Another Beginning!

When it gets hot here, your feet feel as though they are on fire

We run down the side streets and feel the fire burning up through our toes

It’s dusty and it gets right up inside our noses

Sometimes we stop and take in air because it’s the only thing that will stop us from fainting.

We are young and free and mostly we run through the air and stop only to think of a new game to play.

When it gets hot here, you can feel the sunshine dripping through your hair

You can hear the older ones out in the street spinning tales

You see the smoke from the Pie House floating about in the sky.

We meet up at the sea and watch the waves crashing.

We call each other names and fight like tigers in the water.

We jump up and each time we get higher until we fly upwards to the blue sky and migrate together over the ocean.

Then the sun goes in behind the bushes

We sit down together and eat

Elora and Deliri come over and we get to break the crust and stuff down the stewed vegetables that mamma has taken her time over.

“Don’t stop talking” she shouts from the smoky kitchen “Don’t stop chattering, I like it . . . I like hearing your noises”

We laugh because our faces are stuffed with the stew from the inside of the pastry.

Pi Face

Pleased to meet you. I’m the fat kid. Every class has one. Although none as fat as me. It caused quite a hoo ha when we moved to the area. The local comp wouldn’t take me because it would mean specially made furniture and that meant the ‘taxpayers shelling out’ or however The Walton Chronicle put it. But then some well meaning women said it was discrimination. Dad said they were a bunch of interfering lesbians so I suppose they knew a thing or two about all that. He also said it was embarrassing and that I should give up on school and get a job. Which is weird because he never did. Same as he always calls me Pie Face Fat Bastard, but he’s the one who eats all the pies – pork pies, shepherds pie, apple pies. He’d eat dog shit if it came with a pastry crust. At least I have taste buds. I loved my mum’s cooking. That warmth that hugged you whenever she’d been in the kitchen. The clatter of pots and pans; the way she’d hum as she set the cutlery down on the table. My mouth still waters at the sound of metal on metal. But the more my brother Tony and I thrived on her homecooked meals, the more Mum shrank before our eyes. Until there was nothing left of her. Literally. To this day all I know is ‘she was sick’ which came from Tony just before he left to join the army. A tear almost spilled from his eye, but he sniffed, then laughed and said ‘See you later Pie Face, you fat bastard.’ It was something, I guess. He barely grunted at Dad before he slammed the back door behind him and disappeared ‘to kill rag heads’. Weeks later, I heard Mrs Wills who used to go to my mum’s slimming class say it was ‘women’s problems’. I had no idea you could die from being a woman and it made me start to see them differently.

So anyway, the lesbians knew all about me being fat and mumless and they put on their itchiest jumpers and those boots that look like they take ages to lace up and stood outside the school for a whole day and the next thing I knew a letter arrived from Walton Secondary saying that ‘provision had been made for my special needs’. It’s a shame they couldn’t have made provision for my special school uniform needs, too. I had to wear a pair of my Dad’s old grey sweatpants that had gone all pale where they’d rubbed at the crotch and some black Reebok’s without laces because my feet are so fat they won’t squeeze into normal shoes. Of course the headmaster said this was unacceptable and my dad said ‘Well, you try getting clothes to fit that fat bastard' and then the lesbians came marching back in and I suddenly had a ‘plus size suit’ and some too long shoes that squeaked when I walked.

Really it doesn’t matter what you wear when you’re as fat as me. All people see is too much. And too much of anything makes people sick. Not me, though. Not now. After mum went to the hospital and never came back I took out every meal in the chest freezer and ate the whole lot in one go. One of her juicy cottage pies with the crisp brown furrows of mash just how I liked it, seven of her handmade salmon fishcakes, three portions of the Bolognese only she could make that way, some buttery mashed sweet potato, a bag of her green beans, two apple crumbles… I didn’t even know what one of the bags was, some sort of stew. I ate it anyway. As I forced it all down, it tasted delicious and sad all in one. With every mouthful it was like she was with me, but also one mouthful further away. And then it was gone and all I had to show for her life was the ache in my belly and I cried. Because even though I was full I had never felt more empty.

And that’s always how food makes me feel now. Full and empty. Empty and full.

