A Night in Dieppe
(or Molly Ringwald and the Onions)
A MADE UP TRUE SHORT STORY
A wannabe pop star, a sharp-suited businessman and a revolutionary communist are brought together at a ferry terminal and lock horns over life’s big unanswerable questions until they have to put their money where their mouths are. For anyone who has ever missed the last ferry home.
A Night in Dieppe
11:01 pm
In the late spring of 1991, I spent a weeks holiday down in Martel, a tiny village in southwest France, before travelling up to Paris for a few days to visit my Aunty Lollipop and hang out at the bars with my cousin Olivier. The plan was to get the Sunday night ferry from Dieppe and arrive back in London for college on Monday morning and the small matter of my final exams. The night ferry departed from Dieppe at 11 pm, but alas, I arrived at the terminal at 11:01 pm to watch it leave without me. The cruel fog horn, like a giant raspberry to my ears.
I stood there in shock and surveyed my surroundings, realising that this was a disaster—a deserted ferry terminal. Any staff had vanished with the ferry except for a big burly sailor wrapping a rope around a bollard. He had the full Popeye credentials – thick leathery skin, stubble, tattoos and a Gitane cigarette wobbling from his mouth. Luckily I spoke fluent French, so could ask him an important question.
“Excuse moi, quand est ce le next ferry?”
“English?” he replied.
How on earth did he know that? I answered with a “Oui.”
“The next ferry is at eight tomorrow morning, monsieur.”
This was terrible news.
“Merd,” said I.
He finished tying up his rope and, before leaving, wished me good luck.
I would need it. I had nine hours to kill. The place was deserted, and I only had a few francs to my name. Hardly enough for a croissant. Plus, there was a nip in the air. I made my way over to an outdoor waiting area that looked like a dirty English bus shelter with orange plastic moulded seats under a corrugated roof. I sat down and stared ahead at the view of the now-empty docks. It was going to be a long night.
I decided to walk into Dieppe town centre and followed signs that took me along the Quai de l’avenir and then the Quai de la Marne but it was a complete ghost town. Even if I had had money, nothing was open – no hotels, no shops, no bars, no nightclubs. A light rain had started to fall, and I was wearing my thin Jim Morrison leather jacket, which looked super cool on a sunny day in Camden Market, but I was now cursing its inability to keep me dry or warm.
I returned to the waiting area at the ferry port, which at least provided some shelter and tried to get some sleep. But this task was made impossible by the contours of the orange plastic moulded seating, designed for a specific sized French posterior and certainly not made for rest. A bed of nails would be more comfortable. If only I had paper and a pen, I could write some song lyrics or start a novel. I sat there feeling sorry for myself when I heard footsteps and then out of the darkness, I detected the silhouette of someone approaching. It was a smartly dressed man in a suit carrying a briefcase.
I acknowledged him with a lifting of the eyebrows and a sympathetic smile, but he did not return my greeting. He was a large imposing man, and his suit appeared to be from a Saville Row tailors. But he was distracted. He inspected the row of orange chairs, grimacing, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
Eventually, he produced a large white handkerchief and started to rub vigorously on his chosen seat. It was a thorough cleaning operation, but his next dilemma was how to dispose of his soiled handkerchief. He looked around for a bin that didn’t exist. And even if it did, he would need another hanky to open the bin. Here was a man who had clearly never been to the outdoor toilets at Glastonbury Festival. Everything felt clean after that.
Initially, I had tried to give the man some privacy, but he was so oblivious to my presence that my mouth was agog. The vigour with which this obvious germaphobe had cleaned his seat was quite amusing. Eventually, he deemed the seat worthy of his posterior and perched on it, assuming a royal pose like he was riding side saddle on a horse, the minimum amount of buttock to seat ratio. We sat in awkward silence for a while. It was hard to catch his eye as he stared straight ahead as if trying to remove himself from his situation. Occasionally his eyes would close as if he was trying to imagine he was elsewhere. But then it seemed the internal rotations of his mind would be too much, and he would start muttering to himself angrily.
