Vanilla Slices

by Paul Goodwin

I was in a race with Granny Gormley. It was the same race every Tuesday. She was devouring her ham sandwiches like she’d starved for a week. I had no chance. An apple had to follow my cheese sandwiches. If I didn’t eat them, I’d be in trouble with my mother. So Granny Gormley always won. Her prize: not one, but two vanilla slices that my aunt, who worked at a cake shop, had left for both of us. One each. Yes, one each.

Granny Gormley and I competed in our unequal contest at my aunt’s house. I was there because I hated Tuesday’s school dinners. Granny Gormley was there to help with my aunt’s cleaning. She loved cleaning, working hard, and helping people. It was a moral duty. Once, a queue of traffic pulled up outside the house. A coach packed with seniors on a day trip gazed towards our net-curtained window. Granny Gormley pulled the curtain back an inch, a duster crumpled in her other hand. “Come here,” she hissed. “Just look at those idle devils.”

As usual, my aunt’s poodles fussed around the table, hoping for a treat which never came. Their wire wool fur brushed against your bare legs. Make eye contact, and they’d sit up and beg. Then, they’d snarl and bark in frustration. “Bloody yapping dogs,” Granny Gormley would say between her desperate nibbles -her jaws moving at top speed. People said she had a sharp tongue but a warm heart. They didn’t know her weakness for vanilla slices.

That Tuesday, Granny Gormley had a streaming cold. It didn’t stop her from winning the week’s race. But when she returned to dusting after lunch, she had a sneezing fit and took her false teeth out to place them on the hearth. I was about to return to school when I heard her cursing in the lounge.

Granny Gormley was kneeling and peering under the settee. She stretched an arm out only to extract it quickly when it was met with a chilling snarl. “Bloody dog’s got my teeth,” she began, her sentence ending in another sneezing fit.

“Let me have a go,” I said.

Granny Gormley groaned as she got back on her feet. The poodle and I stared at each other through the gloom. The teeth sat between us, posing a challenge. They seemed undamaged. I could see the white of the poodle’s eyes, but it looked playful. It was waiting for my next move.

I grabbed the teeth instantly, but the dog seized them, too. I could feel its cold nose and saliva against my hand. We were in a tug of war, but I was winning. The dog’s growls were muffled by its mouthful. One quick jerk and I sensed those teeth would be back with me.

Then, I had a spiteful thought. I let the teeth go. The dog, enjoying its victory, retreated with its reward. “Sorry, I couldn’t get them,” I lied. “I nearly got badly bitten. I could have lost a finger.”

Satisfied growls, interspersed with bone-crunching cracks, taunted us from beneath the sideboard.

“Well, you did your best.” Granny Gormley’s mouth was a dark cave above a jutting chin. But she was already polishing my aunt’s brasses. “Now get back to school, or you’ll be late.”

Granny Gormley never bothered to get new teeth. I doubt whether she could have afforded them anyway. Ever afterwards, I always got to the vanilla slices first. But I was generous and always left the second one for her.

Though not that generous. Now, I wish I’d left them both for her.