DOM McLOUGHLlN

The story of mashed potato

This is the story of mashed potato. It comes to me from a place in the ground not that far above the water-table. I don’t know the county, but it’s somewhere in England.

There, the sky is cloudy and grey, thunder rumbles behind the man who stands on the brow of a hill but doesn‘t get wet. He wears a hat. Baggy trousers tucked into wellingtons. Warm checked shirt. Buttoned-up cardigan and a loose-fitting, tailored jacket which he had worn done up but which he now undoes with one hand - deft fingers on the single fake brass button. It hangs by a thread.

And I bet you’ve guessed what he’s doing. He pulls the potatoes up in a sweep. Or: it’s as though he’s sucked them up from the ground. Physically dislodged from the earth he holds them out at elbow height, inspecting the crop. The tubers are egg-shaped though they lie horizontally and some are more knarled than others. He picks the tubers having dusted away loose soil. Away at the bottom of the hill, in a dank meadow beyond the coast road a flock of geese rise in their tens at first then their hundreds before coming to rest again.

Chips. Crisps. And mashed potatoes. They all have to come from some- where. Even mashed potatoes have a beginning. A middle. And an end. And yet there’s something irreducible there too. As to exactly what that something is . . . I can only know by telling the story, by looking at the beginning, the middle, and the end.

He places them in a wheelbarrow which he has parked on a dusty gravel track. It is red, made of old wooden slats. The paint is blistered and peeling. The handles of the wheelbarrow are low, straight and almost horizontal to the ground, rising at only a slight angle. When they come out from beneath the barrow the handles are square, and only at the ends do they become curved and rounded and warm to the touch. You can see that there would be splinters in the wood of the handle but what splinters there would be stay firmly embedded there, they know their place and are unobtrusive, stay doing a job within the permanent construction of the handles of the wheelbarrow, smoothed into place perhaps after years and years. In the open air the man feels fitter. This is drudgery there’s no doubt about it. Luckily, he doesn’t do it too often and when he does he sees the chore as something altogether more poetic.

He is old. An old, old man. His back is crooked (it gives him pain in the mornings especially), his nose permanently red and runny, like a child’s.

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He is thin. His flesh is odourless. His testicles hang very low between his legs in baggy shorts. He is smiling.

At the sound of loose potatoes bobbling in the bottom of the wheelbarrow he is made to recognise what a long day is ahead of him. It will take a long time to gather and sort all the potatoes he needs. And yet there is some- thing pleasant about the work. His hands are cold; there is dirt under his fingernails. His eyes are deep-set and kind. His skin is smooth - this much can be seen even under his thin, soft facial hair. Beyond the long soft hairs on his chin you could see in the sunlight, the light brown softness of his skin.

Hairs grew less forcefully and less blackly than they once had done and so that only now, in his seventies, did his beard look like new. Fine hair like that on a baby’s head, become coarse only through charmed experience.

What charming life has he had then, this man with a potato in his hand? And has he ever taken life? By the scruff of its hair he pulls up another complete rhizome which is yet incomplete.

At the end of the day, he trundles along with the wheelbarrow, eager to hear the football results.

-The country for a wounded spirit, they say. The sun’s going down over the sea. The geese squawk, as the thief

makes his way home.

Home is a small cottage by the side of the coast road. The kitchen, which he has entered through the back door, is warm and filled with orange light from the dying sun. Even the curved and worn flagstones are warm beneath his stockinged feet. He tips an armful of spuds onto the pine table, crouching down over the table top, loosening his embrace only gradually so’s not to spoil the crop. Yet more loose soil spills onto the table top, gets stuck between the cracks on its surface.

He straightens up, then arches his old back first to the left then to the right. He begins to massage the right side of his lower back with his right hand but he has too many clothes on and so this movement earns him scant comfort. He hangs his jacket on a hook in the darkened hallway. He goes through to the front room. He turns on the table lamp and then the television. Slowly he backs away from the TV set as its picture becomes brighter and brighter, then drops into a soft and comfortable armchair.

-Arsenal 1, Everton 2. Also on the pine table by the wall in the kitchen stand two china mugs.

In one is an arrangement of pale and prickly dried flowers. In the other, a selection of brightly coloured felt-tip pens and a pair of scissors, cutting edge pointing downwards.