I was getting a bit offended that he was so uninterested in me. Some conversation would be nice. And I had some funny stories. Especially the one about our family golden retriever Max and the time he got stung by the bee. Eventually, his eyes darted my way. I took my opportunity and spoke.
“Nightmare!”
“What?”
“This. Are you waiting for the ferry?”
“Of course I am waiting for the ferry! You think I come to this godforsaken place in the middle of the night for pleasure?”
I left this hanging. He was a bit touchy, but hey, we were both in the same boat. Or not as the case seemed to be. I tried again.
“You live in England?”
“Yes.”
“And you missed the ferry huh?”
He didn’t respond. I ended the questions. My new arrival clearly didn’t want to engage, but then he seemed to have a change of heart.
“I am waiting for my daughter. They wouldn’t let me board the last ferry, so she has gone back to London to fetch the papers. And then she is coming back with my papers so that I can board.”
He looked at his watch, which I noticed was quite snazzy and released another very long, very angry sigh. He clearly wasn’t going to ask me any questions about myself, so I lobed another one at him.
“Have you lived in England long?” I asked.
He had. It was quite a convoluted story. He explained he was originally from Nigeria but had moved to London and set up a series of very successful businesses. He was in the precious stone trade. He now travelled first class, had a chauffeur, and that he should be reduced to sitting in this filthy departure shelter in Dieppe on filthy plastic moulded seats disturbed him no end.
The more he spoke, the more he had to say. Britain had been very good to him. There were opportunities that you needed to seize. You work hard you can do anything. It was a great country, the greatest country in the world. I nodded along, realising he was having a conversation with himself, but then to my surprise, he asked me a question, although it was of the rhetorical sort.
“You know the best thing the UK has produced?”
Hmm, that was a good question. I was about to say pop music and was ready to argue my corner – post-punk of the late seventies, the new romantic pop movement of the eighties and latterly Manchester indie scene had produced bands to rival the Beatles and the Stones, who although were another great UK export, were in my opinion a bit overrated. Or maybe I had just heard them too many times. But before I could reply, he told me the answer.
“Margaret Thatcher!”
My heart sunk as he began to list her achievements.
“She made the country proud again. Put the great back into Great Britain. I can’t believe she is gone.”
I didn’t want to be a nodding dog in what was becoming quite a one-sided conversation. I decide to steal something my old A-level Sociology teacher (the unfortunately named Charlie Brown) had once said about Margaret Thatcher.
“To me, her brand of authoritarian populism had its issues. And not everyone has benefitted. She has created quite a selfish society.”
It stopped him in his tracks.
“Exactly! this is what made her. Selfishness is a good thing!”
It was funny how Maggie inspired this evangelical love. There was no sober assessment of her policies in real terms to her supposedly sober-minded devotees, the short and long term impacts, the plus and minus columns. She could do no wrong. Just by the affected way she spoke, her hairstyle and choice of clothes, let alone her politics, she was not someone I would want to be stuck in a lift with. I was deciding how to counter his point when our conversation was interrupted by the shuffling of feet and a new arrival.
1:00 am
Out of the darkness another male of the species appeared, in his late twenties or early thirties, possibly homeless with threadbare clothes, long matted hair. He wore national health specs with a broken frame secured with sellotape. He nodded a hello and sat down on one of the seats opposite, but then realising they were not very comfortable plonked himself crosslegged on the ground. He produced a tin of tobacco and some Rizla papers and started rolling a cigarette.
There were now three of us. This was turning into The Breakfast Club. We just needed Molly Ringwall to appear next; and then Ali Sheedy who transformed from an emo-goth to a preppy prom queen, the reverse of Olivia Newton John’s decision to wear leathers and smoke cigarettes at the end of Grease, which had so confused the nine year old me who saw nothing wrong with her pleated skirt.
