Crumble

Without looking up, Michael knew exactly where everything was in his parents’ kitchen. Perhaps it was wrong to come back here, all these years later. At some time point he’d thought it was wrong. Now though, as he sat here, at that same oak table, picturing that same furniture around him, he was surprised at how easy it had been to get back here.

If anything it felt more like home than it had done all those years ago. Even the crumble that had been made for him – rhubarb, his favourite- tasted the way it used to. As he spooned another mouthful, he continued to look at his old bowl. Was it really so small? His old spoon, small as a chip fork was almost lost between his fingers. For a moment he was Gulliver, choosing to end his travels and return to Lilliput rather than let his own world catch up with him.

As he continued spooning crumble into his mouth – the bitterness of the rhubarb almost exactly as he remembered it! - he thought about the room. There were daffodils on the windowsill, he supposed. It was spring after all. And then below the window there’d be plates piled by the sink. Clean and dry, with blue and yellow stripes around the rim. The same stripes on the mugs that rested alongside. The fridge freezer would be humming smugly to itself in the background while the smell of fresh baked bread would be soaking itself around him. He stopped thinking about it all and felt it. Heard the fridge freezer. Smelt the bread.

The only thing that wasn’t right was the radio. He couldn’t see how it had made its way in from his parents’ bedroom. Sat behind him on the worktop now, it rattled, playing muffled conversations; laughing occasionally. For a moment, he thought about throwing it out of the room, but that would involve looking up, and he wasn’t ready to do that yet.

“Look up. Look at me, Mikey.” his Father said.

Michael continued to focus on the table in front of him. Oak. Rough oak, with a gold seam left of centre. He drummed it with his thumb. Solid. Once he got through this crumble, he’d be able to see what was in the fridge, maybe. Check on the daffodils by the window. It must be daffodils – it being spring and all...

“Mikey. Look at me, would you? For fuck’s sake, be a man for once in your life.”

There was the clinking sound of cutlery and voices became louder from the radio. A shadow moved by the window. Michael looked up.

His Father was sat opposite. His dinner jacket and white shirt were crisp enough, but his eyes were red around the edges. He leaned forward.

“Look, Mikey, you’re in danger of making a fucking scene. ” His Father said. “I’m sorry, alright? I’m really fucking sorry. But it’s time to be a man about this." As he was talking the radio behind Michael increased in volume. Mikey could make out laughter, the popping of corks and music playing over his shoulder.

Michael breathed. He looked down again and took control. The fridge kicked back in. Sunlight came back through the window as the radio shrank back. Michael began spooning crumble into his mouth, lifting his tiny spoon and pricking the rhubarb with his tongue, tasting the sourness that came with it. He drummed the oak table once again.

“Come on, for fuck’s sake. Stop playing the fucking martyr,” his Father said. The radio threw out more chatter, but the bread in the oven was ready. The fridge kicked itself up a gear. It was full, he thought. Full of meats and peppers and dips and all sorts. He spooned more crumble into his mouth. Thought about the taste, getting it just right.

“Why won’t you look at us, Michael?’ said Beatrice.

Michael stopped. The crumble shrank to nothing in his mouth. Slowly, he looked up. They both sat in front of him now. Beatrice’s black dress matched his Father’s suit. His Father pulled his arm away from Beatrice’s shoulders. In the corner of his eye, Michael knew that the dishes by the sink were melting, and then trying to come back again. This was too hard. The spoon in his hand was small as a toothpick.

“I’ll be ok,” he said. I just want to be left alone.”

“Look, Sometimes the world isn’t perfect. I’m not perfect.” Beatrice said. She’d been crying, Michael realised.

"This wine tastes like piss” his Father said. The radio farted more noise. Michael felt dizzy.
“For what it’s worth, “You should have this back.”
The engagement ring dropped onto the table - onto the tablecloth in front of him.

He sat looking at the tablecloth, feeling everything shake around him.

Michael closed his eyes.

He opened them again and the tablecloth was gone. He stared at the golden seam that ran along the table.

‘Stop that!’ Said his Father. ‘Stop fucking doing that! Time to be a man, Mikey. Time to live in the real world.’

‘No. No thank you.’ Michael picked up the engagement ring and placed it in his pocket. The radio was bleeding. He couldn’t see the walls for the shadows.

“We should go.” Beatrice said to Michael’s Father. “We’ll be late otherwise.” She leaned across to Michael. “I’m sorry. So so sorry.”

“You gonna sort yourself out, Yeah? Mikey?” His Father said. Michael looked up. Watched his Father wave his arm and click his fingers in the direction of the radio. Their coats were brought over. His Father threw money down.

Michael looked down. He couldn’t hold this forever, he realised. The crumble was cold now. And although the bread was baking itself as hard as it could and the fridge was giving itself a hernia, the radio wouldn’t stop calling him Sir and asking whether he wanted to see the dessert menu.