The Night of the Dinner

WordSmith

Gerard Smith

My poor father. I had a habit of making him jump. I didn’t do it intentionally; it simply seemed to happen.

One early evening he was in the kitchen peeling spuds and softly singing, “Mull of Kintyre, oh mist rolling in from the sea…” He was contentedly crooning away when I burst through the door and shouted, “DAD!” He jolted, jumped and exclaimed – “FOR F***S SAKE!”

He looked at me, exasperated, and said, “Living with you is like being in a fecking horror film.”

Horror films, Dad had zero interest in them. He preferred his drama on football fields and racecourses. Yet, he always indulged my passion for all things horror, listening to my tales of monsters and demons with what I now recognise as a wonderfully feigned interest. He may have hated horror, but he loved me enough to listen to every frightening story I had to tell. But, there was one time when a very real horror came off the cinema screen in Manchester, and followed me home to Cavan. It horrified Dad and me, but the aftermath brought us even closer.

It happened around this time of year, the evenings were shortening and the town was swathed in a cold drenching drizzle. I popped into the pub where Mam worked to get the key after school. Mam looked at me, “Gerard, you’re drowned.”

Only when I looked down and saw water pooling at my feed did I realise I was soaked through having walked home in incessant rain. At home I walked into a welcoming blanket of warmth that immediately soothed me. Mam had lit the range before leaving for work and its hazy-heat visibly radiated around the room. In my bedroom I sparked up the gas heater and draped my wet clothes over a chair – blissfully unaware of the horror that lurked downstairs.

Dad and me had established a comforting routine: I came home from school and peeled the spuds, Dad came home from work and cooked the dinner. It worked perfectly. And Monday night was pork-chop night – one of our favourites.

That evening, on hearing the familiar sound of Dad’s key in the door, I changed into dry clothes and settled down to do my homework. All was normal, peaceful.

Then I heard it: a sizzle. The unmistakeable sound of chops hitting a hot pan. When the smell drifted upstairs I smiled and said, “Dinner.”

I wandered downstairs, but stopped before I reached the open kitchen door. Because that’s when I saw him, Dad.

He was standing at the cooker, completely unaware of the horror in his hands. I froze. Time stood still. Dad was opening the tin. My heart sank, for I knew what was coming – The green horror!

I roared, “DAD, NO!” He jolted, jumped and exclaimed – “FOR F***S SAKE!”

I made it into the kitchen just in time to save my dinner from the horror that was MUSHY-PEAS.

“Dad, don’t put them on mine,” I said, with a raised hand for extra emphasis. He looked at me, “Is that what has you roaring?” he asked.

“Yeah, they remind me of The Exorcist, I snook into see it before we left Manchester,” I confessed.

I continued with relish, “They used mushy-peas to make the vomit she spews in the film.”

Dad quietly ate his dinner, while I explained my mushy-pea aversion in greater detail, “The girl, she’s called Regan, is lying on the bed with all these sores on her face, and she talks like a man because she’s possessed by the Devil; and the priest leans in for a closer look, and she looks at him all kind of innocent – then spews loads of steaming green sick right into his face and mouth, and from his reaction, you can tell it stinks…”

Dad put his knife and fork down and looked at me, aghast, “Gerard, I’m eating my dinner.”

Sheepishly, I cut into my chop, “I know, I’m only telling you why I don’t like mushy-peas, that’s all.”

Dad was very ill that final weekend.

I didn’t know it then, but it would be our final few days together. It was around this time of year and I’d arrived home from London to visit. I let myself quietly in. He was on the couch, dozing. Age and illness had shrunk him, he looked so frail and fragile. Mindful not to startle him I put my hand on his shoulder and softly said, “Dad.”

He jolted awake, jumped and exclaimed – “FOR F***S SAKE!”

And just like that, Dad and I were back. For the most fleeting of moments it felt like nothing had changed.