A tale from the archives, which I dust off for Halloween. There’s an unwritten sub-text, of an old landlady of mine, who once set fire to people, and who had a small dog…
There’s an old lady who’s very upset: she’s lost her dog. She’s here at the pub where I live with mum and dad: the lady; not the dog. Because the lady lost her dog. The lady and the dog are regulars but it’s just the lady today because she’s lost her dog. She’s telling mum and dad about her dog: it’s lost. The lady doesn’t know what happened to the dog. It just disappeared when she was at the pub yesterday. Today is Halloween. Mum, dad and the old lady are sitting by the open fire, telling ghost stories. The rest of the kids are out trick or treating and I’m here.
I’m creating a wish in the kitchen. I may only be eleven years old and a bit simple, but I can make wishes come true. Simple is a label: like a label on food. I pay the label placed on me no more attention than a chicken would on its packaging. The chicken is dead and unable to read the label on its packaging. I’m not dead but I have this label of being simple. Unlike a chicken though, I can grant wishes.
I know that I’m best off in the kitchen because it’s where people can’t hear me and I can’t hear them. I know they talk about me and I do have a tendency to take things literally, which sometimes gets me into trouble. I do as I’m told and more: if someone asks me to do something, I’ll usually do it. If someone wishes for something, I’ll do my best to make that wish come true.
I asked the sad lady in the pub what she wished for and she said she wished she could have the nicest roast chicken dinner she’s ever tasted. So I’m making a wish come true by cooking a Halloween feast. They think I’m simple but I know they’re humouring me and just want me out of the way. I’m a savant, rather than a servant and I’m both in the kitchen. I’m in charge of the kitchen: I choose the ingredients and I cook them to make nice meals. On this occasion, I’m not only cooking a meal but I’m granting a wish as well.
The chicken is resting and I’m finishing the potatoes off in the roasting tin. I put the vegetables on to boil, before going into the pub to lay the place settings for the banquet. The old lady is still upset. She’s saying she wishes someone could bring her little dog back. As I lay out the cutlery, she’s saying how she misses the little wagging tail and the cute yapping noise her little baby made.
All I can do is grant the old lady her wish, so I serve up what I hope will be the nicest roast chicken dinner she’s ever tasted: she gets a leg and so does mum. Dad’s greedy, so he gets two legs. I wait while my diners taste their meal and they all comment on how it’s the nicest chicken they’ve ever tasted. They’re just humouring me of course: What are little boys made of, after all?
I return to the kitchen, happy that I’ve granted two wishes.
I remember my dad saying yesterday, “I wish someone would shut that fucking dog up and shove it down the old bat’s throat.”
© Steve Laker, 2016