage, ham shank, black eyed peas, stout, to name a few – do not taste the same either. I told the woman this who served me the bad egg and she did not care for the remark, but offered me another boiled egg on toast by way of compensation. I took it, not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful at her dismal attempt at kindness. But that too tasted revolting, and made me quite sick.
This is why I have stopped eating.
I believe my mouth, and brain, have accumulated enough over the years to feed each other freely without my interaction. And yes, at first I found myself the weaker for it. But every morning I awake pretty much the same as the last. In this house where both Rose and I lived, and she died, I sit at the dinning room table and I remember those eggs Rose made, and all at once my stomach is full, my mouth satisfied, and my hunger slaked. When I require a kiss, or words of faith and devotion, a similar method of imagination and sensory incitement is embarked upon. There is little I need, nor care for. I have a wealth of life within, and what I do not know, I will have no need for. There are no regrets to swell my heart, for no regrets lie in my past, which is where I live, in moments already lived, and where boiled egg on toast taste as sweet and delicious as the very first time I ate them.
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