So I don’t have to tell you that school isn’t my favourite place. But I don’t really like being at home either, not now. So maybe that’s why when people shout shit at me it just, you know, bounces off. Sticks and stones wouldn’t even break my bones. I’m all padding. Plus no one can hurt you when there’s nothing inside. Like when Kev Wilson shouts ‘Oi, fat cunt’ or Sarah Hillman says ‘I’m not sitting next to the lard bucket, he stinks’. Whatever. I don’t feel sad I just carry on feeling, well, nothing. Nothing anyone says or shouts or throws at the back of my head in science will make me eat any less or make me weigh any less. This is who I am.

Or so I thought. Because after three weeks of going to the school, a new teacher started. Mr Khim. He was small, Chinese looking, but I later found out he was Korean. He’s our new maths teacher. I don’t really like maths. Equations and formulas aren’t really my thing. Sure I get it ‘If you’ve got a fat kid and he eats six pies, three cakes and four hot dogs…' you’ll get an ever bigger fat kid. Whatever. I see how it works, just not why I need it. I have a calculator on my phone.

But this Mr Khim, he walks into the classroom and starts writing all these numbers on the white board.

It went on and on until he ran out of space. Everyone was laughing and shouting and throwing stuff and he just carried on scribbling away until the laughter died down. And then he said ‘Meet Pi’. And Mark Wallcroft shouted ‘We already did, didn’t we Fat Bastard?’ and he got sent out the class and I pretended not to be pleased. In truth classmates shout out about me so much, it just wouldn’t be practical to throw them out of class every time. But Mr Khim was new so he didn’t know this.

And then he explained that Pi is the ratio of a circle’s circumference to it’s diameter. And though it’s a constant number, we can never truly know the value of Pi because its digits go on forever. For our homework he told us to learn the first 10 numbers. How hard could that be, right?

As soon as I got home I Googled it. I don’t know why. There was just something kinda mystical about the way Mr Khim talked about Pi. As though it wasn’t just some number. But, like touching… I don’t know, impossibility.

It turns out the pyramids were all built to the same ratio. Seriously. Even the Bible mentions it. There’s some bit in the old testament about the dimensions of Solomon’s temple and some brightspark worked out it added up to Pi, or whatever. But the bit that really made my head spin was this: maths geeks reckon it’s more correct to say a circle has an infinite number of corners than to view a circle as being cornerless. Right?

All that talk of square circles made me feel dizzy. Because if circles have corners then what else isn’t as it seems? This was just one of my thoughts as I lay on my bed surrounded by empty crisp bags and chocolate wrappers.

And then it happened. The numbers appeared in front of me. Like a wall of digits before my eyes. And they hung in the air so long I fell asleep scrolling through them. And when I woke up they were still there and followed me all the way to school. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed them before.

3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164 062862089986280348253421170679…

But it wasn’t until I got to school and we were back in maths and Mr Khim asked if anyone had done their homework that it hit me. What I was seeing. And before I know it I I’m raising my hand and I’m at the front of the class. I barely notice the laughter or the balled up Post It note that pelts me on the side of the head. It’s as if I’m possessed. 3: the number of times my mum shouted at me in her whole life, 14: her dress size, 1: the number of times she let me see her cry, 5: her shoe size, 9: the date of her birthday in June, 26: the date in August she stopped existing, 5: the number of freckles that framed her smile, 35: how old she was when she had me, 8: her lucky number, 97: the steps we counted together as we laughed our way to the end of Clacton pier, 932: the number of days it has been since she smiled that smile and rubbed my head and kissed me and told me I was her little miracle and more than worth the wait, 3: the number of times she stood up to my father and told him to lay off me and wasn’t he ashamed to hit his son, 8: the number of times she took me up to London on the train to visit the museums, 46: how old she was when she took her last breath. I carry on for ages. Of course, I don’t say any of that stuff. I just rattle off the numbers, all the time holding Mum in my mind. The class is silent. Mr Khim's eyes are glistening. A calm comes over me the way it does when my belly aches from eating and the pain tips into something… I don’t know, almost touchable. And as the numbers swirl around me I can feel her. Actually feel her. 

Infinite: a mother's love. My name is Stephen, by the way.

(By BG) 

Life Pie

Soft floured pastry like talc on new-born skin

Fondled and fashioned, in pursuit of perfection,

An egg wash glow in the beauty of youth

Too soon, overcooked in the heat of young passion

Limpness turned hard, yet brittle, crumbling to your knife

Of rejection, oozing the softness inside

Still vibrant, yet bitter, all sweetness consumed.

(by Sally)

I was told there’d be cake

I was told there’d be cake but instead there was pie

It occurred to me later I should have asked ‘why?’

