Menu

“What’d’you reckon’s for dinner today?” said Reg as Laurie leaned over to offer him a light from his cigarette.

“No idea.”  Laurie held the glowing tip to Reg’s fresh Player long enough to see it catch, and then shifted his weight back squarely on his own bed.  “It’s been a couple of days since we last had beans,” he offered.  “Could be mince, if we’re lucky; but I’m not holding my breath.”  They were not exactly combat troops any more and had to suffer the culinary consequences.  Then again, in those last confused days before the evacuation from the beach at Dunkirk, food had been a sometime thing.  Really, no one could rightly complain about regular meals, whatever they were.  “Veg will be cabbage,” he said thoughtfully.  “Going by the last few days.”  He sniffed, and added wryly, “Yes, I can smell it now, can’t you?  Unless that’s yesterday’s lingering round the place, of course.”

“Boiled potatoes,” Reg said.  “That’s a fair bet.  Might be mashed, maybe.”  Ruefully, he added, “Wouldn’t mind chips for a change.  Be nice, that would.  ’Spose it’s the fat, though.  Shortages of all sorts nowadays.”

“Either way, someone’s going to be doing the peeling.”

“Won’t be me, though.”  There was a grim humour to that observation:  Reg’s aeroplane splint made it impossible for him to get his hands in any position suitable for the application of knife to spud.

Laurie made the effort to snort appreciatively, knowing the other man jested about what, in all likelihood, was going to be a permanent disability.  For all that both of them had wild hopes of a full recovery (and more realistic hopes of at least some improvement to their current health), they knew—even though neither could quite bring himself to admit it—that life from now on would be permanently changed.  “Be one of the orderlies I expect,” he added.  “Can probably guess by the number of eyes left in.”

“Eh, if you ask me, John in the kitchen should be swapped with John with the bins,” Reg agreed.  “Never any sense in the arrangements round this place; he’s as ham-handed as they come.”

“Ham, did you say?” said Laurie, with a wicked twinkle.  “Now, a nice slice of ham!  Be a joy and a delight if that turned up on the plate.”  He smacked his lips ostentatiously.

“Fat bloody chance.  Might as well fry a couple of eggs on top while you’re about it.”

“If wishes were horses.”

“It might be horse,” said Reg reflectively.  “Now I think about it.”

“No saying what they put in the mince,” Laurie agreed.