Pie Love You

The thing about my mother was, she made me a pie every week, even though I have never liked pastry and I never ate the pie. Apple pie, rhubarb and custard pie, pies with too much sugar, pies with not enough, pies that crumble as soon as you look at them, pies with burnt edges.

She’d turn up every Saturday morning without fail. I used to like to have a lie in, but no, nine o clock on the dot every Saturday she’d turn up with a freshly baked pie.

The first few times I was caught out. I’d have to run downstairs in my dressing gown, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I wasn’t expecting her. But I got used to it. I set my alarm after that, and woke up to the smooth tones of the local radio DJ each Saturday morning, half past eight sharp. I’d get up, have a wash, shave, put my best pair of beige slacks on and a well-pressed shirt.

I’d tidy up the kitchen, check there were no ashtrays in plain view. She didn’t approve of smoking, my mother. Said it gives you wrinkles. Never mind the cancer, she said, no nice woman will ever want to marry you if you have wrinkles. I told her repeatedly no nice woman will ever want to marry me anyway. She tutted and sucked her teeth disapprovingly when I said this, but generally hushed for a moment before changing the subject, invariably to comment on the fact my collar wasn’t pressed quite well enough.

One Saturday morning, just after the snow had melted and the leaves on the trees were beginning to go green, she turned up at nine o clock on the dot, as standard. Only today, she didn’t have a pie.

I let her in and we sat down at the table. Why don’t you have a pie, ma, I asked. She sucked her teeth at me. She drummed her fingers on the table for a moment. She was wearing a scarf around her head. Red and blue paisley. A grey curl had escaped out the front and she pushed it out of her eyes. I asked her again where my pie was. She sucked her teeth louder.

I stood up and asked if she wanted a cup of tea. She shook her head. I went to make myself one. Teabag, water, one sugar, two sugars. Stir. I sat down and placed my mug on the table. My mother raised her eyebrows at me and I obediently went to get a coaster. She sucked her teeth, pushed back the grey curl.

No nice woman will want to marry you if you don’t take care of your things, she said to me. Women don’t like mug marks on a nice table. No nice woman will ever want to marry me anyway, I told her. She sucked her teeth.

We sat in silence. I drank my tea.

Suddenly, she stooped under the table and began rustling around in her bag. It was a big bag, this bag, and she never went anywhere without it. She pulled out a bit of paper and pushed it towards me. I picked it up and looked at it.

I looked at her. Why have you got particulars for a shop for let, I inquired. She didn’t say anything, but disappeared under the table once more, retrieved another piece of paper, and pushed that towards me too. It was a recipe. A recipe for a blueberry pie.

I laughed. Are you opening a pie shop, I asked, chuckling. She sucked her teeth, pushed the grey curl away. Nodded.

Mother, I said, mother, you are 65 years old. You can’t open a pie shop. She sniffed and asked why not. It was ridiculous, that’s why not, and that’s what I told her. She reached over for the two pieces of paper, put them carefully back in her bag, stood up, kissed me on the forehead, her papery skin soft on mine, and left.

Two months later, on a sunny Saturday morning, she didn't turn up. I was sat in the kitchen, waiting. Nine o clock. Ten past. Half past. Quarter to ten. No sign of her. I called her house. No answer. I put on my coat and began to walk to her house. I suddenly had a craving for pie.

Walking along the main street, I stopped suddenly. Amidst the bustle of traffic and early morning shoppers, I noticed a smell. My craving grew stronger. I looked across the road, following the scent of freshly baked pastry. Between the pharmacy and a record shop, was my mother’s pie shop. I walked over and peered through the window. More than half of the tables were full. People were eating my mother’s pies.

I went in. A bell tinkled softly as the door opened. It was warm in my mother’s pie shop, and it smelled like flour and fruit. I walked up the counter. My mother looked at me and smiled. She asked me if I wanted some pie. I said I did. Blueberry please. I got out two pound coins and laid them on the counter. She said I didn’t need to pay. I said I wanted to. She sucked her teeth and told me I was stubborn. No nice woman will ever want to marry a man as stubborn as you, she told me. I told her no nice woman will ever want to marry me anyway.

I sat down and ate my blueberry pie. It was even busier now, and the little table I sat on was the last one. A woman came over and asked if she could sit with me as there were no other chairs. She had a slice of blueberry pie as well, and a glass of orange juice. I said she was quite welcome to sit down. I could feel my mother's eyes boring into my back and sense her sucking her teeth in anticipation. The woman smiled and sat down. She had eyes like pools of water.

She said hello. I said hello back. Her eyes sparkled and she had a dimple in her left cheek. She reached over for the sugar sachets. In doing so, her sleeve caught her glass, knocking it over into my lap. Juice soaked through my trousers. I swore loudly, and I heard my mother sucking her teeth. I imagined her thinking, you'll never get a nice woman if you cuss like that. I began hoping she was wrong.