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Now, in through the back door comes another elderly man. He takes off his boots and walks straight through to the front room. As he enters both men smile, though not looking at each other. He also takes a comfy chair.

-Stoke 0, Coventry 3. Barnsley 5, Rotherham Utd 0 Carlisle 1, Bradford City 1

The man who took the potatoes is a writer. His friend, who always comes to visit, paints. In fact they come and go to each other’s house quite freely, as the mood takes them. The distance between them is about a mile.

The painter sometimes finds, on entering his friend’s house that he is scared. Scared that he’ll have nothing to say.

When he feels he has nothing to say the man who is a writer reassures him. There is nothing to say - that is a worthy position to adopt. There is only language, only words, not always something to say.

But the painter feels crowded out by ’nothing to say‘. He feels he has to make a special effort, to grab some words which are especially meaningful to him and speak them in case he gets marooned in this silence, becoming used to the ’nothing to say‘ and giving up talk entirely.

They talk about the football results. And then, -What’s with the mashed potato? -There‘s soup. And cabbage . . . and . . . There’s plenty for them both to eat. -1’11 peel, says the writer. -1’11 come and talk to you, says the painter.

He put the light on in the tiny hall from which stairs led up to the bedrooms. And he put the light on in the kitchen. He put some potatoes in a yellow plastic bowl, and the rest in a gardening basket which he set down by the back door saying to his friend,

-There’s some for you to take home! -Are you sure? You‘ve got enough for yourself? -Enough? I’ve got a whole barrowful!

Both men were married but separated. Both had children and grand- children, step-children, children of friends, friends’ grandchildren, friends’ step-children and friends. But they liked to spend time alone together, or at least that’s how it often worked out. The painter sat at the end of the kitchen table, his friend stood at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes.

When he first dug the peeler in, slicing the surface of the skin, the potato spurted a tiny warm jet of its own water, like a log spitting in a fire. The water that escaped was soon forgotten as the writer continued to scrape in

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long smooth lines and the constant tap water cleaned each newly revealed surface. One potato. He took care to dig out the eyes, and to knock off any unwanted dirt. It was such a bore, all this. And all just so’s the two friends could eat. He remembered army days, post-WW2, that there was such a person as a spud peeler. And that was all he did, all day long. He’d get through two or three bins-full. Poor sod. Doing enough for two wasn’t so bad. Especially if you did it without thinking about it.

The handle of the peeler was black plastic at both ends and in the middle was bound with dirty tight string. It was thick and felt good in his right hand. He’d stolen the potatoes, but may just as well have bought them from a shop. As he became hungrier, he became less interested in the process than the end result. Someone else could do the mashing, while he prepared the salad.

-There we go! He showed the painter the fruits of his labour, a sauce- panful of white tubers peeled and sliced and submerged in plenty of cold water.

The painter peered into the pot that was being offered under his nose and said joyfully,

-That should do it!

The painter, having said he was going to talk, had as yet found nothing to say. He had tried, picking up letters from the kitchen table top, staring at a bowl of fruit, searching for inspiration. He was not consoled by the fact that the writer didn’t seem to want to talk. This just made him feel insecure.

He became angry, and finally said to the writer in an offensive tone, -Written anything good lately? The writer turned towards his friend, surprised. -As a matter of fact, he replied, I haven’t. Now the painter couldn’t look at him, but went on. -Come over and look at my stuff. -That large canvas you’re working on? asked the writer. -Yeah. You know your trouble is you don‘t get out enough. And you

The writer took a lettuce out of the fridge, some tomatoes. -But I enjoy what I’m doing, he said. After a pause he continued. -There are other things to do besides writing, besides painting. I have to

-Wouldn’t you die for your writing? -Of course not! I live by it! It’s a part of my life , . . -But if you did write something - life-threatening - what would it be?

always do the same things.

eat. And see my children, my grandchildren.

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The writer took a chair. His friend was still sitting at the end of the

-I would write about The Seven Days of the Week. The painter threw a glance at the ceiling in mock helplessness. The writer

-Monday, he said decisively. Monday is for doing the washing. You feel the seconds that get under your nails, the hours which are a

handful. And you begin to shape the week. You know that something good is going to come out of it. A cathedral of time with bright shiny spires and this is the door to your week: Monday.

kitchen table, looking happier now that he had engaged the writer.

continued.

