As the tapestry of May is woven with vibrant hues and fresh beginnings, we, at The Broken Spine, find ourselves reflecting on the transformative power of literature. Our gratitude extends deeply to Lucy Aur and Elizabeth Kemball, whose dedication and artistic vision have left an indelible mark on our community. This month, we are thrilled to showcase the evocative pieces Old Dry Dinner by Alison Wassell and Your Mother Taught You to Never Love a Man More Than He Loves You by Meg Keane.
- Alison Wassell is a distinguished writer of short fiction from St Helens, Merseyside. With her work celebrated by Bath Flash Fiction Award, Retreat West, The Phare, Ellipsis Zine, and Reflex Fiction, Alison’s narratives weave the extraordinary into the fabric of the everyday.
- Meg Keane brings to life the complexities of human emotion and experience. A librarian and writer, her stories have found homes in Creepy, Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, and WellBeing Magazine. Commended by the Aurora Prize for Writing and the Ink Of Ages Fiction Prize, Meg’s voice resonates with authenticity and depth.
Old Dry Dinner – Alison Wassell
Before the first lockdown, in a time that now feels like ancient history, Hannah had a row about gravy with her dad.
“I. Do. Not. Like. Gravy.” He made a scene, pushing his plate away and shouting abuse at a terrified teenaged care assistant who scuttled away to fetch a replacement, gravyless meal.
Later, Hannah wheeled him to his room and remarked upon this unexpected new aversion.
“I’ve always hated it,” he said. “Your mum used to call me Old Dry Dinner.”
This, Hannah knew, was a blatant lie. She thought of her mum, every Sunday of her childhood, standing at the stove working her magic with the juices of the meat, thickening them with cornstarch, making them all leave the kitchen before she added her secret ingredients. They all guessed, but she never told. Bacon dripping? Herbs? Garlic? Caramelized vegetables? Hannah has Googled perfect gravy, but it remains a mystery.
Hannah remembered her dad, when they were allowed back in, placing his hands gently on her mum’s waist, kissing her neck, whispering in her ear. She would smile, offering him a spoonful. He always tasted with his eyes closed, licked his lips, then kissed her again. At those moments, Hannah’s mum and gravy seemed one and the same thing. At those moments all was perfect in Hannah’s world.
The remembered aroma was too much to bear. Hannah left early, giving her dad only a cursory peck on the cheek and slamming the door of his room on her way out. The next time she visited she could only wave at him through a closed window. Gravy was the least of their problems.
Today, Hannah finds an old photograph at the back of a drawer. In it, her dad wears a paper hat, and a napkin like a bib. He is smiling as he tucks into his gravy smothered dinner.
“Gotcha!” shouts Hannah, although she is alone, forgetting for a moment that her dad went to his grave three years ago, attended only by a handful of socially distanced mourners, and that he died a professed gravy hater, denying all the Sundays, the dinners, the encircled waists, the kisses, the smiles, the love, the perfect gravy, the rightness of everything.
This, thinks Hannah, is the hardest thing of all.
Your Mother Taught You to Never Love a Man More Than He Loves You – Meg Keane
And yet, in the small hours, the question tumbles out of your mouth.
What are you thinking about?
And you wait in pathetic silence, because you’re hoping he’ll say you. A momentary lapse of judgement in the candlelight. There goes the upper hand. All the world is a stage but you should never break the fourth wall. Your mask cannot drop, the façade of carelessness should never falter.
You stare at the cracks in the ceiling. And the realisation of your blunder hits you when the silence grows deafening. Ear piercing white noise that aches between your teeth like crystalised sugar. You wonder if sugar can rot as you command your eyes to stay dry; you learned that from your mother too. But she wouldn’t have asked. Cool, nonchalant girlfriends don’t ask questions, and they certainly don’t fucking cry. Your painted smile may not waiver but it’s more of a grimace come to think of it and, that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach now rising in your throat is all too familiar, isn’t it? You changed up the script, but there’s a script for a reason. There’s a game to be won and you are now losing.
So, you hoped he’d say you but now you just hope he’ll say anything at all. Because you dipped your toes into emotion, and you were caught out with something other than indifference. And everyone knows that anything other than indifference is, well, embarrassing. You consider pushing your boobs together to minimize damage, to distract and avert. It’s a deplorable attempt.
The one who cares less has the most power your mother’s tired voice murmurs on loop. The soundtrack to your existence.
You plead, silently of course, for him to utter a single syllable to break the impermeable silence that follows your stupid question. You’re on your knees with your hands clasped to your chest gazing up at your chosen protagonist. But this is your life and this man is so high upon the pedestal you built with your own shattered bones that you can barely make out his expression.
Disdain. It’s disdain, by the way.
