Cold pasty

By Phillip Miller

Stuart was a rather large fellow. He had lost most of his teeth and his hair looked like it was in a permanent state of shock. He resembled that crazy one from “The Hair Bear Bunch”; it looked like some demon was continuously messing his hair up, throughout the day, just for a laugh.

He lived in a five bedroomed council house in one of the smelliest and most notorious roads in East London. It was a perfect breeding ground for an apprenticeship in gang warfare or how to become an expert rodentologist; rats everywhere; not surprising, considering the garden backed onto the biggest waste disposal depot in Newham.

His wife was very large; larger than him. They had nine children. I asked him one day if he was going to have any more children.

“No.”

“Have you had the chop?”

“No.”

“Is she too old now?”

“No.”

“That’s what happens I suppose.”

“What?”

“You know. You both get on in years and that sort of thing falls by the wayside, ay? The passion goes.”

His eyes started to roll. They were red raw like he hadn’t slept in a week.

He said, “to be honest, I got home last night from work and three of my kids opened the door, giggling. The missus shouted down the stairs ‘who is it?’ I looked up and got the shock of my life.

“Was she with another man?”

“No, she was in her birthday suit which, I can assure you, is not a pretty sight.”

He grinned from ear to ear, exposing the one front tooth he had left in his head, before pulling from his pocket, and munching on, a cold pasty that he had started the night before.

We arrived at the building site to start our contract and made our way to the canteen to wait for instructions. When the fried breakfasts turned up the food was literally swimming in oil. Bacon still had hairs on it, sausages burnt, eggs broke and toast and beans cold. Tea was nice and hot though; every cloud, ay. All four of us started to talk about the day ahead and after about 10 minutes Stuart’s eyes rolled again, but this time his head dropped and the side of his face slammed into his breakfast. I shouted for help and went to get up but felt a tug on my arm.

“Sit down, he’s ok,” said my boss, who happened to be Stuart’s oldest friend.

“He’s gonna die. That won’t look good on his death certificate- death by drowning in a plate of fat.”

“It's all right. He’ll wake up in a minute. Another cuppa anyone?”

Stuart came too 10 minutes later, and began wiping the leftover egg, bean sauce and fat from his face.

He added another four sugars to his cold coffee ( so eight sugars in total ) and lit a cigarette.

He could see I was slightly alarmed.

My boss said, “you been selling your pills again, up the West End?”

“Yeah! Fiver each,” said Stuart, grinning, eyes almost shut.

I said, “what pills?”

“I’m narcoleptic. I need the pills to keep me awake. They are amphetamine, better than blues. You want some. Do you a deal, matey boy.”

I told him I don’t do drugs.

“Your loss. Never mind. Back up the West End tonight.”

“Why don’t you just take the pills?”

“Nine kids and a wife to feed, that’s why. They all need shoes, clothes and stuff for school.”

“Have the chop mate.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“We are Catholic.”

“Try doing it standing up then.”

“I can’t do it standing up or laying down and I certainly don’t want her dunking up and down on my totem pole. She’ll do me an injury.”

“How did you manage nine kids then?”

“Normally happens when we go on holiday to my mate’s caravan in Clacton.”

“What do you mean?”

“She bends over in front of the oven, I’ve had a few too many, and in it pops. Quick as apple crumble really.”

“I think you better give up caravanning mate.”

“I think I better give up apple crumble.”

We all roared with laughter.

Two months later I found out that Stuart had died. He had been doing some electrical work on the side. Everybody thought that the tiredness killed him. It didn’t. He was colour blind.

Copyright Phillip Miller