Sandra's Shepherd's Pie

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This works as a stand alone story but it can be a follow up to Monday's.

Did I hope he was dead? Yes and no. I didn't mean to kill him but if he bled to death before the ambulance came then I guess I wouldn't mind. I knew the ambulance would come because I called it.
“My husband's been stabbed,” I sobbed before I left the front door ajar and got into my car. I suppose you could say I saved his life; if he survives that is.  I parked the car in the bus station car park and then walked to the train station and got on the train to Gatwick.  I pictured the scene at my place; him lying on the floor, a pool of blood darkening the tiles.  Paramedics in their hi-vis vests stemming the bleeding and loading the pig onto a stretcher. The neighbours would be watching from their windows and front doors as they wheeled him out. Then the police would start asking questions. The neighbours saying we looked like such a wonderful couple, love’s young dream. Well, looks can be deceptive; no one ever thinks to scratch the surface. Our marriage was like that Shepherd’s pie he was making; it looks lovely one the outside, all that golden brown fluffy potato but what’s lurking beneath and what long-term damage does it do.

The train was empty. I clutched my passport and my ticket and tried to relax. I’d day dreamed of this moment, then planned it, and then procrastinated but now I’d finally broken free. Why did I stab him? Well if I hadn’t, I could always go back and I knew that I would. Now even if I had the urge to forgive and forget, even if he begged me and promised me it would never happen again, there was no way I could return.   

It was time to plan my future; this time tomorrow I’d be losing myself in New York City, walking the High-Line and skating in Central Park.  Pancakes for breakfast, pizza for lunch, hot dogs for dinner and no shepherd's pie in sight.
I glided serenely through the airport. Still in my business suit, I looked like any other traveller. I was travelling on my maiden name which I hoped would give me some time. I handed my passport over to the check-in girl who looked at it and then looked at me. She should have handed my passport back but she kept hold of it. Why was she staring like that? She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Had they already alerted the airports?
“Is anything wrong?” I asked. She continued staring; it was beginning to freak me out a little. “Are you okay?” I said, she continued to watch me. She touch-typed something on her computer, still not taking her eyes off me.
“Your blouse,” she said.
I looked down and saw blood spots all over it, and then felt the hands of two police officers grab my arms.

Shepherd's Pie - A Steve Rant

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For any newcomers to the blog, Steve is a recurring character who likes to rant to his long-suffering friend Johnny about the little things in life. Here is an example. This is a very tongue-in-cheek rant based on the theme of this week's stories. 

“Have you seen this?” Steve said, and turned his phone around to show Johnny a blog post.

“No,” Johnny said. “What is it?”

“It’s a story,” Steve said, “called Shepherd’s Pie but it’s wrong.”

“Why?” asked Johnny, but he was pretty sure he was going to regret it.

“Well,” Steve assumed the pose and Johnny looked for an escape. “Listen to this line, I’d decided a shepherd’s pie would be a nice way to use up the mince. I was a bit bored of bolognaise, and lasagne was too fiddly; so a shepherd’s pie would be just perfect. See wrong.”

Johnny looked confused.

“Well, that suggests he was making a cottage pie not a shepherd’s pie,” Steve said, sitting back as if that was QED.

“What’s the difference?” Johnny asked.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know. Cottage pie is made of beef; shepherd’s pie is made of lamb. I thought everyone knew that.”

“Really I thought they were synonymous.”

“No you as well,” Steve rolled his eyes.

“Anyway how do you know he’s making cottage pie?” Johnny said.

“Well, who in their right mind would make bolognaise or lasagne with lamb mince? It is obviously beef mince he’s using, so he should be making cottage pie.”

“Oh I see,” said Johnny.

“The author, this Gareth what’s his face, has not fact checked.” Steve said.

Johnny really didn’t care. “Easy mistake to make I suppose.”

“Just lazy if you ask me.” Steve said finishing his drink. “Another one?” he asked, and wandered to the bar.

Johnny got his phone out and googled shepherd’s pie. He really hadn’t known it was meant to be made with lamb, and wasn’t sure his friend was right. He looked at Wikipedia and the Oxford Online Dictionary.

“What are you smiling at?” Steve said as he came back with two fresh pints.

“The term "shepherd's pie" did not appear until 1877, and since then it has been used synonymously with "cottage pie", regardless of whether the principal ingredient was beef or mutton.” Johnny read from the Wikipedia page.

“That’s bollocks that is. Everyone knows Wikipedia is made up.” Steve said.

“Well strange that the Oxford Dictionary doesn’t mention beef or lamb either isn’t it?” Johnny said with a smile, enjoying getting one over on Steve for once in his life.

If you enjoyed this, please check out my two novels.

Shepherd's Pie Again

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“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” Gary shouted to Lucy who was peeling potatoes in the kitchen.

“No, I’m better off alone, just make yourself comfortable,” Lucy called back. Gary didn’t quite know how to feel. Here he was a modern man letting a woman wait on him hand and foot. He tried to help, but she just wouldn’t let him. He knew he should feel guilty, but part of him, the 1970’s man that lurked somewhere beneath the metrosexual surface, rather enjoyed it.

“Can I use your PC to check my emails?”

“Can’t you use your phone?”

“My battery’s dead.”

“Go on then.”

Gary picked up the laptop and brought it to life. Lucy had left Instagram on the screen. Which was odd because Gary didn’t even know Lucy had an account. They’d been dating five months; he followed her on twitter, and they were ‘in a relationship’ on Facebook, but she’d kept her Instagram quiet. The page in front of him was of a woman in vintage underwear; hundreds of snaps of different underwear but always the same figure; sometimes selfies, sometimes taken by another hand. Basques, corsets, stockings, suspenders and very high heels; it was a bewildering array of outfits - the only thing missing was the face.  Why was Lucy looking at a woman called BunnyRabbit? Did she have lesbian tendencies? Sometimes the penny doesn’t drop because you don’t want to let it go. It was only when he looked up to the right corner of the page and saw the name BunnyRabbit that Gary realised he was looking at Lucy. Lucy was BunnyRabbit. BunnyRabbit was Lucy. Lucy was posing for and posting pictures of her self semi-nude.

