| General Fiction posted May 5, 2019 |
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Short Story
Bangers and Mash
by zanya
Usually, I couldn't wait to get home and eat my bangers and mash. The delicious smell wafted around the corner just as I turned in to our little terraced redbrick in East Street. Only Grandpa could make real bangers and mash. He said they showed him how when he worked at Johnson's butcher's when he was a lad.
Throwing my leather satchel in the corner, Grandpa would tell me to pull up a chair and reach up and get our two chipped dinner plates from above the pot-bellied stove.
Sometimes the mash was delicious.
"Ay lad," Grandpa used to say," t'is my secret recipe and it's staying that way, don't you go telling your young mates your old Grandad's secrets."
I loved that it was our secret. He promised to make it when my dad returned home from the war. We didn't talk about Dad much. He was so far away.
Mama died when I was born. I thought everybody's Mama died when they were born until I went to school and found out that it wasn't true. I wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a Mama. Lots of hugs and cherry cake maybe. Grandpa couldn't make cherry cake. I asked him often to try but he said something about not teaching an old dog new tricks. I loved to teach Trixie, our Collie, lots of new tricks and she was nine years old.
Sometimes Grandpa seemed really sad. Then he would sit on the porch in his old rocking chair and shed a few tears.
On an April day in 1942 Grandpa shed many tears in his rocking chair. I didn't know what to do. It felt so lonely. I walked over to Grandpa in his chair, put my hand on his sobbing shoulder, like teacher did at school sometimes and asked him what was wrong.
Suddenly Grandpa stopped snivelling, stood upright and said there was something he had to tell me.
"Policeman came calling," Grandpa began," when you was at school to say that Corporal Haines, my son and your dad had been killed in action in Belgium two days earlier."
Dad didn't seem real to me. Just a soldier fighting somewhere at a place that everybody called the Front.
So dad would never again taste Grandpa's special recipe. I glanced over at Dad's old fishing rod and felt my eyes welling up.
"Michael, " Grandpa blurted out," just you and me now. Best figure out how to catch eels or make cherry buns."
I buried my nine- year- old head in his old woollen jacket and wondered about an old dog learning new tricks.
Through the eyes of a child writing prompt entry
Usually, I couldn't wait to get home and eat my bangers and mash. The delicious smell wafted around the corner just as I turned in to our little terraced redbrick in East Street. Only Grandpa could make real bangers and mash. He said they showed him how when he worked at Johnson's butcher's when he was a lad.
Throwing my leather satchel in the corner, Grandpa would tell me to pull up a chair and reach up and get our two chipped dinner plates from above the pot-bellied stove.
Sometimes the mash was delicious.
"Ay lad," Grandpa used to say," t'is my secret recipe and it's staying that way, don't you go telling your young mates your old Grandad's secrets."
I loved that it was our secret. He promised to make it when my dad returned home from the war. We didn't talk about Dad much. He was so far away.
Mama died when I was born. I thought everybody's Mama died when they were born until I went to school and found out that it wasn't true. I wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a Mama. Lots of hugs and cherry cake maybe. Grandpa couldn't make cherry cake. I asked him often to try but he said something about not teaching an old dog new tricks. I loved to teach Trixie, our Collie, lots of new tricks and she was nine years old.
Sometimes Grandpa seemed really sad. Then he would sit on the porch in his old rocking chair and shed a few tears.
On an April day in 1942 Grandpa shed many tears in his rocking chair. I didn't know what to do. It felt so lonely. I walked over to Grandpa in his chair, put my hand on his sobbing shoulder, like teacher did at school sometimes and asked him what was wrong.
Suddenly Grandpa stopped snivelling, stood upright and said there was something he had to tell me.
"Policeman came calling," Grandpa began," when you was at school to say that Corporal Haines, my son and your dad had been killed in action in Belgium two days earlier."
Dad didn't seem real to me. Just a soldier fighting somewhere at a place that everybody called the Front.
So dad would never again taste Grandpa's special recipe. I glanced over at Dad's old fishing rod and felt my eyes welling up.
"Michael, " Grandpa blurted out," just you and me now. Best figure out how to catch eels or make cherry buns."
I buried my nine- year- old head in his old woollen jacket and wondered about an old dog learning new tricks.
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Writing Prompt Write a short story (100-500 words). The story must include a child's perspective of an object or situation. The story may be told from the viewpoint of the child, or an adult. |
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