Toast

a moment in Rudy's life.

Where does he put it all? Four rounds of toast? She drops the Mother’s Pride plain bread into the new toaster. Rudy’s a growing boy, mind. He’s started to fill out. His face is changing too. She just needs him out of trouble. Away from the gangs of hoods and the IRA. Away from the police too, around here. Too much of that going on now. The amount of recruiting in the city and not a job to be had. Trust no one.

He loves his toast, mind. Breakfast and lunch if he had his way. Washed down with sweet tea.

She presses the lever on the Breville toaster. Two slices, unlike the one in work. That one takes four. It was good of the girls from the shop to get it for her. For her and John. A moving present. That was short-lived. Christ. The John thing. She’d half a mind to hand it back but the girls wouldn’t hear of it. Jeanie-in-work said they’ll maybe wait a bit longer next time before they commit to a kettle. Next time? No chance.

She reaches for the teapot. Flicks the lid up. Fills it with water. Placing it on the ring, she catches her clouded reflection. She’ll need an electric card for the meter this evening.

The aroma of toast seeps through the kitchen. It reminds her of childhood winter mornings, being woken by her own mother. Toast under the grill. Lemon curd, an extra treat. It’s not as good from the inside though. Toast. It smells better outside the room. Like a turf fire. It’s for an audience.

It’s the same with the bakery where she works. Everyone that comes in is dying about the smell. Not the workers.

Is that dial okay? Not too high. Rudy likes it golden brown. Texture like sunlight. Like that song. Who is it? The Pretenders? No. The Stranglers, that’s it.

She turns the radio on. Radio Foyle. It’s a new channel. Plays lots of country. Tammy Wynette. Stand by Your Man. Some chance.

The toaster pops. Golden brown. Another two slices of pasty white in.

Where’s the butter? I hope he hasn’t put it in the fridge. Just leave it out, covered, Rudy.

She takes a knife from the top drawer. Delay is fatal. Get the butter on while the toast is still warm. Real butter. None of that Stork or Gold margarine. Jeanie-in-work’s husband has been told to cut it out. Stroke. It’s affected his speech. The dietician told him to mend his ways. He’s on the Stork now and it’s rotten. Cheaper though. Goes further.

The teapot on the stove begins to simmer. The knife triangulates the toast slices. He loves the butter on plain bread. Better than pan. On plain it melts, seeps into the little craters.

She reaches to the caddy, bulging with tea bags, and drops two into the pot. Back to a simmer. Has to be Mother’s Pride bread. Never margarine.

She takes a teaspoon from the top drawer. The one that has Made in Sheffield stamped on it. She gives the tea a whirl as the Breville launches again.

The knife sinks into the butter, wrapped in golden foil. Spread it evenly. That’s the trick. Then cut.

The Nottingham Forest mug; that’s his favourite. The milk is poured first. Always pour the milk first. You won’t want to scald it, her mother would say. She stops. Unsure. Must ask the girls. What’s first? Tea or milk?

She stirs the two heaped teaspoons of sugar, then lifts the plate of toast triangles, smothered in Golden Cow butter, and the Forest mug to the table behind her, just as her wee Rudy enters the room, that new Lynx deodorant arriving a second before him.

Too much of it.