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.