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Short Stories Humor Save Our Bacon
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Save Our Bacon |
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| Written by Davey Spens | |
| Monday, 28 April 2008 | |
Dennis was disappointed not to find the face of the Virgin Mary inside the potato. He positioned his fingers around its belly like you might a spider, and turned it upside down so light danced on its face. The sad fact was, however you looked at it, it was just the same as all the others - white, wet and potatoey. He would have settled for any member of the Holy Family, to spark a media scrum.
"How many more 'av we got?"
Margaret was scrubbing furiously. Her blouse rolled up to her sleeves. A dirty spud in one hand and a nailbrush in the other. She peeked into the paper bag and totted up the bad news.
"Ten more."
She couldn't bear to turn. The place was littered with potato halves, like a sack of dead beetles had been tipped on the table. Dennis drummed his toes in his socks. It made a sound like an army of ants. Margaret had become increasingly familiar with that sound over the past few months. Whenever he was bothered his feet did a Mexican wave from the littlest toe of his left foot to the littlest toe of his right. Left to right and back again.
The table was a scene from a vegetable apocalypse. Potatoes floated on the surface like fish on a poisoned river. Even though she'd turned her back you knew that she had told-you-so splashed across her face.
The recession had taken a bite out of the farm. Demand for pork had never been higher. Their bacon had never been tastier. But the supermarkets were wringing them dry so they made a loss on every pig they reared. The swines. Divine intervention was about the only remaining option. The appearance of God in a root vegetable would reap a harvest on the internet.
"Read the tea-leaves," Margaret said, "Jesus isn't coming back in a spud."
Put that way it did sound unlikely. They'd prayed to St Nicholas. They'd emailed Prince Charles. Neither of them could help.
"This isn't working."
He clunked the cleaver down on the table.
"Finally," Margaret sighed, raising her hands to the heavens.
There was only one pig left on the farm. Which is why it looked so sheepish. It snuffled and scratched in the straw for an oat or a bean to eat. Feeding times of late took the form of rations. The grain buckets were all but redundant, replaced by a handful of seed.
Margaret gazed out of the kitchen window.
The council tax was due.
The water bill was overdue.
The electricity was metered. She jangled her hand in her apron pockets. Four ten-pence pieces and a button.
"A good idea," said Dennis, as if reading from a book of proverbs, "can get you out of a lot of trouble."
He'd used that line so many times the words were wearing out.
"Or get you into more," Margaret snapped.
She turned so he could see the bags around her eyes.
"We're down to our very last pig. To pay these bills we'd need twenty at least. However good your ideas are dear, they're not gonna grow us a pig."
His face came up from the table and you could hear his brain whirring behind his eyes.
"What did you say?"
Margaret frowned.
"I said you're not gonna grow us a pig."
"Margaret," he said, "You're a genius."
The fork plunged into the ground and waggled back and forth.
"This isn't going to work."
"Oh ye of little faith," crowed Dennis like a Sunday school teacher, "What's the name of this place?"
He stuck out a grubby finger and pointed at the ground.
"What place?"
"The land we're standing on."
"The farm."
Dennis nodded.
"And what do farms do?"
She knew where this was heading. It was a well-trodden exchange.
"They grow things," she said with a sigh.
"Exactly."
He spied the head of an earthworm poking out of a clod of mud, and quick as a blackbird, pulled it out like a strand of tinned spaghetti.
"Ha-hah there you go," he said like a maniac and tossed it into a bucket.
Margaret peered over the rim and squirmed.
Damn Dennis and his stupid ideas.
This one went something like this:
"You know about starfish do you?"
"Come again."
"Starfish. I saw 'im on telly. Such a clever creature. If he loses a leg on a coral, he grows 'imself a new one. ain't that the cleverest thing you ever 'eard?"
Margaret made a face like she was chewing a wasp.
"So I was thinkin' if we crossed our pig with a starfish see," he continued, "We could 'ack off a leg and it would grow back. We could 'arvest as many as we wanted. We wouldn't 'ave a pig, we'd 'ave a factory."
He was foaming with excitement.
"That is the stupidest idea I've ever heard," Margaret said, wiping her soapy hands on her apron. "Where will we find a starfish? We live in the middle of Shropshire."
Dennis thought about this setback for approximately fifteen seconds and then erupted like a volcano, spraying spit in all directions.
"Earthworms," he spat with a sibilant S, "We'll use earthworms. Everyone knows if you cut one in 'alf, you end up with two of the buggers."
It had been raining cats and dogs and the farm was like a bog. He hopped from puddle to puddle, stamping the ground with his wellington boots to get the worms to come up. He dug in his fork and waggled it again. Each one uncovered about three of four worms and no matter how quick they were they were no match for his lightning fingers, that plucked them out of the ground like weeds before they had a chance to think. He leapt about the yard and filled his bucket like he was a bunny on an Easter Egg hunt.