Tuesday is for making toffee. You cover the base of the tray. Some chocolate on top? A layer of crushed

biscuits? No. Just a thin slab of toffee, hardened by afternoon. The writer mimes taking something out of the oven, placing it on the

table where, in fact, the evening’s salad stands. He takes up a small, very sharp kitchen knife and stabs the toffee, over and over again.

-What are you doing? the painter asks his frenzied companion. -This, says the writer, as he gradually slows down, letting the knife fall,

-Toffee time? Again the writer mimes. He picks out imaginary toffee from the imagin-

ary tray. -Just a splinter, a spec, a crystal of time - time in this many irregular and

random shapes - a slice, a wedge, a sizeable chunk. These are the units we have to work with.

-Do you like it? -No, said the painter. -That’s because Tuesday’s dangerous. The writer continued. -Wednesday is for killing someone. The writer was passionate now, and the painter glad that he’d let the

knife fall. But he slowly bent down, mindful of his bad back, and picked it up again.

catching his breath, licking his lips. This, is toffee time.

The painter was beginning to wish he’d kept his mouth shut. -I’m a hundred per cent sure I won’t do it, said the writer. Now, that is,

I’m sure. In the past I’ve not been so sure and so I think about it. It’s part of my make-up. A murderous personality.

-If, said the painter, if you did, who would you kill? -You. -Me? What have I ever done? -You pushed me to it. You made me look at myself. You made me tell

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this story. If you died, I’d never have to look at this part of myself again. Never would.

-I don’t like this story any more. -Thursday is for healing. (You mash, said the writer.) You take the

glazed cathedral out of the oven from Monday. The day is divided up into minutes vertically, by trees in the forest through which sunlight shrieks, or by the keys on a piano. You practise.

Friday is for heavy-duty work. You build a bridge. Or any old construc- tion which is highly useful. Minutes must be stud-welded together at a time when they look like they may all fall apart. The grand design depends on your mood. Build what you like! Scrape the wheelbarrow and re-paint it. Re-hang the door. Build a steamship, or a canoe. Chop down a tree in the forest for the purpose. Lie in the sun on pine needles hot and sweaty, chest pounding for a break. Lasso the sun paint your cabin run play tennis.

Haul a bucket of water from the well. As the sun goes down, walk slowly across your bridge.

-Saturday is for digging potatoes, he said to the painter with a smile. -And Sunday? What’s Sunday for? -Sunday’s when all your comfort comes home. You eat. You sleep. You

hold somebody in your arms, love breaking over you like an egg exploding between slices of soft white bread. You munch the hours, lick the minutes, seconds get stuck between your teeth. You pass the day in virtual silence, at home with the ones you love.

Whilst the writer had been telling the story of The Seven Days of the Week, dinner had been prepared. During Friday and Saturday and Sunday the painter had drained and mashed the potatoes and the writer had put the finishing touches to a salad and spread out a selection of cheeses, some grated. The painter put the saucepan of mash in the middle of the table and the two friends sat down one at each end. Serving themselves entailed getting up as the table was rather too long to stretch or even to have things passed down. But this was a ritual form of behaviour between the two men. Each would spoon out his own helping of mash and collect whatever else he wanted from the spread.

They were quiet for some time, except for their groans of satisfaction. -Do you miss sex? asked the painter. -Since Tina left? No. You know I’ve never been much one for pen-

etration, said he with the light beard. -No? said the painter, interested. -No, said the writer. And I can’t talk much about sex while I’m eating. They laughed. Next door, the television glowed in the dark.

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The painter slept through the football. The writer hadn't noticed this until there was a near goal and he looked across to his friend, amazed at the action. When he saw that his friend was asleep his view of the match changed. He'd thought they were watching it together and was enjoying the company. What comfort was there in knowing that his friend was there if he was fast asleep? The painter nodded off during their evenings together more and more these days. He was getting old.

But not that old. Perhaps he had more than ten years left in him. When the writer had finished watching the football, he tucked a blanket round his friend as he slept in the comfy chair, and went upstairs to bed.

An hour later, the painter let himself out, not forgetting to take with him the basket of potatoes left for him by the back door.

Note

This is an extract from the novel Seven Days 6. Mushed Potato.