But in the absence of Molly, Ali or Olivia, we would have to make do with our new slightly dusty arrival. My Nigerian businessman friend looked at his watch, remembered he was angry and resumed his royal pose to stare into middle distance. Our new arrival’s lapel was adorned with various badges. My training as a student of political science recognised the logos – CND and Anarchist. His furrowed brow suggested deep thinking into the small hours but he didn’t look like he would be a barrel of laughs at an office party – this was not a man who would photocopy his bum for a laugh. But he might prove a better conversationalist than my current companion. I decided to introduce myself.
“Hey alright, how’s it going?”
“Been better,’ he said, with a roll of his eyes as if to acknowledge our situation.
“I’m Andy.”
“Alright mate. Ryan.”
We looked over to our Nigerian friend who seemed reluctant to reveal his name, maybe because in a mildly amusing coincidence it was Brian. Ryan, Brian and me It could be the name of the stage play when I eventually wrote it. And this situation was definitely stage play material. Three individuals from different parts of society forced together over an evening where a dark secret is revealed, Or maybe there would be a murder? I loved a good whodunnit and even better if it was a how-done-it too. I made a mental note to write this up when I got hold of a pencil.
I asked Ryan where he was headed.
“On my way back to Great Shiton.”
I was tempted to bring him into our previous conversation. “Oh, that’s interesting, Brian here was just telling me how much he loved the UK and Margaret Thatcher” But decided against. Instead I asked what he did for a living.
“I’m unemployed mate. Between jobs. Not that there is much out there. Been doing a bit of fruit picking. Heard it was decent wedge – five francs a kilo but buggers kept rejecting my punnets. My strawberries weren’t good enough apparently. Fascists.”
“Oh dear,” I said noticing his yellow fingers and dirty nails, and wondering if that might have had something to do with them not accepting the fruits of his labour.
“Yeah and working in fields all day is back-breaking work. Total waste of time and energy. Corporate whores.”
“Did you not make any money?”
“A bit, but it’s all gone on a ticket getting back here. Tried hitching but no one would stop for me. Don’t know why. Wankers.”
I detected a certain unpleasant body aroma since his arrival but decided against informing him. It was time for Brian to contribute to the conversation.
“You do realise you must declare any income if you are claiming benefits in The United Kingdom,”
Ryan stopped rolling his cigarette.
“Who said I was claiming benefits?”
“You said you were unemployed.”
“You a copper?”
“No.”
“Well. Mind you own.”
This put a full stop on the conversation and an awkward silence filled the waiting area along with the pong emanating from our new arrival. Ryan returned to filling his cigarette with tobacco. Brian resumed his royal pose in a sulk. I decided to have another go at stoking some conversation and explained I was on my way back to college for my finals but I was also in an indie pop band and we had some serious music industry interest. But strangely neither of them were interested in hearing about the crazy gigs we had played or my plans for musical world domination. Ryan finished rolling his cigarette, licked the paper to seal it and then lit up. He took a drag, blew a smoke ring and then spoke.
“What are you studying?”
‘Politics and government,” I replied, slightly irked he was more interested in my course than my band. Ryan laughed dismissively.
“Well, if you ask me we should fucking get rid of the lot of them and start again. The political system is corrupt. People think we live in a democracy but we don’t. It’s a sham. It’s all big business, shareholders. Workers rights being eroded. Rich get richer. Cunts.”
He sounded like one of my Politics lecturers. I nodded politely. Brian made an unimpressed harrumph sound. Ryan ignored him and continued.
“There needs to be fundamental change. And I’m not talking about another pointless election. I’m talking revolution, brother.”
He was also sounding like Reg from Life Of Brian. Brian harrumphed again, this time louder. Ryan warmed to his theme.
“All this wealth in London with increasing numbers of homeless people on the streets, in sleeping bags.’
