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.