"All done," he said, swinging the handle.
He skipped back to the farmhouse with the spring of a sugar-fuelled schoolboy.
"Boil the kettle! Bring the pan!" he fizzed, "We're going to boil the worms and make 'em into a soup."
Margaret did as she was told and bought down a large steel saucepan. She showed him how to work the burners and he filled the pan with water and set it on the stove. A pinch of salt. A grind of pepper. Steam began to rise and soon the pan was boiling violently so it was leaping off the burner like the Easter bunny. A smile broke out between his lips, and twisted from one ear to the other.
"Margaret. The worms," he said in a Dracularian voice, "Fetch the worms."
Like a theatre nurse she scampered off and came back with the slimy bucket. It was squirming and writhing. He stuck in his hand and swirled it around his fingers. With a grin that would shame a Cheshire cat, he plucked out the plumpest worm he could find and held it above the boiling pan so it was swimming in the steam. He lowered it towards the surface and dropped it in with a plop.
"Tip the rest in," he said, "This is excellent."
They tumbled in with a splash. Dennis recited the instructions like a Michelin-starred witch. Boil the earthworms on gas mark four, cover and simmer for an hour. He paced around the kitchen as the saucepan chattered and hissed. He couldn't help but have a peek. He dipped in his spoon and sampled the soup with worrying regularity. A little more salt. He threw in a pinch. Pepper perhaps. In that went.
"Stop tinkering," said Margaret.
But Dennis couldn't resist.
His feet did a Mexican wave in his socks. When the sixty minutes were up, he trapped the earthworms against the lid and strained the juices into a glass bottle that looked like a medicine jar. And while the soup was cooling he fetched the cleaver from the table.
Can pigs smell danger? Probably not, but this one looked even more sheepish than normal. The humans cast menacing shapes as they lent against the fence with the setting sun behind. As it cowered in the corner, they tried to calm it down with a series of smiling faces and a blanket of cooing phrases.
"There there, it's gonna be fine. We've got you a special drink."
Dennis uncorked the bottle.
Margaret got out the spoon.
Dennis stuck a little tongue between his teeth because it helped him concentrate. Margaret held the spoon as he poured a little out. Being careful not to spill he poked it through a gap in the fence for the pig to gobble down. With a little encouragement the curious pig sidled over and probed it with its snout.
"Come on," Dennis said, "Drink some of this, it'll do you a power of good."
The pig opened its mouth and before it knew what was happening Dennis tipped it down its throat and vaulted over the fence. Quick as a flash he unsheathed the cleaver and held it above his head so the blade was glinting in the sun. He brought it down as hard he could, aiming for the hind leg. Margaret covered her eyes with her hand and prepared herself for the most hideous sound. But all there was was a drawn out silence.
She waited.
"What happened?" she whispered.
There was a prickly pause.
"I can't do it," he sighed, "I can't. What if it doesn't work?"
"What?" she squeaked, peeking through her fingers, "What are you talking about?"
"What if I got it wrong?"
"But you said you knew what you were doing."
"I know I did," he said, "I mean I think I do, but I'm not one 'undred percent sure."
Dennis looked defeated. His arms were hanging down like they were carrying heavy shopping bags. His spirit sank like the Titanic.
He took the cleaver and the towel and he trudged back to the fence. As he looked down at his fingers an idea popped into his head. His eyes flickered from side to side like he was hatching a devious plan. Margaret knew that face too well.
"Dennis," Margaret said, "What's happening?"
He thought about how best to put it.
"My darlin', would you do me a favour?"
"Depends what that favour is."
He gulped.
"Will you be my guinea pig?"
The colour drained out of Margaret's face and she found herself shuffling backwards.
"Would you let me cut off the tiniest slither of your finger?"
"My finger?" she squeaked, "My finger? Have you gone out of your mind?"
"It's a simple enough operation. You wouldn't feel a thing."
She was backing up the path.
"You're not cutting off my finger. No way. Absolutely not."
That night they ate dinner in silence. It was bread and cheese and a glass of water. The plates chinked, the cutlery clinked, but no words passed between them. Dennis closed his eyes and pictured himself eating a pair of magnificent pork chops, cooked just the way he liked them, and arranged on a white china plate so they looked like giant quotation marks. It was served with a mountain of mashed potato and lashings of onion gravy.
"I'm sorry about earlier," he said, "I should never 'ave asked you to be my guinea pig."
Margaret mumbled something under her breath. She made eyes across the table like red-hot pokers.
"I really wanted this to work out," he went on, "For you, my darling, for us."
The cleaver on the countertop gleamed in the spotlight, and watched over the conversation with the earthworm soup for company.
He took a sip of water and pretended it was beer.
