Leslie Gahm

Leslie Gahm

Spill

Spill

@designs_confess

Tried something different: A short dark, humourous true story *we might animate this later @grok Anyways presenting: Death of a Sausageman The death of my uncle, wasted by a wiener, slaughtered by a salami, killed by a kranski, slain by a sausage is still a much talked about and allegorised incident in the village where he and my aunt lived, where in fact my aunt still lives. The village itself is quite unremarkable: whitewashed stone walls covered in climbing pink roses, fat yellow bees buzzing in the fragrant blooms; ruby coloured red shingled roofs; golden crusted pies cooling upon windowsills and filling the air with a faint hint of toasted cinnamon; the trill of children’s laughter as they patter barefoot over freshly-scrubbed cobbled streets. Men, ruddy faced from a life outdoors in clean crisp air, patiently watch as their opponents’ ponders the next move in the ever-present chess matches in the town square. The occasional movement of brawny arms, blue-cottoned sleeves rolled up to the elbow, lift glasses of creamy topped brown ale or reach down to run calloused fingers through the wiry fur of small white terriers lying at their feet. Children lying upon the green lawn nearby watch as pipe smoke curls softly higher; slowly changing into flying dragons or warships battling in the brilliant blue sky before fading away. Mothers & wives passing by turn soft frowns upon respected husbands, sons and daughters before turning to each other and sharing secret smiles. As the day ages and shadows lengthen, couples old and young can be seen climbing the well worn chalk path from the nearby beach. With shoes, boots or wicker picnic baskets carried in one hand, the other clasps, fingers entwined - touch confirming an unspoken bond of love and companionship. It was into this utterly boring cesspit that I was bundled every summer holiday as a child. No sooner had the school term ended for the Christmas holidays and my school bag hit the tiled floor of our kitchen then my bony arse, still encased in grey flannel shorts, was to be found bouncing on the red leather bench seats in some pipe-smoke filled compartment in the train onto which my father bundled me. It was on this annual drive to the station as my father raced to deposit me from his life for a few more weeks that he revealed hidden talents as a rally driver. Hand on horn, corners were taken on two wheels as acceleration kept us pinned into the depths of the driver and passenger side seats. Brief glimpses towards the windscreen showed a surreal world of moving houses and blurry trees. I had always wondered if my father had ever thought of other time saving options; maybe launching me by way of catapult from the back seat whilst we drove parallel to the moving train or just dropping me off the village bridge as the train passed underneath. I was always tempted to mention the catapult idea to my father but was halted by the memory of my mother’s hysterical sobbing when I ran the idea passed her. It wouldn’t do to let father know I had upset mother I remember one year my father taking the option of cutting cross country across Old McDonalds farm, an instinctive hand brake turn implemented when the farm holder threw caution to the wind and opened the rear door of his dwelling and reached an arm across our path to pick up his waiting wellies costing a valuable 3.4 seconds, the farmer having the misfortune to leave them on his back step. I could see the obituary: Old McDonald had a farm, and on that farm was a crazed driver racing to the station and deposit his son from his life for a further eight weeks, with a toot toot here and a toot toot there etc. Another 2 seconds being added to dodge a particularly well aimed weatherproof boot, I was surprised that the windscreen glass was able to bend so much without breaking upon its sudden airborne arrival. My father timed the option as cutting an entire 12 seconds from our previous best time for the journey, set two years earlier and memorable for the fact that the careers of one postman and two ducks were ended in the same pond. We never repeated the cross country exercise though, as in my father’s opinion the risk of unanticipated time impediments; farmer, gumboots, camping boy scouts and various farm animals, was too high. What is it with boy scouts and camping in the fields of a local farmer? The idea of thirty-odd, and I mean odd, pre-pubescent, running unfettered, in khaki shorts and stout shoes out in the wilds of a local farmer’s field braving the dangers of a hay bearing tractor, cows dangerously full of milk, wandering beetles and the occasional bird call whilst they twine twigs in their hair and smear mud on each other as preparation for their jamboree performance that consists of a whole lot of rolling around in wet grass whooping and is meant to depict mans inhumanity to man makes me shiver. What is to stop them jumping the nearest fence and escaping off into the night?, The fear of a rogue sheep in the next paddock? An extra large haystack? A pond full of frogspawn? The scoutmaster? - The human equivalent of a golden Labrador who spends his existence with his tongue hanging out, rolling over and pleading for someone to scratch his bloated tummy. No, rogue boy scouts; tying knots in native fauna, lighting fires, making hats out of native flora, stealing eggs from nests, digging burrows in golf courses and disturbing the night with suggestive cries of dib dib dobbing to passers by are now a far worse pest than rabbits in some Southern hemisphere continents, and rabbits are a bloody big pest. The train journey was memorable only for the sheer boredom of passing for three hours through rolling green hills, under the occasional bridge rickety enough to have once felt the tramp of legionnaires’ boiled-leather sandals and over small icy rivers, home to fat brown trout. The worst was passing small country towns with unpronounceable names; where residents viewed the train’s passing as a social event. It was positively sickening to look out and think that soon I would be in a village full of people similar to all those ruddy-faced people waving their handkerchiefs at me in a jolly manner. Occasionally I would raise my hand and give a languid wave in response to the furious snot ridden semaphore of a small soot covered child sitting upon it’s father’s shoulders: (“I have a new handkerchief” was the closest I came to deciphering the message) For the last hour of our journey the briny smell of the sea invaded our compartment, a very commendable effort considering the old bloke seated across from me had removed his shoes as soon as the train edged away from the platform to reveal two week old dead hairy anchovies cunningly wrapped in coarse wool socks to look