Brian could harrumph no longer. It was time for him to interject.
“Yes but if you look some of these sleeping bags are brand new.”
This had stopped Ryan in his tracks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Some of these people are pretending to be homeless and they go home after a profitable day of begging.”
“Are you having a laugh?”
“I would never beg. Never! It is degrading. And they take this money and what do they do with it is they drink it and stick needle in their arms.”
“Up to them mate. I don’t blame them, need an escape when their future is so bleak.”
“The problem is these people don’t want to work. They are lazy. There are jobs.”
Ryan laughed incredulously and shook his head in disbelief.
“What jobs? There is a recession or haven’t you noticed?”
“Recession is all in the mind.”
It was safe to say Ryan and Brian hadn’t hit it off, like two snappy alligators. I sat quietly as they travelled down a well worn road of political arguments I had heard many times before.
“You have to make people strong, not reliant on handouts.”
“They wouldn’t be reliant on state handouts if there were jobs.”
“If you put more money in the pockets of the wealthy, it will trickle down to benefit the poor.”
“No wealth just gets hoarded. The rich just get richer and the poor get poorer.”
Eventually they ran out of road and sat in mutual loathing, aggrieved at the other’s presence, nay existence. This person represented all that was wrong in the world. They were to blame for all society’s ills. If this was an ideological sandwich of political left versus right, I was the liberal filling, mayonnaise maybe, or in Spinal Tap parlance the warm water to the fire and ice.
Not that I wasn’t interested, I just had more important things on my mind. Like my band, The Pointy Birds. I could sort this shit out later when I was rich and famous. Plus I didn’t have the answers.
3:00 am
Above us, the pitter patter of rain on the corrugated roof got heavier. Out at sea, there was a distant rumble of thunder followed by a small flash of lightning that briefly illuminated the horizon, where the dark churning sea, full of mystery and menace, met the vast unknowable sky above it. And beyond that, not viewable from here was the landmass of England. I suddenly thought of home, my flat in Golders Green and my bed. And then my duvet and two soft pillows. I felt a seductive pull to sleep like gravity but was foiled by those cursed seats. Damn these stupid seats! I must not think of my bed. I must zap that thought. Zap That Thought was quite a good name for something – an album or a poem, maybe? Or maybe a self-help book for pessimists? I made a mental note to make a mental note.
I needed to lighten the mood. The obvious contender was to bond and express ourselves though the medium of the spherical object.
“Hey, what football teams do you guys support? I’m a Spurs fan. I used to be Liverpool but…”
I was met by two horrified stares. I had unintentionally united them in their dislike of football. Along with voting behaviour and white dog poo this was another of life great mysteries. Why did some people love kicking a ball about and why did it leave others cold? What made us? The first time I saw a game on television, the 1975 FA Cup final between West Ham and Fulham, I was spellbound – the crowd, the excitement in the commentator’s voice, the spectacle, the theatre and at the centre of it all the glorious green rectangle. I didn’t just like football, I loved it. And I knew it would be with me for my whole life. But any talk about the genius of Paul Gascoigne or why people didn’t rate Gary Lineker as a centre forward, (okay, his first touch wasn’t all that but his movement and ability to score goals was beyond doubt) would fall on deaf ears.
I had drawn the real short straw with these two. A free market capitalist and a revolutionary communist, both who lacked a sense of humour. We could be having a laugh or maybe an adventure, be telling ghost stories around a fire while we cooked a rabbit that we had caught with our bare hands in a local forest. Instead I was sat here shivering cold, tired and worse of all, bored. Why couldn’t more fun people have turned up? And where was Molly Ringwald!?
