Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  *

  “Macclesfield Mud Pie,” I suggested. “What do you think?”

  But Brendan got agitated. “Macclesfield? I’m not calling anything on my menu after bloody Macclesfield! Not after the last time we played them.” He spread his podgy hands on the counter, trying to be reasonable. “Make a mud pie by all means. But you’ll have to call it something else.”

  “Woolpack Mud Pie. Tissett Mud Pie?” No ring to it. “Anywhere round here begin with an M?”

  Brendan sucked his teeth. “Madderlow. As in Arthur’s farm. Have to square it with Arthur. Madderlow Mud Pie.” He nodded. “Okay, we’ll put it on the menu next week. Will it freeze?”

  “It’ll chill,” I said, and went off to ponder ingredients whilst clearing out the big freezer.

  In contrast to some dishes – Linzertorte, for instance – mud pie can be anything you want it to be. I don’t know if there ever was an original Mississippi formula. The many recipes contain, amongst other weird ingredients, coffee, toffee, pistachios, almonds, coconut, marshmallows and several kinds of Instant Whip. I wasn’t going to use any of those.

  Biscuit base doesn’t serve neatly, so I decided on a cocoa pastry. A separate fudge topping wasn’t necessary, but the customers would like it, and it was easy enough. What about the middle? Mousse? I couldn’t use raw eggs, since Brendan had a ban on them, unlike Tzabo, which would have fed its customers raw worm entrails if they were fashionable enough.

  “Oh buggeration,” I said. At the bottom of the freezer were two dozen portions of duck in orange a month after their best-by date, and a large carton of plaice fillets eight months beyond theirs, with a bad case of freezer burn. I hauled out the fish and began to load it into a black bin bag.

  “What the hell?” said Rhoda, lugging in the potatoes. “You’re not throwing all that out, are you? You can’t throw all that out!”

  “I can,” I said, and showed her the date.

  “That doesn’t mean anything. It won’t have gone off.”

  “It’s fish,” I said. “Two years in a freezer doesn’t do a lot for fish.”

  “That’s good money you’re throwing away! It’s perfectly safe to eat!”

  I wasn’t going to be passive about this. “It may be safe, but it won’t be nice. Look; it’s desiccated. And the duck won’t be much better.”

  “You’re not throwing that duck away!” yelped Rhoda, as shrill and edgy as one of Arthur’s dogs.

  “I might have to.”

  “That’s our profit! That’s our business you’re throwing down the drain!”

  “Into the bin,” I corrected her. Rhoda snatched up a saucepan from the stove and hurled the contents at me.

  It was gravy, still luke-warm from lunchtime. It went over my face and hair and T-shirt and splattered the freezer. We both stood there and looked at each other, gasping. Then Rhoda covered her mouth with her hand and ran out into the yard.

  After a moment I washed my face at the sink and dabbed my hair with a tea-towel. My T-shirt was splodged brown. I went through to the bar.

  “Borrow your bathroom, Brendan?”

  “Jesus!”

  “Yeah, I leant on the handle of the gravy pan. It up-ended.”

  “It wasn’t hot, was it?” said Brendan, concerned. “Rhoda’ll lend you a clean T-shirt. I think she’s upstairs somewhere.”

  “Thanks.” I ran up the narrow stairs. Alice, the eight year-old, was in the girls’ bedroom, playing on the computer with the door open.

  “What’s that all over you?” she asked with derision. “It’s a right mess.”

  “It’s gravy. Do you think your Mum would lend me a T-shirt?”

  “She keeps her old T-shirts in her bottom drawer,” said Alice pointedly. An old one was obviously all I merited. “I use them for painting.”

  “Could you get one for me?”

  “They’re in the bottom drawer,” repeated Alice, turning back to the computer, which was giggling crazily. So I pushed open the door to Rhoda and Brendan’s room and tiptoed in, feeling uncomfortable.

  There were two chests of drawers. One had nothing on it but a manky hairbrush and a bottle of aftershave. The other held make-up, moisturiser, and a collection of small brown bottles and white boxes with prescription labels stuck on them.

  I picked one up, read the label. Not one I’d heard of. I thought I was acquainted with all the tranx and uppers and downers that hit the street. These were different. There was a plastic pill-holder with several compartments for each day. It rattled. Rhoda was on serious medication.

  I studied them a little longer, trying to memorise names. Granisetron. Treosulfan. Zolpidem. Then I opened the bottom drawer and found a baggy blue T-shirt, slightly paint-stained, which I carried to the bathroom. Washed and changed, I went in hunt of Rhoda.

  She was scrubbing something furiously in the kitchen sink. The bin bag was still full of fish.

  I said, “Alice found me one of your old T-shirts. Hope it’s okay.”

  She nodded without looking.

  “About the fish,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. You’re right, it’s a waste if it’s still edible. I’ll cook a couple of fillets up tonight and check if they’ve gone off. If they’re just a bit dried out, I could cook the whole lot up with white sauce and use them for fisherman’s pie. What do you think?”

  Rhoda still didn’t look at me. “You’ll do whatever you like,” she said. Her voice was high and cracking. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”