Margaret looked at her grandson and felt the urge to give him such a walloping that he’d remember the strength of his nan’s slap for the rest of his days. She wanted to smack his backside so hard it’d light up like a bonfire, leaving young Peter desperate to dunk himself in icy water to cool off.
Peering out the window, she saw Peter and his mate, scruffy-eared Johnny, kicking around what looked like a loaf of bread like a football. One had been carrying it in a bag when it split, sending the loaf tumbling onto the pavement. The other gave it a punt, and soon they were booting it back and forth like a pair of little rascals.
When Margaret realised what they were kicking, her heart nearly stopped. She let out a shriek, trying to bolt outside, but shock rooted her to the spot. A strangled cry escaped her throat before the words clogged up entirely. By the time she reached Peter, she was gasping like a fish out of water.
She hissed through clenched teeth, “That’s bread, you daft lads! It’s sacred—how could you?”
The boys froze, stunned, as Margaret dropped to her knees, scooping up the loaf with trembling hands before bursting into tears. She trudged home, clutching the bread to her chest like something precious, her steps slow and unsteady.
When her son, William, saw the state she was in, one glance at the battered loaf told him everything. Without a word, he unbuckled his belt and marched outside. Margaret heard Peter’s howls but didn’t lift a finger to stop it—not this time.
Later, red-faced and sniffling, Peter darted inside and hid upstairs. William, still gripping the belt, announced that from now on, Peter wouldn’t touch a single slice—not with his soup, not with his sausages (which he usually wolfed down by the handful), not even with his tea. No rolls, no buns, nothing. And as for Johnny’s parents? Oh, he’d be paying them a visit to tell them what a “brilliant footballer” they’d raised.
Johnny’s dad was a farmer—he’d tan the lad’s hide proper. And his grandad? He’d done hard labour during the war over a single loaf—he’d thrash the boy senseless.
Margaret always blessed a fresh-baked loaf with a kiss before slicing it thick. She rarely bought bread from the shop—she and her daughter-in-law baked it themselves in the old oven, filling the house with that warm, yeasty scent that clung to the walls and made everyone’s stomachs growl. Nothing beat tearing into a crusty slice with a glug of cold milk.
True to his word, William stormed over to Johnny’s house, clutching the dirty loaf. The family had just sat down to supper when he barged in. Johnny squirmed like he was sat on hot coals, but his grandad shut him up quick with a sharp tug on his ear.
William explained the mess in a few short words. Without hesitation, Grandad Albert hacked off a huge chunk of the ruined loaf and slapped it in front of Johnny. “You’ll eat this—every last crumb—before you touch another slice of bread in this house. No rushing, either.” And with that, he shoved the plate right under the boy’s nose.
Peter didn’t dare go near bread the next morning. He remembered his dad’s warning—and the sight of his nan on her knees, weeping over that loaf. Shame burned in his chest. He didn’t know how to face her, how to apologise.
Margaret acted like he didn’t exist. No more fussing over his breakfast, no more urging him to eat. Just a plain bowl of porridge and a glass of milk—no golden, buttered slice in sight.
Meanwhile, Johnny trudged to school, grinding grit between his teeth, near tears. He begged Peter to help him finish the loaf, but Peter scoffed, “Not a chance—I’ve had my fill of belt marks, thanks.”
That evening, Peter finally crept up to Margaret and wrapped his arms around her. She sat stiffly, hands limp in her lap. He babbled about school, about top marks, but she didn’t react. When the silence got too much, he crumpled to his knees, burying his face in her apron, his shoulders shaking.
Margaret cupped his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. Peter would never forget that look—hurt, disappointment, pity, all written plain as day.
Settling him beside her, she spoke softly but firmly. “Listen close, love. There are lines you never cross—never. You don’t shame your elders, you don’t harm the helpless, you don’t turn your back on home or God. And you never, ever disrespect bread.” Her voice wavered. “When I was a girl, during the war and after, all I dreamed of was a proper loaf—no weeds, no sawdust, just real bread. People used to welcome guests with salt and bread—kicking it is like spitting in your own mother’s face. Back then, folk would kiss your hands for a crust. And you lads—you booted it like rubbish.” She sighed. “You’re clever with your books, but sense? That’s in short supply.”
Peter bit his lip, guilt twisting his stomach.
Just then, Johnny shuffled in, shamefaced. He admitted his grandad had given him the same lecture—about how bread was life, how folk had starved for it, how every crumb was treasured. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he begged Margaret’s forgiveness.
A heart can’t stay hard forever. Wrapping them both in a hug, Margaret led them to the table for tea.
Johnny groaned, “I can still feel the grit in that loaf,” while Peter mumbled, “I’m not even allowed any.”
Margaret sliced two thick pieces from the fresh loaf with a wink. “God and I won’t tell if you don’t. Now eat up—proper bread, warm and sweet. Remember, love… bread’s more than food. It’s life itself.”
