CHEESE AND TOMATO SANDWICH by Rosemary Dun

Tom snapped shut the lid of his Tupperware container. Inside was his cheese and tomato sandwich. Tom made the same sandwich the same way every day of his working week. The cheese was cut from the 12oz piece he’d buy on Saturdays from Mr. Burchill the butcher, who had a small but fresh delicatessen counter. As a rule, Tom bought mild cheddar because the mature had a tendency to crumble when cut with his very sharp Prestige knife. For his sandwich he would place three slices of cheese on ready-sliced wholemeal bread buttered right up to the edges with Flora margarine (less cholesterol). Next, he would thinly slice a tomato into six pieces. The tomatoes had to be of the right size and the right firmness. Mrs. Fletcher, the greengrocer’s wife never minded when he took his time and checked each one (five in all – one for each day of the working week). And, it had to be six slices of tomato he cut, as the end slices never would lie flat, so he’d throw them away (even though Mother would be furious if she caught him and would go on about all those starving children in Africa). Next, he’d place the remaining four slices of tomato onto each quarter of the sandwich, and then cut the sandwich into four. (And, tomatoes have the added bonus of keeping sandwiches good and fresh, Mother would say).
          “Wouldn’t you Mother?”
          Mother wasn’t looking good today. She sat propped up on their sofa, which Tom had covered with thick but clear plastic so’s to keep it nice and clean.
          Mother would be most upset if she realised how sloppy she’d become, thought Tom. Oh well, can’t have everything in life. He tutted, then did a quick once round with the Glade Alpine Fresh airspray.
          “That’s better,” he said, then went out, quietly closing the door behind him. Because Mother, more often than not, would call out – “Don’t slam that door Tom!” – and old habits die hard, he thought, as he walked down the hallway, noting with pleasure, how gleaming the polish was on his shoes.

That night, Tom laid his plate on the table ready for his solitary microwaved jacket potato. He’d previously mashed up a tin of tuna with Helman’s Mayonnaise, for placing inside said potato. A good choice, as any tuna mix that he didn’t use that evening would keep well in the refrigerator, and could be eaten the next day.
          After the microwave pinged, he finished preparing his supper, then sat down to eat.
          “Mr. Wilson said ‘Good Morning’ to me in the office today, Mother,” he said.
          Mother didn’t answer. But then she wouldn’t, would she? he thought.
          Tom frowned as he brushed a big fly from his plate.
          Now he’d have to get the fly spray, kill the fly, throw away his meal, and start again. He frowned. It was such a nuisance.
          He decided to swat the fly as, although large, it seemed quite drowsy. He took the local freepaper, rolled it up and swatted the insect against the window. Eugh. He nearly threw up. The fly had burst, disgorging its vile green innards and creating an ugly smear on windows which Tom had only cleaned the other day with vinegar, water, and some newspaper saved from a previous week.
          “Vinegar and water works best,” according to Mother. And she was right, of course.
          Tom got out his yellow Marigold gloves, a J-cloth, and Dettox, which he sprayed everywhere the fly had been. He swept up the insect’s remains into Mother’s dustpan, then popped them in the swing top bin, along with the soiled rolled-up newspaper. Having completely wiped and thus disinfected all which the fly had touched, Tom returned the Dettox to under the sink, and next consigned the gloves and cloth to the bin too.
          “Disgusting,” he said, glancing over at Mother, who was definitely more slouched this evening.
          Her face, underneath the clingfilm – which totally wrapped her from head to foot – appeared to be sliding downwards as if Mother were liquifying under the tautly stretched, and clear, plastic skin. (Which, I suppose, must be what is actually happening, thought Tom.)
          “Mother,” he said disapprovingly.
          And he didn’t much like that black greeny yellow colour she was turning. It reminded him too much of that squashed fly.
          “Really, Mother,” he tut-tutted.