Posted by Monica Cardenas on 23 March 2022, in News, Showcase, Writers
by Sarah Bedwell
"French Mustard" was selected as the winner of the 2022 Byte Shorts Showcase.
‘It’s nobbut shite in a jar. What’s tha be wanting that for?’
‘Our Marilyn likes it. She had it when she went to tea at the vicarage. A little dab with the ham went lovely, she said.’
Sheila starts to butter the bread she has cut as thinly and genteelly as possible.
‘We don’t friggin want it in this house. Tha hear me?’
‘Well, you don’t have to have it.’
‘Aah can’t stand the smell of it. Bastard shite. When we was there they never helped us. Starving we was. Fighting the Germans for them. Bloody cowards. Treated us like beggars they did.’ Eddie’s index finger is starting to jab the air and his voice begins to rise. ‘Sword Beach we landed on. They told us to make for the spire; the church at Caen.’
‘It was all a long time ago. Things are different now. Our Marilyn has got to live in this world.’ Sheila says it quietly finishing the sandwiches and wrapping them in greaseproof paper, trying to avoid confrontation. She wipes the crumbs from the formica worktop.
‘I’ve seen men be shot, blown into smithereens. Tha never forgets it. We’ll not be having any of that shite in my house.’ Flecks of spittle are coming out of his mouth now as he shouts. Jerking himself out of his chair, he springs across the room and picks up the jar of Dijon mustard. He throws it at the tiled wall. At the crash he cowers and ducks down momentarily. The jar shatters into shards and the viscous liquid plops down the tiled wall leaving a yellowy trail.
He retreats to the chair and picks up The Racing Post. His wife sighs and adjusts her pinny.
‘We’ll be having nowt but Coleman’s in this house,’ he says, his voice quiet from behind the paper. On the radio, The Beatles sing. Sheila isn’t so sure that Love is All You Need.
Just then Marilyn comes in, mini-skirted and wobbly on her wedges.
‘You going to work, love?’ Sheila asks. Marilyn doesn’t answer. She is looking at the mustard dripping down the wall, the splinters of glass on the floor.
‘I’ve made a pack-up for you.’ Sheila holds out the carefully folded parcel.
‘Thanks, Mam,’ Marilyn takes the sandwiches and puts them in her bag. Her mother wordlessly passes her an apple.
‘Don’t be late. I’m going down The Institute tonight, and I want you to watch the bairns.’ Marilyn nods. She is tired of all this. Tired of pretending that living like this is normal. Tired of pretending she doesn’t hear the screams in the night. Tired of pretending they’ll ever be better than this.
So tonight, she’s not coming home. She’s not going to watch the bairns. She’s catching the train to London with her Jimmy and although she’ll miss her Mam, she can’t live like this anymore. Times are changing, and she wants to change with them. Is that too much to ask?