I wasn’t sure Brian was a successful businessman or that he was waiting for his daughter to bring his papers. It all sounded a bit fishy. And what explained his right wing beliefs? Was he from a wealthy Nigerian family and had never considered the struggle of those beneath him? Or had he grown up in a dangerous backstreet of Lagos and managed to escape a life of crime to survive? If he could do it then so could others! And what about Ryan? Was he a revolutionary communist because he had seen the agony of the unemployed and families on the streets? Or was he a trust fund kid with too much time on his hands to ponder societies ills, a luxury denied to those with real life tangible problems like having to working a job you hated to pay the rent.
My thoughts turned to my stage play which was writing itself. Ryan was clearly on his way back from a clandestine underground meeting to plot the overthrow of the current ruling class apparatus. Meanwhile Brian was the president of some corrupt state who lived in a palace while his people starved on the street. I was a spy who needed to find common ground between them to overt World War Three. I’m not sure why I was compelled to turn things into a story. I lived in a land of make believe. Why didn’t I just take things at face value? I was sitting with a business man and someone down on their luck. Maybe this was a more interesting narrative anyway – real life. But then who was I? In The Breakfast Club, the students assignment was to work out who they really were. Was I a student about to fail his finals or a musician on the verge of rock n roll world domination? I suddenly wasn’t sure.
The three of us sat quietly for a while. I had no idea what the time was and dared not ask Brian to look at his snazzy watch in case it was earlier than I thought. All I knew was that it was still dark and I was very cold and the tiredness was starting to hurt. We still had several hours to kill. Sleep was impossible. These stupid moulded seats had been designed to keep you awake. Was the remit to prevent homeless people sleeping there? Or had someone at the plastic seat commissioning committee moulded them to the shape of their own unusual buttock? So many unanswered questions in life; so many un-peelable onions.
My thoughts began to swim with tiredness. I pictured a row of onions that contained the answers to some of life’s biggest questions. I just needed to peel each one to get to the truth. The onions contained answers to questions like, how we should best organise society; why we were who we were; whether life was ultimately a tragedy or a comedy; and most important onion of all, when would I be famous? I was having trouble peeling these onions. Luckily for me, Molly Ringwald had turned up and had no problem removing the various layers. As she peeled, she looked at me seductively across a roaring fire as our rabbits toasted and roasted and rotated on skewers. I was going to enjoy this dream. And the rabbit and onion stew.
My head dropped forward and I nodded off. Molly and the Onions was undoubtedly the greatest name for a band ever, I thought. My sleep lasted anywhere from five minutes to an hour, it was hard to know, but when I awoke things felt different. The rain had passed and there was a smudge of pink on the horizon suggesting the sun was about to make an appearance. The sky was brightening and the shapes of our surroundings were beginning to reveal themselves. I could now see the rooftops of the Dieppe skyline, the chalky cliffs in the distance and the outline of a huge P&O ferry moored in the docks.
My companions were sat in a kind of zombie state. I could now see the details and contours of their faces in this new light, in the same way people you meet at a nightclub look different once you are turfed out on to the street at 3am. Ryan seemed younger somehow, nearer my age, and Brian looked older, greying at the temples, and also less confident. He had a slightly frightened look in his eyes.
I was very, very hungry. I hadn’t eaten since lunch the previous day and ordinarily, I never skipped a meal. Ever.
“God! What wouldn’t I give for a bacon sandwich.”
My two companions said nothing. They were lost in their own worlds of misery.
“Or a jacket potato filled with chilli con carne and melted cheese.”
“Stop it,” snapped Brian. “You are making me more hungry than I already am.”
Brian was right.
Mustn’t think about food. Mustn’t think about food. Mustn’t think about food.
But the more I tried not to think about food the more I thought about it. Like Dostoyevsky’s famous task when he asked people not to think of a polar bear and the cursed thing came to mind every minute. Now, the song ‘Food Glorious Food’ from Oliver Twist entered into my head and I found new respect for the profundity of the lyric hot sausage and mustard. I sat for a while with the chorus spinning aimlessly between my ears.
“Are you humming food glorious food?” asked Ryan.