Gary sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. He screwed up his fists; he felt he was sharing his woman with the rest of the world. Didn’t exclusive extend to the World Wide Web? But that wasn’t all; the last pic was dated just two days ago and was clearly not a selfie. Who on earth was taking pictures of Lucy in the nearly nude? She said she’d not been feeling well two days ago. Well she looked well enough in the photo. And why hadn’t she told him? Why didn’t he know she had this vintage underwear collection? He’d never seen it; never been treated to its delights. She looked delicious, but she’d kept it from him. He felt like she’d been unfaithful to him.

But was he being unreasonable. It wasn’t like she was seeing anyone else; she was just showing everyone else. And after all he didn’t tell her everything, although he didn’t have secrets quite as big as this. Gary looked at the pictures again. She looked great and he wasn’t the only one to think so. Gosh BunnyRabbit had quite the vocal following, and she was quite the online flirt. He felt his blood boil as he read some of the comments.

He stood up and went into the kitchen.

“Any emails,” Lucy said without looking around, but Gary didn’t’ reply. Instead he just picked up the knife that was on the side and took a step towards her.

The knife felt good in his hand and her back looked so inviting. He could feel the rage simmering inside. It would be so easy to… But then a waft of sauce caught his nostrils; he looked at the pan bubbling on the stove. It looked as good as it smelt. He put the knife down; maybe he could forgive her just this once.

I've been accused of plagiarism, luckily it was my own story I plagiarised.

http://garethsshortstoryblog.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/lock-and-key.html

Shepherd's Pie

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I was standing at the sink peeling potatoes. I’d decided a shepherd’s pie would be a nice way to use up the mince. I was a bit bored of bolognaise, and lasagne was too fiddly; so a shepherd’s pie would be just perfect. I knew Sandra wasn’t that keen on it, but we hadn’t had it for a while and surely it would make a nice change. The radio was playing that uptown funk song and I was trying to sing along.

I heard a key in the lock and smiled.

“I’m in the kitchen love,” I yelled over the radio, but if she replied, I didn’t hear her. I heard her feet on the stairs, heavy, angry; another shitty day in work I guessed. I was beginning to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to switch and make bolognaise; it wasn’t too late. I’d pour her a glass of wine and ask her when she game down. I also flicked the switch on the kettle just in case a cup of tea was the order of the day.

I could hear her stomping around upstairs. I imagined her stripping off her skirt and tights and looking around for her tracksuit bottoms. I wondered if it might be fun to go up and join her; catch her half naked and see where that might lead. But from the heavy feet it sounded like any advance might be met with a heavy hand, so I continued with the spuds. The radio had changed songs. Iy was a generic pop song; one that I knew the words of but didn’t know who it was by. I vaguely sang along as I worked. The kettle clicked off. The clomping around had stopped but I hadn’t heard Sandra come back down stairs.

At first it tickled; kind of tingled. Then it stung, and then there was searing pain. Just below my right shoulder blade. My t-shirt felt warm and I felt weak. Sweat gathered on my forehead; was I having a heart attack? I tried to scream for help but no sounds came. My hands were clinging to the sink holding me up for as long as I could before I fell.

It was only when she called me a bastard, spat on the floor next to my head and I saw her black high heels walk away that I realised that what ever happened to me was caused by Sandra.

It was the pain that woke me up, a horrible nagging ache that dragged me unwillingly back to consciousness.

“Oh hello there,” a nurse said. “How are we feeling.”
“Pain.” was all I could say but on any other day I would have pulled her up on the use of we.

“When the doc comes we’ll see if we can give you some morphine.” she helped me take a sip of water.

“What happened?” I said.

“Well you were stabbed,” the nurse said. “But you’ll live.”

“Stabbed? I knew I shouldn’t have made shepherd’s pie.”

Small Victories

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The river dashed through Cardiff like it was in a hurry to get out to the sea.  You couldn’t blame it. Cardiff was at its wintery worst. Moving in the opposite direction, the snow and sleet seemed to be in an equal hurry to get inland; blowing in on a spiteful wind. Heavy grey skies hung low over the castle and the stadium shortening the day further.  Thoughtless cars splashed pedestrians as they tried to battle their way home. It was a miserable, misty, manky day that froze your bones no matter what size coat you were wearing. Mitch marched towards town, trying to avoid puddles as he did. His coat was already drenched and his hood dripped cold, icy water onto his nose. For once in his life, he was pleased he was carrying a few extra pounds; were he any lighter, he might be whipped by the wind and whisked off towards the Brecon Beacons. A bus bustled by and Mitch just managed to avoid the wave of water its tires sent crashing onto the pavement.

The Rummer Tavern was just a hundred metres away but it felt like a hundred miles. The wind was right in his face, trying to push him back from where he’d come and trying to make him cry.

Each step felt like an achievement as he tunnelled his way through the gale.

Mitch shook the water off his hood as he entered the pub He looked around for Chris but he was nowhere to be seen so he headed to the bar and ordered a pint. He slipped his wet coat onto a hook and sat down. Despite the rain on the end of his nose, he was a happy man. He hadn’t won the lottery, or met the girl of his dreams. He hadn’t even completed his to-do list in work. But he’d managed to get to the pub with dry socks and that was enough to put a smile on anyone’s face.