Dinner went well until Mother swallowed too large a piece of turkey and, after a hurried but heartfelt thump on the back by Uncle Victor, ejected not only the lump of partially chewed meat but a proportion of her stomach contents as well.
Donald looked at his mother with some anxiety while Jennie, a napkin pressed over her nose and mouth, hurried to open a window. “Are you all right, mum?”
“She's fine.” Oblivious to the smell of vomit, Victor returned to his plate, taking the opportunity to snag a second helping of roast potatoes. He nudged their mother with his elbow. “You're fine aren't you, Mum? The food was a bit richer than she's used to, that's all.” He speared a Brussels sprout and held it aloft. “Marvelous fare though, Jennie. Thanks for inviting us.”
“Er... You're welcome, Victor. I'm glad there's enough. Don didn't mention you were coming.”
“I didn't know.” Donald scowled at his brother. “You never said you were visiting.”
“It was a last minute decision.” Victor nudged the old woman again. “Wasn't it mum?”
“Last minute.” The old woman's movements were almost mechanical. Cut-stab-cut-stab-transfer to mouth-chew-swallow-repeat.
Donald pushed his plate away, searching for a topic of conversation. “So what made you come this year? Don't you usually go to Ludmilla's?” Ludmilla was their sister. She lived only a few miles from their mother's house in Norfolk. “Not that it isn't a nice change you came here, of course. I was just curious.”
“Ludmilla's got the exterminators in.” Victor speared a piece of roasted turnip, added a slice of sausage stuffing and steered both through the pool of cranberry jelly. “Someone complained about the rats.”
Their mother's eyes flickered briefly. “Rats.”
Donald nodded sagely. “Ah. She always had a problem with rats. Comes of living on the fens, I suppose.”
“So they say.” Victor gave a snort of laughter. “Though the mud helps preserve the bodies.”
“Bodies?” Jennie turned from her street gazing. “What bodies?”
Donald narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Didn't I ever tell you, love? Ludmilla's a mortician. I'm sure I would have said.”
“We've been married eleven years, Donald, and you've never mentioned it once.” Jennie's tone was as cold as the congealing gravy. “I think I'd have remembered, especially after Uncle Ron died . We had such a fuss trying to find someone willing to reassemble him after his accident.”
“You should have asked, Don. Ludmilla would have been more than willing.” Victor gestured at her with his knife, mercifully devoid of content. “She's got a beautiful blanket stitch. She wins prizes for it.”
Donald looked at their mother. She had, thankfully, cleaned up most of her plate and was reaching for the dish of turkey slices. There was a sudden noise from the region of her armpit, the sort of sound cloth makes when it rips down a seam. A bulge appeared in the sleeve of her dress. Victor looked alarmed.
“Have you torn your dress, love?” Jennie reached to push the plate of turkey closer to her mother in law but stopped in mid-action. “Donald? There's something on her sleeve.”
Donald followed the line of her pointing finger, expecting but dreading what he saw. A single white maggot worked its way out of her cuff and dropped to the table, and where there was one, there were a hundred more. The bulge in her sleeve was wriggling. “Victor? I think you need to take mum for a comfort break.”
“If you think so, Donald.” Victor stood, very deliberately placing one hand over her arm to prevent further escapes. “Come on mother. Let's get you sorted out. I told you not to eat so much.”
“Eat much. Eat.” Their mother grinned suddenly, her teeth yellow against the dark cavern of her mouth. “Food good.” Her elongated vowels were the sound of wind through a mausoleum.
“Jennie's glad you enjoyed it.” Victor steered her out of the room.
Donald sighed. Jennie had a look of clouds before a thunderstorm. He reached across the table and picked up the stray maggot, popped it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I should have told you this a long time ago, love, but our name hasn't always been shortened to 'Stein'...”
Rachel Green juggles time between walking in the Derbyshire Dales and writing. She doesn't walk all that much.
