Turning Thirty by Mike Gayle Read Free Book Online Page A

unpacked my bags and a quarter past five arrived, I should have known that my mum would be calling up the stairs, ‘Matthew, your dinner’s ready!’ That I’d barely finished digesting the chicken salad sandwiches she’d made at lunchtime counted for nothing.
    â€˜What’s for dinner, then?’ I asked carefully, as I entered the living room and sat down.
    â€˜Your favourite,’ she replied, lowering a tray on to my lap. ‘Eat up.’ She smiled. ‘You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in ages.’
    As I looked down dolefully at the plate in front of me it occurred to me that really I had only myself to blame. I knew full well that my mum was for ever mixing up my favourite anything with the favourite anythings of my long-flown-the-nest siblings. Not that what was sitting on the plate was any of my brothers’ or sister’s favourite anything – other than, possibly, their favourite culinary nightmare: two pork chops, three large spoonfuls of mashed potato, gravy so thick you could stand a knife up in it, carrots, peas and . . . sprouts. Boiled into submission, stinking green balls of soggy-leafed affliction sprouts.
    My eyes darted feverishly around the living room to see what the only other diner at Stalag 9 thought of the cuisine. My dad was lodged in the armchair he claimed as his kingdom, watching an early news bulletin on TV, while chewing and pausing occasionally to have a go at the newsreader’s dress sense. My mum was still hovering in the doorway to the kitchen waiting for me to tuck into my first home-cooked meal in a long while. I looked up at her and smiled. There was a look of contentment on her face. There she was, watching over us, her family, making sure that all our needs had been attended to. It seemed that this made her happy.
    â€˜Why don’t you sit down, Mum?’ I asked needlessly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother sit down to eat a meal, it was as if her knees had locked and made it impossible.
    â€˜You haven’t started your dinner,’ she said. ‘Is it salt you want? I’ll just go and get it.’
    I looked at my plate again and paused before answering because the words on the tip of my tongue were along the lines of: ‘Can’t you see what’s wrong? Can’t you see that there are four sprouts on my plate, each the size of a mandarin orange?’ But I didn’t say anything like that, mainly because I couldn’t, not without hurting her feelings, which was the last thing I wanted to do. It was just like being a kid again. When I was about nine I came up with an ingenious system for disposing of sprouts: it involved me slipping them one by one into a handkerchief, then feigning a desperate need to go to the loo, and on the way throwing them behind the back of the fridge. It worked like a dream in theory, but I lacked the foresight to remove them later and give them a proper burial. After six weeks my system fell apart when the stench of decaying greenery overpowered the kitchen and my mum discovered my sprout hideaway. She went mental and I was grounded for what felt like a decade. And now, years later, I was facing the same dilemma.
    â€˜Honestly, Mum,’ I began, ‘I don’t think I can manage all these.’ I gestured to the sprouts with my fork.
    â€˜Nonsense,’ she said firmly. ‘They’re good for you.’
    â€˜But I don’t like them.’
    â€˜Yes, you do,’ she replied impatiently.
    â€˜No. I’ve never liked sprouts.’
    â€˜You liked sprouts when I cooked your dinners. How has Elaine been cooking them?’
    That thought alone made me want to laugh aloud. ‘Elaine never cooked sprouts, Mum. Elaine never cooked at all, if she could help it. Anyway, I’m not even sure they have them in America.’
    â€˜You used to love sprouts,’ piped up my dad. ‘D’you remember when you used to