“Oh sorry didn’t realise.”
Now Ryan had the song in his head. I could also see it had crept into Brian’s thinking as he mouthed peas pudding and saveloys. For a moment I thought we were about to break into song. Maybe my stage play could be a musical.
Oh for a hot sausage and mustard now! I had to zap these thoughts or insanity could take hold. Holdfast was the Macleod family motto. I now knew what it meant. My uncle Gerard studied family trees and had worked out that we were descendants of Norwegian viking king Og Macleod. Macleod meaning son of ugly. Something in my Viking ancestry stirred within me and I could hear Ugly Og’s voice.
“Holdfast young Andrew Finlay Macleod. Do not think of hot sausage and mustard, or your duvet. Or polar bears.”
It was no good. I was consumed by the fact I wasn’t consuming.
I decided to throw a question to the floor. If this didn’t bond us nothing would.
“If you could have anything to eat what would you chose?”
Two tired and hungry faces looked at me. It was Ryan who spoke.
“Like a Death Row meal?”
“Yeah, exactly. Your final supper.”
Ryan took a drag on his cigarette, gave it some thought, exhaled, two smoke rings this time, and spoke.
“Gotta be toast.”
“Toast? Really?”
“You can’t beat toast.”
There was an element of truth to this, although surely there were better options.
“And what would you have on your toast?” I ask as my mouth started to drool.
“Marmite.”
“I hate marmite.” said Brian.
I laughed. Of course Brian and Ryan even clashed over condiments.
“Am I allowed a cup of tea?” asked Ryan.
I considered this.
“Yes ok.”
Ryan seemed happy with his imaginary meal. It was Brian’s turn.
“I would have my grandmother’s beef stew. Oh my god! You will never taste anything more delicious.”
Brian’s eyes lit up and he released a big happy laugh at the memory. “It is the taste of my childhood in Lagos. She added these secret herbs and spices…”
We all nodded and smiled as Brian described the stew in sumptuous detail, the trickle of drool from my mouth had now turned into a waterfall. I pictured a young Brian at his grandmother’s kitchen table and remembered shelling peas with my own grandmother. At the end of an 8 hour drive to Edinburgh every year for our summer holidays, she would serve up haggis, suede and mash, although not sure that would be my final supper.
“I walked passed a 24 hour bakery not far from here,” Ryan said.
“Really?” said Brian.
“Whereabouts?” said I.
“Only about ten minutes away. Smelt delicious.”
Does anyone have any cash?” said Brian. “I unfortunately do not carry cash.”
“Skint.” said Ryan sadly.
They both watched as I emptied my jean pockets of a few coins. Even a croissant would be better than nothing but I wasn’t sure I had enough. I checked the pockets of my leather jacket more in hope than expectation, but deep in the recess I felt something and pulled out a folded fifty franc note.
I unfolded it to check it was real. It was like Charlie Bucket discovering Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. I remembered that Aunty Lollipop had given me some spending money in Paris. I had completely forgot. I could sneak off and pig out on pastries, but my travelling companions were hungry too. Plus we had just bonded.
“I’ve got some money” said I triumphantly holding up my 50 franc note like a lottery ticket. “Enough to get us all something to eat.”
“Seriously?” they said.
‘Sure”
“You are a good man. We will send you a cheque when we get back to England. Wont’t we Ryan?”
Ryan nodded in the affirmative although I wasn’t sure if cheque books and him were really a thing.
Our fortunes were changing. The sun’s head had appeared on the horizon too, bringing new warmth and daylight. We all stood up and stretched excited that we had a little expedition. Not only would this kill some time but would also fill our bellies. I imagined a steaming cup of coffee and a pain aux raisin. Or maybe I would go for a good old cup of English breakfast tea and a croque monsieur. A salty ham and cheese toastie filled with gooey bechemal sauce. Food of the gods.
