Food writing competition - Runner Up

If you listened closely, over the clattering of silver spoons against porcelain, over the laughter loosened by aged wine, over the slicing of slow-roasted pork, you could almost hear the nuke whistle through the clouds.

The village, that little village somewhere in England that you’ve probably passed through once or twice without realising, knew of this nuke. A teeny, tiny, fatal little thing that soared like a swift through the damp air that was typical of a November evening. Squint, look up, it’s an easy thing to miss among the violets of the sunset. It hurtled along, carried by Death who had tucked his scythe under his armpit in order to hold the bomb in two hands and toss it down at full force.

The feast was massive, almost comical in that regard. Three hundred people or so crammed around a patchwork of dining tables. The tables - some wood, others metal, many belonging to the local school after having been dragged out by its pupils - were arranged in a long straight line. This line stretched from where Mrs. Roseburg’s house was, right by the desolate main road leading out of town, to the community hall, which sat nestled among a few local businesses toward the official entrance to the village with its bunting and excessive signposting. Soon enough, food would lay on these tables.

Mrs. Amanda Roseburg, a white woman wearing the red dress she had been saving for her next anniversary, sat closer to the community hall’s end of the catwalk-like dining table. Making her way there had given her an excuse to look one final time at where she had grown up. The chippy, where she’d shared her first kiss with her future husband who tasted of nothing but salt and vinegar. Mr. Carlton’s corner shop, where she worked for a short period before being promptly fired for “sampling” too many ice lollies. The butcher, where she had been sent as a little girl to ask for two cuts of steak every week until she was twelve.

She didn’t reflect on her more recent memories. They were just news footage of World War III, although the news didn’t like calling it that.

Mr. Jake Roseburg, a tall mixed man who wore a puffer jacket and his cotton pyjama trousers, had found an empty seat beside her after asking everyone to budge up by one (the hilarious Domino effect of shuffling had been worth the inconvenience, everyone agreed). He’d found himself too depressed to shower for the past few days, his stench proved it, but the smoke he puffed from his cigar masked the smell. He put the leaves between his lips, held the smoke between his teeth, tried to imagine what a nuke felt like. Perhaps it tasted like cigar smoke. A nice, comforting, ridiculous thought to hold him steady until the starter.

Oh, they were absolutely doing the “full Monty”, as Jake had called it; starter, main, dessert, and a dance should the nuke allow it. He had stopped thinking in terms of the Grim Reaper since that morning when they found out about the nukes, as death wasn’t controlled by a semi-human skeleton in a thick robe. It was controlled by the nuke and the bastards that let diplomacy fail.

Mr. James Carlton, the white man who had been balding even since Amanda had been young, sat opposite the couple. He busied himself with piling food on his plate since the pitta breads were already being snatched up. “Don’t make it a free-for-all”, he had suggested, but had been drowned out via a majority vote. The mayor had explained what the vote entailed, that the best way to celebrate one’s humanity before they all communally kicked the bucket was to feast like animals, because that’s what they were. James had helped prepare the food in the morning, with some staying behind to help with the meal. The chefs and servers ranged from overly generous to rudely asocial, but never before had James seen the timid Mia Tanaka, resident teenage social hermit, hug someone as outgoing as the local drama teacher, Kirsty Hughes. He swore that cohesion made food taste better while helping little Tommy Rogers stir a pot of slow cooked curry. Everyone agreed.

The breads - flatbreads, dough balls, sourdoughs, and everything in between - had since shuffled down the tables and been picked over, however now that people finally had their plates they could truly dig in. Olives, dips, and dried fruits were shuffled between hands of all kinds, workworn hands passing cracked bowls down the table, soft hands breaking bread, skinny hands and fat hands alike full of food.

There was no talking, just crunching, chewing, and anxious swallowing. The alcohol had yet to dull the pain.

Then, of course, came the main.