You made it quite clear what you wanted was tart,

I frowned at you quickly and laughed ‘don’t you start!

(by Sally)

Pie Day

Sunday

“Do you want tea Gran?”

“Yes my love, make a pot! Always tastes better in a pot.”  The last bit was half muttered to herself.

“Do you want Apple or Lemon Meringue?

“Ooh Lemon Meringue please.  I haven’t had Lemon Meringue for ages!  You are a good girl Laura.”  Gran took the plate I offered and sliced through the caramel tinged top to the buttery yellow viscous filling beneath.  “Nice crispy meringue.” She waved her cake fork at me. “You make this Laura?”

“Mum did.”

Gran sniffed as she always did when reference was made to her daughter-in-law. “Yes, well, I always think the topping should be softer on a lemon meringue.”

It didn’t stop her polishing it off though.  I smiled a thin line across my face and tried not to feel irritated.

“I’ve been looking at photos.” She waved the fork again towards the pile on the side table on her right.  It had gold curved legs and a marble top and was the smallest of a nest of three.  It was always placed at an angle on her right despite the awkward way Gran had to sidle past it to get through to the kitchen.

“You should place it on your left side Barbara,” mum always told her.  “You’re going to fall one of these days.”

“I don’t like it on the left.  I have to twist round to reach my things.”

I leaned forward trying to balance my cup and saucer on my lap.  I gave up and placed it on the hearth, and then gathered up the higgledy piggledy pile on the table.

Gran leaned towards me and jabbed at each photo as I looked at it.

“That’s my mum, your great grandma.  There’s your dad when he was a baby; he was a bonny lad.  That’s my brother Tim.  That was taken at cousin Jenny’s wedding…”

Most of the photos were black and white and dog-eared, and I had looked through them so many times.  A few were old square polaroids, in bleached colour with white borders.  I smiled at my great aunts in short skirts and wide straw hats, and laughed at my brother – about seven? – in wide legged trousers of dubious fabric and a navy bomber jacket with knitted cuffs.

“Who’s this Gran?”

But she had nodded off, her chin slumping down towards her chest, her mouth slightly open.  With exaggerated quiet I cleared the tea things, and gathered up the photos into an organised pile.  I turned over the black and white image of the pretty face I was unfamiliar with.  A scar ran across her cheek. 

Kitty Gribble was written in an old fashioned and unfamiliar hand.

Friday

“Do you want Apple or Cherry Gran?”  I brought the tea cup through and placed it on her right.

“Isn’t there any lemon today?  That was a beautiful meringue.  Did you make this in a pot?” she gestured towards the tea.

“Yes Gran.  Apple or Cherry?”

“Apple my love.”

She took the plate I returned with.  “Did you make this?”

“No Gran, mum did.” 

Sniff.  “Hmm.”  She sliced through the pastry with her fork and speared the apple below.  “Bit dry.  I like mine with a bit more sauce.”

“What have you been up to today Gran?”

She placed the already empty plate beside her and slurped at her tea.  “That new warden  looked in today.  She’s nice enough I suppose.  Made the tea in the cup though.”

“It’s kind of her to look in on you.”

“Yes, well, she visits everyone, not just me.”

“Even more so then.” I drank my tea. I loved the old familiar tea set we always used.  It was old fashioned, with  gold rimmed cups and plates and saucers; a thatched cottage surrounded by hollyhocks that transported me back to my childhood reaching for the crockery from the second shelf in the pantry and the Battenberg on the shelf above.

“Gran, who’s Kitty Gribble”

“Kitty?  Where did you hear about her?”

“Her name was on the back of one of your photos.”

“She was a cousin of mine.  Now let me see. She was raised by Aunt Clara, who was my mum’s sister, but she wasn’t her daughter.  She was born, you know, out of wedlock,” - mouthed – “and fostered out to some distant cousins in Ireland to start with.”

“Didn’t her dad marry her mum then?”

“Well, yes, that’s the funny thing.  They did get married and go on to have more children, but he would never acknowledge Kitty, and her brothers and sisters knew nothing about her.”

“Why?”

“Oh things were different in those days.  Not like now.  Everything was done properly.”

It was too hot to challenge the logic of that statement.

“Don’t you bring trouble into this house, my mother used to say to me, or you’ll be the death of me.  I used to worry about it; didn’t even know what it was I wasn’t supposed to be doing!  Things were different then…”

Her voice drifted off and I thought she was nodding off again.

