It was the winter of 1997 in a quiet suburb of Manchester. William Thompson trudged in from work, his belly gnawing with hunger. Finding Emily absent from the living room, he scurried into the kitchen, hoping for a warm meal. Instead of his wife’s usual shepherd’s pie, a note lay on the stove:
*”Darling, I’m at Meg’s. Chatting. Ring if needed.”*
William peered into the empty saucepans, then raided the fridge, piling cheese, cold meats, and crusty bread onto a plate. Nibbling on his makeshift feast with a lukewarm cuppa, he flopped into his chair by the fire, dozing off.
Emily returned after nine, her heels clicking on the linoleum. William jolted awake, rubbing his hands together. “Love, are we having dinner?”
“I can’t eat so late,” she said firmly, patting her waist. “I’m trimming down.”
“And I’m starving,” he grumbled, slapping the table. “I’ve been behind the wheel all day. Can’t I get one decent bite?”
“Very well,” she sighed, though her tone was sharp. “I’ve already supped at Meg’s, but for you… I’ll fetch something.”
“And what, pray tell, did *you* enjoy there?”
“Meg’s cousin brought a country goose,” she said. “She shared it with me.”
“Roast goose?” William’s eyes lit up.
“Yes, in applesauce.”
“Ah, so that’s why you’ve been sneaking off to her place!” he said, licking his lips. “She’s been feeding you to distraction, while I’m stuck with your bangers and mash?”
“No, William,” she protested, “I go because she’s lonely. Think of her, all alone. Want me to ask if she’ll share a goose with you, now?”
“Madness!” he barked. “Go to her house? At this hour? It’d be awkward.”
“Posh,” she laughed, already tapping on her phone. “Meg’s a proper hostess. She’ll love to see you.”
“Stop that!” William cried, his face reddening. “I’m not going! I’ll die hungry, for all I care!”
But Emily was already speaking to her friend. “Mags, darling, William’s come home famished, and I’ve no time to cook. Stars, could he pop round for supper? Without me, of course—I’ve bookings at the hairdresser’s. Oh, love you, truly! He’s not had goose in ages, you know. Thank you!”
She snapped the phone shut. “Hurry up, he’s expecting you.”
“Barmy business,” William muttered, but shuffled on.
Emily slipped into the bathroom, lit a candle, and sank into the tub. The TV hummed as she flipped through channels. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. The house felt too still. Draining the bath, she wrapped a towel and fetched her clothes. Should she go? Perhaps William had lingered over the goose. But then, what if he stayed? Her pride bristled. Yet her curiosity itched. She snatched the phone again, fingers trembling. William’s voice answered, muffled with laughter. “Aye, Mags’ goose is a marvel—she’s carved it with her own hands!”
Emily flew to the door, keys in hand. Five minutes later, William was on the sofa, cradling a mug. “Dinner’s in the bin, William,” she growled, shoulder-checking him out the door.
From that night on, the Thompsons’ visits to Margot’s kitchen faded into legend—though the tale of William’s gluttony and his wife’s outrage still raises a chuckle in the pub.