The children had initially taken their plates away from the table and lurked in cliques. Upon seeing the main, they halted their quiet escapades to steal bread from the main table, stopped trying to steal wine that was being eyed so greedily by the adults, and ceased their quiet contemplation of what was to come. Mia Tanaka, a Japanese girl whose leather jacket was zipped up to the neck, was one of the first to be drawn to the giant pork roast that came flooding down the table. Cuts of meat streamed down the table, cut open and steam spilling out in gentle wisps into the lamplit sky. Mia took a large cut and awkwardly shook it off of the metal prong onto her plate, along with indulging in some more flatbreads and taking an entire bottle of ketchup to keep for herself. She didn’t interest herself in vegetables - normally she would, because skincare and eating well went hand in hand, but obviously nothing was normal. She tried to slink back to her clique. They all dressed alternatively, finally free of high school dress codes thanks to the bloody bomb that was about to annihilate them all. She was surprised that they were finding themselves a seat at the table as opposed to slinking back.

She sat down too, sandwiched between someone she knew, what’s-his-face from the post office, and a muscular woman who she vaguely recalled doing a school assembly about fitness. Mia put the pork in her mouth and bit down.

Rich flavour exploded in her mouth. Warmth, slight burning actually, spread through her teeth. She exhaled steam like she was smoking. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, caught off guard by how good it was. That morning she had rolled her eyes at the thought of a meal - nobody in this town was good at anything, let alone cooking. But the pork was sweet, honey roasted if Mia were to guess. The breads, too, were warm and rich from being stacked on top of yet more bread, soaking up the flavors via proximity.

Again, long streaks of silence. Quiet comradery overcame them as they ate. Every single person had a clean plate. Every single person felt gratitude in spades for those who had cooked their meal.

Carla Burdock, an elderly black woman, sat in her wheelchair, watching from the window of the community hall. She smiled tersely at the celebration going on outside. Tommy Rogers, a little white boy, had been sitting on the sill and kicking his legs while looking at the commotion in what he had dubbed as the “Food Place”. Every kitchen in the village was being used, so the food was stored here and “protected” by Tommy and Carla, who instructed people on what to pass out. Tommy opened the window wide, the glass pushing outward and allowing the duo to hear the sounds of eating, the crescendo of conversation as more people finished their meals. On their respective laps was a portion of curry, the same curry that was making its way down the table outside. That was the main reason they had so graciously volunteered to help: you get the freshest portions if you’re the closest to the action.

“Dessert time!” Linda Murphy cheered from the doorway, an elderly white woman whose hair was bundled into a tight knot. She waddled in, placing four trays that she had balanced on her arms onto the few desks they had managed to spare. Any table too small to be a good contribution to the main landing strip of tables would be used in the Food Place, that was what had been decided.

Tommy sprung up from where he was sitting, inspecting the offering, followed by Carla who didn’t want him hogging every tray to himself. More of the makeshift chefs filed in with more trays, but Linda had brought in millionaire shortbreads by the dozen. Tommy picked one up and shook his hand as he burned himself on the tray slightly, which flecked melted chocolate everywhere. He popped it in his mouth and did something akin to a dance of joy, an exaggerated little motion where he punched the air and spun in a circle. He nearly knocked over a houseplant as he did.

Carla took one for herself, blew on it, and shoved the whole thing into her mouth. Another terse smile, brief and soft. “As the Official Taste Tester,” she nodded, “I approve.”

“Yep, me too!” Tommy agreed, going back to his windowsill to watch the commotion outside as people erupted in conversation after finishing their main.

The mayor listened to them converse from the head of the table. Her lips were pressed into a line. She stared up into the sky. Her plate was scraped clean, flashing up a reflection of horror.

Not long now.

She, a black woman staring straight at the end of the world, stood and tapped her glass with the back of her spoon. It took a while for people to stop, and only when silence took hold did she tear her eyes away from the end of it all. She addressed everyone. A few simple words. “This was nice. Thank you.”

They had been merry while it lasted. If nothing else, they could be grateful for that as the meal ended and the fireworks began.