"We may as well give up. It's a shame we got so close. Oh well," he sighed, "Your decision."
Margaret slammed down her fork and made a sound like gunshot.
"If you're trying to make me cave in," she said through gritted teeth, "You're fighting a losing battle."
She made her chair squeal like a pig, banged her plate and carried it to the sink.
"I'm through with this. I'm going to sleep."
And she stomped upstairs to bed.
Dennis took his time to polish off dinner. He savoured each mouthful like it was his last. He cut an imaginary hexagon of pork and smeared it with imaginary mustard. Popped it into his mouth. Washed it down with imaginary beer. His eyes drifted over to the bottle and to the cleaver sitting on the counter.
Margaret was sound asleep. You could tell because she was snoring like a coffee machine. She was wearing an elastic eye mask and cuddling a pillow. Dennis looked at her lying on his left and at the digital clock on his right and he watched the numbers change to midnight. His mind was whirring with thoughts and his feet did a Mexican wave back and forth and forth and back like they do when he was bothered. As he looked at the end of the bed he saw twenty toes twinkling in the moonlight, some were his wife's and some were his. The stage was set. A warped smile twisted between his lips. Creeping slowly like a cat so the sheets didn't rustle, he stretched out his arm for the bottle of soup, took a spoon from his pyjama pocket and poured out a generous helping. Steadily, so as not so spill it, he sailed it over the bedclothes towards his snoring wife and timing her exhalations perfectly he popped it into her mouth and tipped it down her throat. She coughed and spluttered but that was it.
Dennis reached under his pillow and pulled out the shiny cleaver. Taking a grip of the top of the quilt he eeked the covers back so her feet were fully exposed, and then he began to whisper.
"This little piggy went to market."
He hovered over the big toe of her right foot.
"This little piggy stayed at 'ome."
He waggled toe number two.
"This little piggy 'ad roast beef."
Number three.
"This little piggy 'ad none."
He turned to his wife. Her face was a picture of serenity. Her nose was snoring merrily. She looked so deep in sleep she wouldn't feel the slice.
"This little piggy went wee-wee-wee", he whispered, feeling for the fifth toe.
He raised the cleaver above his head, brought it down hard and chopped off her little toe so it fell to the floor like a piece of sausage. He scooped it up, wrapped it in a little parcel and popped it on the bedside table.
When morning came the cockerel woke them up. The sun was blasting in through the curtains. Margaret took off her eye-mask, stretched her arms and yawned like she always did to see Dennis sitting bolt upright. His eyes were out on stalks like he had seen a ghost. His jaw was on the floor and he was staring at the end of the bed.
"What's the matter?" Margaret asked, "What happened to you last night?"
Dennis pointed with his hand.
"What is it?"
"Your toes."
"What about my toes?"
"Wiggle your toes," he said.
"Don't be silly."
"Wiggle your toes."
Margaret did as she was told and ten little piggies wiggled in the air.
"I did it," Dennis shouted, jumping to his feet, "I made your toes grow back."
He bounced up and down on the bed, springing in celebration.
"Don't be silly," Margaret said, "I never lost my toes."
But before he could explain Dennis took the cleaver and charged out of the room. He ran down the stairs and out to the yard, to the fence, to the pen, to the pig. Margaret slipped her toes into her slippers and padded across to the window to see what on earth was going on. She watched her husband vault the fence, hold the cleaver above his head and bring it crashing down so the pig was cut in two. It fell into equal halves. A front end and a back end. Dennis took a step back. Front row seats to watch the magic show. He waited with baited breath.
Probably takes a few minutes, he thought.
He waited patiently.
Nothing happened.
Give it a few more.
Still nothing.
"Come on," he said irritably, "Do something."
He waited for the front half to grow a back half. For the back half to grow a head. But all that happened was the puddle of blood grew into a lake.
"Come on!" he yelled, "Grow back! Grow back you lazy pig!"
The pig, of course, was dead. Body parts do not grow back. No matter how much earthworm soup they drink.
Dennis' blood was boiling. He did the Mexican wave thing that he does with his feet when he's bothered. But this time something was different. The left foot seemed quicker than the right. He did it again and the same thing happened. That's funny, he thought, what's going on?
As he did it one more time a horrible thought flashed into his head.
It was as if one of his toes was missing.
Comments (3) |
 04-28-2008 05:14, Cute story..I loved it! The things that desperation will make us do... » Reply to this comment... » See all 1 replie(s)  05-02-2008 18:20, indeed funny i dont get how people spend so much money on ebay buying potato chips that look like presidents and celebrities » Reply to this comment...  05-04-2008 11:53, Very funny, kind of warped and twisted like a monty python sketch. I like that kind of insanity where the characters don't realise how bizarre they are. kudos » Reply to this comment... |
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