5:00 am
We followed Ryan along the streets towards the town centre, a strange entourage on a pilgrimage. After a few twists and turns, glowing in the distance we could see a little corner shop bathed in golden light. Not quite a manger in Bethlehem but not far off. It was a hive of activity, packed with all sorts of groceries, everything you might need at 5am. Plus the smell of fresh bread and pastries being baked. What kind of heaven was this? My dry mouth and empty stomach began to ache with pleasure.
“Give me the money,” said Brian. “I speak perfect French and will order us a banquet.”
I handed over the fifty franc note somewhat hesitantly. Should I not be buying the food? But choosing would be next to impossible. Plus the shop was too small to fit all three of us. Brian disappeared inside and we waited. Whatever he bought would hit the spot.
The sun was rising higher in the sky and with it a beautiful red dawn. I noticed a couple of seagulls circling above. The promise of a new day and our hunger being satisfied. We had done the hard bit. It was all down hill now. The pleasure was in the relief. The end to pain. I suddenly felt a wave of profound happiness. I closed my eyes feeling the warmth of the sun on my back as the birds above made their familiar screech, the happy sound of the seaside. I breathed in deep taking in the salty notes of the sea and the sweet, comforting smell of fresh bread and pastry from this magical little bakery – purveyors of sugar and spice and all things nice.
Brian was taking his time. But eventually, he re-appeared clutching two carrier bags packed full of goodies and started marching back to our base camp at the ferry depot.
“We will go back to our waiting area where we can sit down properly.”
“Can’t we eat now?” I pleaded.
“No we are not eating in the streets like dogs.”
I didn’t mind eating in the street like a dog. I was drooling like a dog. We hurried along behind, but his long legs and large purposeful strides meant it was hard to keep up with him. My hunger had taken on a new almost psychedelic dimension. What on earth had he bought? I was expecting three bacon sarnies and three cups of tea but Brian was loaded with stuff.
“What did you buy?”
“Wait until we get back.”
“Did you get pastries? Toasties? Hot sausage and mustard?”
I looked at Ryan for some moral support but he was trailing behind and seemed less bothered about the food.
Eventually we arrived back at base camp. Brian plonked the two carrier bags down. He rummaged through his sacks like Santa Claus and the first thing he produced was a packet of paper napkins. They were decorated with bunnies skipping around in meadows
I was confused. These weren’t edible. What a complete waste of money.
“I had to buy some additional provisions so we can eat properly.”
Next he produced a packet of paper plates in the same design. I started to feel something nameless, bubble within me. The napkins and plates were not just a waste of money but a reduction in quantity of potential food.
Next Brian produced some paper cups in the same bunny design and I released a short, hard laugh.
“We can not drink from the same bottle,” said Brian. “Nasty germs.”
I was speechless. I looked at Ryan but he was busy rolling a cigarette. I suppose it wasn’t his money that was being spaffed up the wall. The feelings in my stomach now had names – disbelief and anger.
Next came a selection of plastic knives and forks. Brian said he wasn’t sure whether we needed these but he didn’t want to use hands. We now had the makings of a children’s tea party. We just needed party hats. As Brian was busy distributing the plates and cutlery, the bags were looking less full now. Next Brian brought two big bottles of water for rehydration purposes. Considering I was about to erupt like a volcano the water might be a good idea. If Brian didn’t produce a freshly baked sausage roll out of the oven pretty sharpish I knew not what I might do.
Lastly Brian produced a packet of Jacobs dry crackers. I stared in disbelief. At least they were apt because this entire situation was crackers.
“Unfortunately I did not have enough left for the delicious looking and smelling pastries so I had to make do with these.”
Brian seemed pleased with his haul. He put a napkin on his lap, filled his paper cup with water and then unsuccessfully tried to fork the crackers into his mouth using the plastic cutlery.
I was a mild mannered guy but I had effectively been robbed and humiliated. The loud rumbling of my tummy was now about to be joined by an eruption of incredulous anger. The sheer injustice of it. Why had I let him take control? And why did I not now confront him? I spoke firmly but quietly.