The woman grabbed a handful of paper napkins and shoved them at me in alarm, apologising profusely. I mopped my crotch and began to laugh. She looked at me, unsure, and began to laugh nervously too. I told her it was okay. She apologised again. I laughed some more and so did she. I felt my mother smile. I took a bite of my pie.

I was lucky. If it hadn’t been so busy the woman would never have had to sit at my table. She would never have spilled her drink on my lap and we’d never have got talking. I am pretty certain I'd never have asked her out for dinner that evening or gone on holiday with her three months later. I also doubt very much we'd have ended up calling each other every evening or had little joke arguments over who had to hang up first. I can't imagine us holding hands at the cinema either. Nor sending each other Valentine's day cards. And I am almost positive we wouldn't have fallen in love.

At our wedding, my mother told everyone she always knew I would get married to a nice woman.

We had pie for dessert.

The Presence of Dawn

He couldn’t ever remember her looking as beautiful as she did that morning. That morning. That morning in early April, when the flowers were beginning to bloom, and the lambs cavorted in the fields. When the scent of new life – new hope – hung sweetly in the air; promising, expectant. Her thick, dark hair lay around her soft face, striking against the startlingly white pillow, and as the new spring sunlight shone through the window, it cast the shadows of her eyelashes across her once rosy cheeks. Her eyes did not flicker open when he broke the silence and said her name.

Her chest moved up and down, slowly, carefully, as if with thought; up and down, up and down, as she breathed. He tenderly lowered his hand down as she lay in the bed, and with his ring finger, stroked the smooth skin across her collar bone. A single tear escaped his eye and dropped where he had touched; creating a rivulet as it disappeared down across her chest, it was soon swallowed up by her nightdress. A trail of glittering wetness was left behind.

Everything was silent, aside from her quiet breathing. Deafeningly silent. He longed for her lips to part, for her tongue to flick across them before she spoke, as it always did. He wanted to hear her voice. He needed to hear her say his name in return. Just once. Just once.

The silence grew louder. He could not hear her breathing anymore. This was the moment. The moment that had been inevitable for months now. The moment he had to decide. He had to say goodbye. But he didn’t know how to begin to say such a thing. The word had never been needed before, not with them. Not so soon. Not now.

A movement behind him startled him, and the silence erupted with a monstrous howl. He could hear himself moaning, crying, begging for another minute, just one more moment. He could hear the voices of people in the hospital corridor; nurses bustling from one room to the next, patients laughing with family members. Telephones were ringing cheerily. Outside, he heard an ice cream van and children’s happy voices. He could hear birds. He didn’t understand how these things were still happening, still existing, when the whole world was about to fall apart. Didn’t they understand?

The doctor moved forward slowly. He placed a placating hand on the man’s shoulder, which was shuddering with every sob. The doctor hated this part. But it had to be done. He asked the man if he was ready. The man shook his head and gave a heart wrenching cry. He was desperate, the doctor knew. But so were they all. It had to be done. He told the man how sorry he was. And he was sorry. He was always sorry. He told the man she was not in pain. That she wasn’t alive anymore. The machine was keeping her breathing. But she was asleep now, and she was at peace.

The man took a deep, uneven breath and gave a jerk of his head. His mouth tasted like copper. He felt sick. The doctor moved forward and stopped over the machine for a moment. A moment was all it took. He straightened up again, his back aching, and looked at the man. He saw him die along with her. He apologised once more and quietly left the room. The man convulsed as her chest stopped rising and falling; grabbed the back of a chair with cold hands as his knees buckled.

Too young, she was too young. He knelt next to the hospital bed, crying silently now, a constant and unending river of tears escaping his sore, pink eyes; eyes that needed to sleep but would never do so restfully again. He took her tiny hand in his large one. She was too young. His darling baby was too young.

*

The doctor stood for a moment outside the door and took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut tight to compose himself. The child just wasn’t strong enough, never had been, not to cope with the strength of her injuries. She’d been a robot, living through electricity, for months now. Wires going in, wires going out. He knew how hard it was to say goodbye, but it needed to be done. He didn’t have any children, he and his wife had never been blessed; he knew he couldn’t quite understand the man’s grief. God knew he wanted children. It killed him he couldn’t give his wife a baby. But some people are never meant to make life. And some people are not meant to live. It was sad. It was unfair. It was cruel, really. But these things happen. They happen every day.

He walked down the corridor, his footsteps making a smart clicking noise as he went. He straightened his tie and checked the time. Half past two. He was hungry. But lunch would wait. His mind was already on his next patient. Little boy, cancer. Cute kid, smart sense of humour for his age. Promising little rugby player, the father said, proudly, chest swelling. Promising little dancer, the mother smilingly corrected under her breath when he wasn’t listening. Good chance of survival, anyhow, with the right treatment. The doctor was sure of that. Bad things happen. But he would try to save one life today. That’s all he could ever do.