The day I marched to war I had a kipper for breakfast. The packaging was Union Flag pattern so you knew just eating it you were strengthened magically. Good old fashioned greased paper too. Not that plastic rubbish they had on the Continent. I didn’t know what Mrs French had done to obtain the magic fish. I still don’t.
“It’s real,” she said with reverence. “It’s not a plywood substitute.”
No one in our village had eaten a real kipper since the blockade of British Sovereign waters by the American Navy had become permanent in 2022. No one in our village mentioned the blockade since it was listed as an official secret. We all just blamed France.
This kipper was a gift horse I was not looking in the mouth. My only concern was my wife may try and share it with me? I was to march five miles that day and I needed the protein myself.
“Don’t worry,” she smiled. “You don’t have to share it.”
She unwrapped the kipper and placed it in a patch of sun to warm up. “The gas is off. But the sun will do a good enough job of heating it. It’s all for you. You’ll need all your strength today.”
“What will you have for breakfast?”
“Pride,” she beamed and she picked up the wrapping and licked it. “Mmm. It tastes like sovereignty!”
We even had coffee too. That was a shock. I believed we’d run out weeks ago.
“I been saving a spoonful of ‘English Replica Instant’ for just this event,” she whispered as she placed the steaming mug in front of me. “Don’t rush it. You don’t know when you’ll next get another mug.”
I did. The army had a warehouse full of actual coffee after the successful capture of an EU relief drop fell outside of the M25 by accident.
The kipper was a wonder. You could tell it had been caught in British waters by the sheen on its sides. If you turned it to the right in the light it lit up red, white and blue. I fancy its mouth even smiled.
There had been rumours for weeks that a sort of superhero was visiting houses in the night and leaving kippers in kitchen sinks with a note that said “British Fish Are Sovereign Fish”. He had only ever been glimpsed making good his escape.
“Did you find it in our fireplace this morning?” I asked.
“No. Don’t ask me how I got it.” It was then I noticed her right cheek was speckled with blood.
“I can barely believe it’s real,” I said as I cut away the first mouthful. “I could take London singlehanded if I had a kipper for breakfast every day.”
“It’s out of date but I fancied it was still good to eat,” my enamoured wife commented. “Mrs Formaldyhide…”
I looked up sharply and she fell silent. She took the dish cloth out of the sink and wiped at the blood.
“La la la la!” she sang. This woke up our Churchill. The Dumbusters’ theme song took up where she left off.
Suddenly the backdoor burst open and Cyclops entered. He was flushed and panting. He eye swivelling. He was holding some variety of chocolate bar. It was impossible to tell which at first.
“I won this month’s county raffle!” he exclaimed.
“Oh poppet that’s marvellous!” my kind wife shouted. “You better eat it fast before one of the bigger boys mugs you of it. Which one is it? Mars or Snickers?”
“I’ve been too excited to check,” Cyclops grinned, little fool that he was. “If only my dad where here to see it.”
“Let me see,” I invited. “I’m an expert on these matters. In a moment I’ll be able to tell you if it’s from a box of Celebrations or a regular one made small by shrinkflation.”
“It must be a regular one. We had a box of Celebrations at school and Miss had to get the microscope out to show us the contents.”
Cyclops went to hand it to me but Mrs French charged around the table and stood between us.
“Cyclops you little muppet,” she laughed, “you give that to my Mark and he’ll eat it.”
Before I could protest my innocence there was a great calamity in the backyard. The sound of half a dozen teenagers all shouting and hollering for Cyclops. Our Churchill was not best pleased. It became so loud the speaker vibrated.
“Come out freak! Come out and hand it over!”
Cyclops paled. He looked at me to save him. I busied myself with the kipper. It was going down a treat.
“Well?” my impatient wife looked at me. I avoided her eyes.
“This kipper is excellent. Well done.”
The boys continued their taunting. “Remoaner! Remoaner!”
The back door creaked open an inch. Cyclops yelped and dived under the table, clinging to one of my legs. I gave it a determined shake but he just held on tighter.
“Come out little piggy!” a boys whispered from just outside. “Or we’ll huff and puff your little house down.”
“He doesn’t live here!” I shouted back.
The kipper really was the best. If only it was bigger I would have stayed at breakfast forever.
“Are you going to do something?” my silly wife demanded, her hands on her hips.
“I’ve got to march at least five miles today,” I replied. “Maybe even six.”
She muttered something and opened the kitchen drawer. I could see from the corner of my eye she was now holding the rolling pin.
“You stay here Cyclops,” she ordered the trembling pup. “I’ll see to this.”
And out the back door she went. I pushed back my chair and went to follow but Cyclops clung on for dear life. I had to drag him across the floor to make any progress. It was useless.
“What you going to do you silly old milf?” one of the boys taunted.
“You ginger prick!” I heard my wife shout. “And you’re in uniform too. Your a disc race!”
Next was the sound of a rolling pin hitting a face. Thunk.
There was another crack. And another. A pandemonium of weeping boys that even Churchill couldn’t overcome.
“If I hear you’ve laid a hair on Cylop’s head you’ll get another thrashing! Now scram!”
A moment later she returned and moved as calm as you like to wash blood off the rolling pin.
“It’s alright Cyclops,” I told the boy. “You’re safe. Now if you don’t mind please let go of my leg.”
He released me and hugged my wife around her ample, childbearing hips.
“Thank you Mrs French. My mother has a proper potato stashed at home. I’m going to get it to you.”
“It’s alright Cyclops,” she said, without turning around. “You can give it to Private French. He’s to march five miles today, maybe even six. He’ll need all of his strength.”
I popped the last bite of kipper into my mouth.
“You’re going to war?” Cyclops asked, wide eyed.
“This very day,” I replied proudly. I chewed on the fish but Cyclops was so impressed her released my wife and rushed me. Almost jumping into my lap in his admiration. I was swallowing in that moment and the fish became stuck in my throat.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Help!” I gasped. But Mrs French thought I wanted her to get Cyclops off me and just laughed.
It wasn’t until I fell face first onto my empty plate that she realised I was in earnest. The world was growing black around me. The Dumbusters’ tune was fading out. I was going to be a martyr before my time! For a few seconds I passed out.
“Use the Heinrich manoeuvre!” Cyclops screamed. The last thing I thought I would ever hear. Little traitor. I wouldn’t be saved by a German action!
Happily Mrs French grabbed me by the shoulders and slammed me back against the chair and whacked me with her flat hand on my back.
The little bite of fish flew straight out of my mouth and I was saved.
“Good work Mrs French. Mark has to die for his country not his breakfast.” Cyclops said and they both laughed. I would remember that.
