Mrs Eames was consoling. She said

we’d appeal the decision. It’s ludicrous,

expecting you to both live on such a

piddling amount, she raged. I knew this

mood. Mrs Eames meant business.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t to worry, because

Mrs Eames would tide us over with food,

and anything else we needed. She

grabbed my hand, and yanked me into

her kitchen. High above the sink was a

cupboard. I’d never noticed it before.

Mrs Eames rummaged noisily inside.

She’s pulled out four old cans of oxtail

soup. These will do nicely for starters,

she exclaimed, pleased with her

ingenuity. The labels were peeling off

the tins, the metal was grubby, rusty.

Mrs Eames clearly had no qualms

regarding expiry dates. I thanked her.

But I’d be tossing these into our recycle

bin. I wondered how many eggs were left

in our fridge.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist

32 thoughts on “Soup”

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