“So there were no sausage and hot mustard?”
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
“No bacon sandwiches?
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
“No pain aux raisins?”
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
“No croissants?”
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
Brian placed two crackers on a paper plate, filled the paper cup with water, folded a napkin around a plastic knife and fork and then offered the plate to Ryan.
“No I’m alright mate.”
Ryan lit his rollie and blew three smoke rings, he was good at them. I snatched the plate from Brian and nibbled on a couple of crackers and sipped some water.
Me and food got on very well. I always ate everything on my plate. I was an advocate of the plate lick as a compliment to the chef. My family called me the wolf because of the speed I devoured my food. But now this wolf was being denied food and I could feel bloodlust. Aha! So this was how the murder would take place! At least I had the answer to my Whodunnit! There was going to be a murder but little did I know that I, the author/narrator/protagonist would be the one wot did it. That was quite a neat twist.
I had the motive. I had the opportunity. I just needed the means. A blunt object would suffice, but I was only armed with a cracker, and Brian’s looked more powerful than me. Maybe Ryan could help, but as Sex Pistol Johnny Rotten said about Sid Vicious, he didn’t look like he could fight his way out of a paper bag.
I suddenly felt weak and light-headed. My only option was to remove myself from this ridiculous situation. Instead, I would use the power of imagination and exact sweet revenge in the fantasy of my mind. I liked being in the land of make-believe, and at least I could figure out how the murder would take place for my play. I closed my eyes and watched as in this closing act, I marched towards Brian and kicked the paper plate from his hands. I then threw the crackers up in the air and poured the water over his head. I then lifted him by the scruff of the neck and asked him two pertinent questions.
WHERE IS MY BLEEDING BACON ROLL??!
WHERE IS MY BLINKING CUP OF TEA??!
Brian gurgled as my hands gripped around his neck. I exerted pressure and his eyes began to bulge but my pleasant dream was suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps and wheels on gravel. I opened my eyes to see a girl about my age dragging a heavy suitcase towards us. Brian stood up and greeted her in French; she responded with a tired “Allo Papa”. They kissed and then Brian barked some instructions as his daughter opened the suitcase and passed him a freshly pressed suit, a new set of clothes and a wash bag. She then held up a towel to hide Brian as he began to fully undress. He then started a thorough cleaning operation of his naked body with some wet wipes. I caught his daughter’s eye, and she smiled awkwardly.
I looked at his namesake, Ryan, who was sat on the ground covered in dirt and suddenly aware of the ridiculousness of the situation combined with extreme tiredness and hunger, I began to laugh. It was a long, uncontrollable and much-needed release of nervous energy.
More passengers arrived and then the raspberry-like blast of a fog horn signalled our ferry was at last ready to depart. My French sailor friend appeared and began unravelling ropes as we formed a queue to board the ferry.
“Ze tickets please.”
I gave him my ticket and tried out a bit of French.
“Je suis tres fatigue et femme.”
He laughed.
“You are tired and a woman?”
“Huh?”
“It’s je suis fatigué et j’ai faim.”
He handed me back my ticket with a wink and I boarded the ferry. I would find a comfortable seat as far away as possible from the others and get some sleep. I had learned two important lessons: never be late for a night ferry. And never give your dinner money to a complete stranger.. On the plus side, I had plenty of material for my soon-to-be-hit ensemble stage play which I would call A Night in Dieppe. Or maybe it would work better as a short story.
FIN.
Read another Made up True Short Story...
The Quilt
Dave Quilty is a builder who loves playing his guitar. The trouble is that no one wants to listen, and he can’t get a gig anywhere. But when, unexpectedly, he finds a captive audience, he has a final chance to prove the doubters wrong. And maybe reveal a hidden side too. The Quilt is a made-up true short story.