like human feet. I believe that my effort of 2 hours 40 minutes makes me the Under 12 Breath Holding World Champion. As the train ground to a halt, the brakes squealing much like I imagine bathroom scales with voices would do upon feeling the floor shake and having the cold shadow of doom fall across them as a dressing-gowned behemoth with curlers bedraggled in their hair attempts to see whether not eating that sixth extra cup cake (“Oh, couldn’t possibly, darling: dieting, you know!”) has magically managed to remove the excess 22 stone. I gather my meagre possessions, myself and a knapsack, and prepare to be inspected. The greeting of my aunt and uncle was by now a familiar annual ritual played out on the platform: a calloused meaty finger tasting slightly of hay and ale is shoved roughly into my mouth and lips are lifted to expose teeth and gums. “You can always tell someone’s health by the state of the gums, young one. Same as cattle, you know!” I gave my annual thanks to the gods that my aunt took an interest in local farming practices rather than proctology. My uncle stood back and looked at me at arms length. The look was always very measured, approximately 5.8 seconds long, starting at my hair, the styling of which always attracted a frown of disapproval and a muttering of “Not even the Germans would be so cruel.” The next utterance, “Pinched face poor lad”, was always followed by a glance somewhere between my navel and knees and a comment on the lack of manly fur-covering the area had yet to achieve, my uncle had once been mistaken for an escaped rare Albanian bear on his only trip to the city zoo. This pattern would be strictly adhered to whether the sun was shining or whether hail the size of golf balls were braining anyone without enough sense to be under cover. It did once, they hadn’t and we weren’t. I still have the scars Bracing was the term used by my uncle for any weather that didn’t actually separate your limbs from your body. Being battered by hailstones: bracing! Ice actually forming on the mucus membranes: bracing! Losing two toes to frostbite on a trip to the front gate to check the mailbox: bracing! The formal declaration of an official ice age would have only led him to consider wearing boots instead of sandals outdoors, maybe. With luggage tucked snugly under my arm and proceeding down the platform towards the waiting transport, I manfully ignored further comments about my lack of a bottom, the remedy to which was suggested as porridge – luckily taken orally; you could never be too sure with my aunt. There is a waiting marketing campaign opportunity for an up and coming young advertising exec: “Eat porridge and get an arse”. The transport was the local bus that the summer tourists loved, an old open sided thing with tattered red leather seats. As I climbed its stairs, I was greeted with a gap-toothed smile and enveloped in an ale laden “Evening, young sir.” I had a brief daydream of the driver suddenly collapsing as we rushed downhill towards a 900 cliff side bend and me heroically wrestling him out of the driver’s seat, jumping on the brakes and steering the bus in a life-saving skid around the bend and driving slowly towards a cheering crowd, only to be stopped, breathalysed, booked and hauled off by the local police for driving whilst under the influence. I gave the driver a sour look in return and hoped he was in better health than his teeth and breath suggested. The bus coughed heroically and a dark plume of oily smoke farted from the exhaust; luckily I managed to swallow most of it. My uncle nonchalantly rubbed soot from his eye. Disgusting as the taste of soot was in my mouth, it reminded me starkly of something worse. It was Friday: sausage day. I don’t know what it was about sausages that made my aunt unable to cook them; her bacon was beautiful, pancakes perfect, eggs excellent, and mushrooms mouth-watering. Somehow the art of putting a small bag of pig intestine stuffed with scrapings from the butcher’s floor into a pan of sizzling fat and removing it before complete cremation eluded her. My uncle proceeded to devour each crisp, contorted coffin of congealed crud every Friday night, mouthful after mouthful crunched contentedly and followed with a wet lip smack of approval. Plate cleaned, he would rub his ample stomach contentedly and compliment my aunt on her culinary creations. And, once the washing up was complete, off they would trot, hand in hand, down the street towards the setting sun and the local white stone pub on the corner for a few cleansing ales and a twirl on the ancient dance floor. The fateful night was unexpected; most of the village thought my uncle’s immunity to weather and his sausage swallowing skills demonstrated he was indestructible, though sadly that was to be proven untrue. My Aunt’s voice rang out to the garage calling my Uncle and myself to the dinner table, “Better hurry up, lad, else there’ll be naught but scrapings” I extracted myself from under his old blue sedan; my Uncle had been showing me how to change the oil. Luckily my clothing had halted any drops from staining the garage’s freezing and still pristine cement flooring. I dragged myself to the table and levered myself up onto the wooden kitchen chairs. Balancing my elbows on the table, I watched my Aunt prepare dinner across the checked linoleum floor. Beans were drained with the grace of a dancer, potatoes mashed with a surgeon’s delicate touch and carrots dressed with a fashionista’s finesse. Unfortunately there were also to be the sausages. As my Aunt gathered the plates and turned towards the table, I closed my eyes, gave a small prayer, “Please god” and waited for the deadened thunk of the dreaded plate on the wooden kitchen table. Thunk went the plate. Opening my eyes I looked upon a plateful of answered prayer; for, nestled snugly against the buttered beans, was a sumptuous sausage, plump and glistening with pan juices. The aromas of lamb, honey and rosemary filled my nostrils and my mouth began to water. I bent closer till my nose was a bare millimetre from the crisp golden brown skin and stared dumbly; it was perfect and it was beautiful. It was then I heard my Uncle’s hushed whisper of wonder; “Oh my”. I looked at my Uncle; he was sitting, back straight, knife and fork poised in his huge chapped hands and a smile upon his weathered face. I don’t think I had ever seen him so happy. It took us awhile to realise my Uncle had passed, when we did, my Aunt gently removed the utensils from his warm hands and cupping his face softly in her hands, kissed him tenderly. ‘C’mon lad” she whispered and taking my hand helped me down from the table and led me unresisting to the small inn where she broke the sad news to the rest of the village. My Aunt of course had him cremated

331