The smoky aroma fills the air, circulating the house with a welcoming smell that reminds me of childhood breakfasts... Mum would be in the kitchen cooking away and talking to herself (she did that when she had a lot to do) whilst Dad was always sat in the living room in front of the fire in his threadbare armchair, smoking those silly cigarettes that he always used to buy from the newsagents down the street. They smelt horrific, like burning timber. Not like the cigars. If it was a special occasion he would smoke one of his cigars. I used to love the pungent smell of them, so exotic and mysterious. The billowing smoke always lingered in the air as if reluctant to leave the room, embracing the furniture and curtains for days...
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I only fry bacon on Fridays. Fry up Fridays I call them; it’s a bit of a tradition in my house. A little treat for Ed to keep him fired up for the day. That’s how I met my Ed, in a Café but I don’t suppose he remembers that anymore, he has more important things to think about these days, like getting this job promotion. Whenever I mention it he grows tense. He shoots me glances from across the breakfast table every now and then, his eyes like azure marbles catching the light. It makes me wonder if he would rather that I never spoke to him again. I know deep down he doesn’t feel the same about me anymore but I try not to show that I know. To him I am now just the mother of his children, nothing more. Anyway, enough of all this thinking nonsense! I switch on the wireless. It always takes ages to tune it in properly, the brass dial plays up a bit sometimes, so you have to give it a bit of a bash, not too hard though, we had to send it to that.. umm... what was his name? One of Ed’s friends from work recommended him to us. I’m sure the name will come to me.
I turn on the radio and quietly sing along with Doris Day. There’s no feeling quite like singing an upbeat tune. It seems to make all your troubles disappear! Yes, I do love a good sing song, especially in the morning. I imagine that’s what it must have been like in the war. I always used to hear mother singing and when I asked her why she said that it was because of the war.
I love cooking fry ups for Ed on Fridays. It puts me in a good mood for the rest of the day. I tap my feet and dance about in my gingham apron from one cupboard to another feeling content. Fridays are always my favourite day, that buzz and the expectations of the weekend, planning what Ed and I would do together. All of that goes out the window when you have children though, responsibility. No more dancing the night away. I wouldn’t change it for the world though, not for one moment.
I remember when my Jack and I used to dance to the radio in the kitchen and bake. Too old for all that now though, now he is a man. He doesn’t have the time anymore. He doesn’t look at me in the same way now. He doesn’t rely on me for love. I miss that. I’d give anything to have him look at me like that again. Oh sugar! The bacon! I hurriedly turn off the hob and check the rashers for any burnt bits. Ed hates the burnt bits. He can’t stand them. If only the edges are burnt I think I can get away with cutting them off, but if they are beyond salvaging, I think I shall have to start frying all over again.
Nowadays he seems so stressed and I never know what to say or do to make him feel better anymore. So different to when we first married. He was so romantic, buying this place for us, always giving me flowers for no reason, it was lovely. I forgot when he used to do that. I love flowers; they really brighten the place up no end. What a scatter brain I am. I would forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on! I go to the drawer, painted turquoise and white. We had the kitchen repainted last year so it would look fresh and clean for spring. I pick up a knife, fork and table spoon. To this day I don’t know why but Edward always uses a spoon to eat his baked beans. It’s just what he knows I suppose. Maybe I should ask him if we can buy some new linoleum to match the drawers, the corners are starting to peel and getting grubby ever so easily. It would definitely spruce up the kitchen...
I hear a loud rumbling coming down the staircase. Jennifer is always late for something, always rushing around at the last minute. A lot of people seem to be in a fluster these days. Never stopping to sit back and appreciate the world like they used to. They have too much going on with their lives.
I make Jennifer soldiers and boiled the last egg left in the refrigerator, she used to love eggs and soldiers when she was a little girl. She loved the yolk, she used to always be surprised how yellow they were. When she was four I made her a yellow dress one year for her friend’s birthday party, she wouldn’t take it off all summer! I wonder what happened to that young lad she used to go about with for a while.. Thomas no.. Tom? Yes! Tom. He was ever so lovely.
I lay another place on the dilapidated brown breakfast table that begins to creak slightly under the strain from when Jack and Jennifer sit on it when they aren’t allowed. Jack won’t want breakfast; he will be off out somewhere as soon as he is out of bed. I never see him much these days. Jenny’s sitting at the table reading a magazine, hair grips in her mouth while she pins her hair back. The sun shines on her smooth youthful face. She has so much to learn about the world. Her face has always been beautiful, even as a young child, full of warmth and love but I suppose every mother thinks that about their children don’t they. She has the same striking bright blue eyes as her father like shining glass. Ed comes into the kitchen, attempting to fix his tie. The red synthetic one he always wears on Fridays. Forty eight years old and still hopeless when it comes to ties. I walk over, swiftly tie it for him and give him a quick peck on the cheek. He grunts something at me and sits down, rolls up his crisp white shirt sleeves so they don’t get stained, glances at his watch and flicks through the Barnsley Chronicle that always waits for him every morning at 8am on the breakfast table.
Walking over to get three glasses out of the cupboard, I glance out of the window at the dingy yard. It would be so lovely to have an allotment so we could grow our own veg. The yard is hardly big enough to swing a cat in and it’s all a hideous shade of grey. It takes me back to that summer when I was ten. Me, James and Elizabeth helped Dad in the allotment because he had broken his arm. The smell of earth and mouldy old sheds always took me back to that summer, when Elizabeth was still with us... I fetch the glasses and bring them to the table where a giant jug of orange juice is waiting to be drunk. I plate up the eggs and soldiers and Ed’s fry up. Jenny and Ed both look up absently as they recognise the gesture but silently go back to what they were doing before.
I sit down on a hard dull chair at the table, pour myself a glass of orange juice and begin to rummage around in the pockets of my apron. Finding what I am looking for, I close my eyes and feel a wave of relief wash over me. The object makes a sound faintly like foil rustling and I pause and open my eyes to see if anyone has looked up but nobody notices because the radio is on loud and they are both preoccupied. I cautiously press the back of the transparent packaging, tipping out the contents until five smooth long white paroxetine pills lay in my cupped hand. I quickly tip them one by one into my mouth and gulp down the cold sour orange juice until they are gone. Nobody notices as I drift into my anesthetised world - another part of my daily routine.
Sarah has just finished her second year of BA English. 'I wrote the short story Bacon in first year and took the photograph over the summer holidays in my home town Lincoln. In my spare time I really enjoy making my own sculptures and photography.'