Meat, spuds and turnips

By Rayna Bright


There’s Annie in the basement with the shovel. The six kids are locked outside ˗ left to play in the bare dirt with a splintered cricket bat and a piece of Quartz.

Annie stamps her bare feet on the dirt flattening the small mound. She spits, smiles, and drags planks of wood over it.

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"Supper’s ready," she shouts.

"What is it?" they chorus, their faces reddened by the early evening chill.

"How about meat, spuds and turnips?" she replies, a twinkle in her eye.

"Oooooh, meat," they chime, their eyes round like saucers. They never have meat.

"Where’s Dad?" the youngest one pipes up.

"At the pub."

Their father’s boots are lying near the basement door and Billy kicks them under the table before the younger kids notice. He didn’t believe his Mum’s stories about her black eyes. How could anyone fall down stairs so often?

"Look out for bones," she warns, calmly scooping spoonful’s from the simmering pot onto their tin plates.

"Dad’ll be surprised," the youngest one says to no-one in particular.

"Surprised alright!" She replies, sucking on a bone and brushing a wet strand of hair from her forehead.


Copyright ©2011 Rayna Bright. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Rayna is a keen reader and writer of short fiction with several stories published in Anthologies. She lives on the North coast of NSW with her husband, and finds inspiration for her stories while walking their Labrador on the beach.