Cyril Childs

Peppered Mackerel

This morning I take the rest of the peppered mackerel from the fridge and place it between thick buttered slices of the bread I mixed last night. I could smell the bread when I woke and decided on the mackerel in the shower. Two sandwiches, each cut into two slabs, wrapped in clingfilm, and placed crosswise in the Tupperware box. I wipe the mackerel grease from my fingers and add an apple, a pear and the folding picnic knife, two small pieces of June’s Florentine Cake, wrapped in clingfilm, two paper towels folded, and the box is full. I place it in the red bag beside the old blue vacuum flask filled with instant coffee and milk and our lunch is complete.

In half-an-hour we’ll meet by your office in the university and drive up through the trees, past the cemetery, to the car park above the city, the harbour and the ocean. We will talk a little about the weather, the ships in port, and how each of our days is going. When that is done, I will open the red bag and take the blue flask because that’s a ‘boy job’. With a laugh you will take the Tupperware box and quietly say “What have we got today?” In a few moments you will tell me how much you like the sandwiches, you will drink the coffee I’ve poured for you, and we will talk of things yet to come.

late autumn light—
a small blue sailboat passes
from warehouse to warehouse