Easter Saturday! We’re off to see the Beloved Daughter!
She’s moved into her new house. Her first home. First time buyer. Mortgage. ‘Here are your keys.’ The works…
And yes, she’s bought it with the boy formerly known as Could-be-Serious. It may be time to start writing a speech.
…And preparing a list. Apparently we need to take her some herbs for the garden. A bottle of wine. Some flowers, obviously.
“And I won’t be allowed through the door if I haven’t baked her a loaf of bread,” my beloved sighed on Friday afternoon.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I said – after a suitable interval.
“Yes. Stop thinking about your damn book for ten minutes and make some pasta sauce for dinner.”
I repaired to the kitchen and did as I was told. Bacon, chorizo, garlic, shallots, a tin of chopped tomatoes. Nom, nom as the hashtag has it…
So who does find the body on the Moors?
“It’s about ready,” I shouted.
It can’t be a group of ramblers. That’s just too complicated…
Pasta and sauce in the bowls, some freshly grated parmesan on a plate. No garlic bread…
So it has to be someone on his own.
…But here’s a freshly baked loaf of bread. I’ll cut a few slices. Blimey, it’s still warm from the oven. Smells delicious. Hard to cut though…
If the kitchen floor had a shred of humanity it would have done the decent thing. Opened up and swallowed me. That fresh, crisp, warm loaf of bread?
Which was oh-so-clearly destined for the Beloved Daughter…
Gentle reader, I feel I must spare you the next five minutes. There was an expression of surprise. An indication that one of us would need to bake a new loaf of bread. That it wouldn’t be me as I was mentally challenged.
Just not in those exact words…
Eventually we sat down with our bowls of pasta perched on our knees.
“Would you like a glass of wine? I really like this one.”
“Yes, that’s why I bought it for Easter Sunday.”
But at least we had the world’s best bread in front of us.
“It was a compliment,” I said. “A compliment to you. I saw the bread. It looked perfect. It is perfect.”
Did the compliment work? Once again I cannot share my wife’s witty response.
Mercifully the pasta sauce was good. “Is there any left?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s in the pan.”
“Make sure you save me some parmesan.”
“No problem, I’m nearly finished.”
I reached for the parmesan. Sprinkled some on my remaining pasta. Put the plate back on the table. Thought I’d put the plate back on the table.
A poltergeist is the only possible explanation. I heard a noise. The sort of noise a plate makes when it falls on the floor. And leaves a pile of parmesan on the carpet.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s a compliment as well are you?”
She left for the kitchen.
I followed. “Do you want me to help with the kneading?”
“No. I just want you to leave my bread alone. Don’t touch it, don’t look at it and don’t eat it.”
“I may as well go to the shop for some Mother’s Pride then.”
“This is Mother’s Pride. I’m her mother and I’m proud of my bread. Or I was until some overweight, greedy person (never did three words need more paraphrasing…) decided to hack away at it.”
“Do you want to watch a film tonight?”
“No thank you, darling, I shall be in the kitchen for some time.”
Yet another sentence that needed editing…
Michael Brady is willing to risk it all
His career, the woman he loves. Maybe even his life
And he’s risking them for the man who nearly killed him…
The Scars Don’t Show is the first Michael Brady Short Read – a book you can read in an evening or over a weekend. It’s out today on the Kindle at £1.99 – the paperback will follow later this month.