Margaret watched her grandson and wished to land such a walloping that he’d remember the sting of a grandmother’s slap for the rest of his days. She wanted to strike his backside so hard it would burst into flames—so he’d tear off his trousers and plunge into icy water to cool the burn.
Through the window, she spotted Tommy and Alfie—Alfie with his ears sticking out—boot a loaf of bread between them like a football. One carried it in a bag until the seams split, sending the loaf tumbling into the dirt. The other gave it a kick, and so the game began, two scoundrels dribbling bread across the road.
When Margaret saw *what* they were kicking, she didn’t believe her eyes. She tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat like a lump of coal. She tried to run, but her legs moved without taking her anywhere. When she finally reached Tommy, her mouth hung open, gasping like a landed fish.
With a hiss, she spat:
—That’s *bread*, you fools! That’s sacred—how could you?
The boys froze as she dropped to her knees, scooping the loaf into her arms, weeping. Slowly, Margaret staggered home, clutching the bread to her chest, her steps wavering as if drunk.
Inside, her son, Richard, took one look at her and the mangled loaf and needed no explanation. Without a word, he unbuckled his belt and marched outside. Margaret heard Tommy’s wails but didn’t move to shield him as she used to.
Red-faced and snivelling, Tommy bolted inside and hid behind the stove. Richard, still gripping the belt, declared that from now on, his son would eat *no* bread—not with soup, not with stew, not even with the seven meat pies he usually wolfed down. No rolls, no buns, no biscuits. And come evening, Richard swore he’d visit Alfie’s parents—let them know what a *fine* footballer they’d raised.
Alfie’s father drove a combine harvester—he’d shorten his boy’s legs for certain. And his grandfather? He’d done *ten years* back in the war for stealing a loaf—he’d whip Alfie raw.
Margaret always blessed a fresh-baked loaf, kissed it, then hugged it to her heart before slicing thick, steaming wedges. She rarely bought bread from shops, preferring to bake with her daughter-in-law in the old brick oven, filling their sturdy cottage with the scent of golden crust and soft, yeasty warmth—a smell that clung to the walls and teased the nose for hours.
Later, Richard did march to Alfie’s house, the dirt-caked loaf in hand. Neighbours gaped as he slammed it onto their dinner table. Alfie squirmed like he sat on hot coals—until his grandfather grabbed him by the ear.
Richard explained in blunt words. Without hesitation, Granddad Mick hacked off a huge slice and shoved it under Alfie’s nose.
—This is the only bread you’ll eat till it’s gone. Not in one day—however long it takes. And only *after* will you touch another loaf.
He pushed aside the fresh bread and left Alfie staring at the muddy slab.
Come morning, Tommy didn’t dare touch the loaf at breakfast. He remembered his father’s warning—and his grandmother’s bare knees in the dirt, her tears. Shame burned in his throat. He didn’t know how to face her.
Margaret acted as if he didn’t exist. No more fussing over his meals, no coaxing him to eat. Just a cold bowl of porridge, a glass of milk—and no buttered crust in sight.
Alfie, meanwhile, trudged to school gritting sand between his teeth, near tears. He begged Tommy to help him choke down the filthy bread faster, but Tommy snapped:
—Not a chance. I’ve enough welts already.
That evening, Tommy crept to Margaret and threw his arms around her.
She sat motionless, hands limp. He babbled about top marks, solved sums—but she stayed deaf. At last, he broke, sobbing, kneeling before her, pressing his head into her lap.
Her rough hands lifted his face, and what he saw in her eyes would haunt him forever—pain, hurt, pity—written plain as print.
She sat him down and spoke softly:
—Listen, my lad. There’s a line in life you *never* cross. Never mock the elderly, never harm a helpless creature, never betray your country, never scorn the Lord—and never, *ever* disrespect bread.
When I was a girl—through the war, after—all I dreamed of was a belly full of proper bread. Not husks, not nettles—just real, clean loaves. Enough to bake whenever I pleased.
We welcome newlyweds with bread and salt. To kick bread is to spit in your mother’s face. In the war, beggars would kiss your *hands* for a stale crust. And you—you *booted* it. You’re near a man—supposed to have sense—yet there’s more straw in your head than brains.
Tommy burned with shame but held back tears.
Just then, Alfie slunk in, and Margaret made him sit too.
Alfie sniffled:
—Granddad near *skinned* me, then made me listen for an hour about bread—how folk starved for it, prayed over it…
He burst into apologies.
A grandmother’s heart can’t stay hard forever. She hugged them both and led them to the table.
Alfie groaned:
—I can barely chew—it’s *all* grit.
Tommy muttered:
—I’m not even *allowed* bread.
But Margaret grinned, carving two thick slices.
—God and I won’t tell.
—Eat up, then. Crisp, sweet, warm—and remember: bread is strength. Bread is life. *Bread is king.*