“…Poor Kitty, she wasn’t very well treated in Ireland you know.  Got her face burnt – not very well treated at all.  Aunt Clara rescued her and raised her.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know.”  Her brow furrowed as if she was trying to remember.  “I was very young, and it wasn’t really talked about.  Not like now; no-one's private any more.  Are you making more tea my love?  And another piece of that delicious pie!”

I sidled past the table into the kitchen.

“Make it in a pot!” Gran called after me.

 

Saturday

Kathy - the new warden – and mum talked quietly in the kitchen.  I crouched down on the floor next to Gran and held her hand.  Her skirt was rucked up above her saggy knees and her head rested against the armchair.

“You’ll be all right Gran” I reassured her.  “The paramedics will lift you when they get here.”

“I don’t know why you had to call an ambulance.  I’m perfectly all right!”

“They just need to check you over.”

“You should move that table Barbara!” mum came into the room looking cross.  She had been gardening when Kathy had called.  “I’ve said before.  There’s not enough room for you pass safely by.  I’m surprised you haven’t fallen before!”

"I don’t want it on the other side!” Gran almost shouted.  “I have to twist to reach my things.”  This was quieter, by way of apologetic explanation to Kathy.

“Perhaps we could look at rearranging the room for you, Mrs Wilson.  You could have hit your head on the hearth.”

Gran looked mutinous.

“All this fuss!” she muttered.

The paramedics arrived.

“Come on my love; let’s have a look at you!”

We retreated to the kitchen.  Mum removed the black lid from the kettle and filled it at the sink.

“Stubborn old woman!”  Quietly, to herself.  She was upset, and not just about the interrupted weeding.

“Make the tea in a pot Carole!” Gran called as the paramedics hoisted her back into her chair.

“You’ll stay for a bit of pie won’t you?” she asked them. “She’s a dab hand at pastry, I’ll say that for her.”

 

Sharon

Pi things

Pink pillows piled up in a pyramid

Pierced by pins and pinched into pig shapes with pipe-cleaner curly tails 

Princess playtime. 

Pick up sticks and pillow fights

Mud pies and pixie rings 

Perfect summer past times. 

Sonny

I grew up in Jamaica.  I came here when I was eighteen.  I was brought up by my Grandmother; my dad’s mum.  My mum was around but was mostly in what you would call the mental hospital.  She was never really capable.  My Granny take the stress off her and take the responsibility off me mum.  I’ve only known me mum that way.  She had a time when she go up.  She have a time when she go down.  I’d see her every school holiday.  She lived in the rural area and we lived in the city; Kingston.  She was in the rural side of Jamaica. 

My dad? Oh, Lord he was funny.  He was a funny, funny man.  To me, he was a hero.  I can’t find words to describe how great he was.    Everything I know is from me dad.  He was a person for life and love.  You’d never see the man not smiling.  He was the best man in the world for me.  I was never hungry one day or go without a pair of shoes.  My granny, she own a restaurant and her fridge was always full of food.  Dad was an undertaker.  A happy undertaker.  He would work seven days a week to make sure all of us kids had things.  My dad lived with his wife but I seen my dad every day.  But he was a bit of a Jack the Lad as they say.  There were twelve of us.  Me, Denise and Sandra had the same mum and dad, then he had three with one lady, two with another and then one, one, one and one.  His wife didn’t have no kids with him.  It was only kids with the other ladies.  I don’t think he planned to have all those kids, it’s just the type of man he was.  My Gran would say ‘Sonny.  You have too much kids.  Don’t have no more’ but each new one come along granny loved them.  And my dad loved them all.  He loved all the women too.  He was a good looking, sharp dressed man.  He was a peacock and drew women to him.  All of the women, the mothers, get on.  It was just his wife and them not get on.  Him and his wife they do argue as well.  There is no relationship gonna be perfect but he done a lot of cheating and she was never happy with that.  I’m not gonna comment on their relationship because you can have a man cheat on a woman many times and the woman still forgive the man.  But she didn’t.  She killed him.     

He passed away eight years ago.  He was seventy three.  He had cirrhosis of the liver.  My father never drank but his wife for years she was putting things in his meal so she could try to keep him so he wouldn’t go to nobody else and keep him from making more babies with other ladies.  But over the years she was doing that it started destroying his liver.  He was full of toxins when he died.  He was still smartly dressed and always had a smile on his face though.  Even in his last days he had a smile for us kids and a smile for the ladies.