Time and eggs will tell
They never argued about pointless things.
Maybe sometimes they argued about things they could have avoided arguing over, but the things that they discussed in raised voices and sometimes with fists and kicks were always things that needed to be addressed. But very, very rarely were they things that needed to be argued so passionately, so heatedly and with such consequences.
Listening to them, you’d think the pair was quarrelling over the meaning of life itself, if God existed, if Napoleon was a hero or a villain, if Hitler was the reason World War II happened or if he was just one of the people in his generation that could have been the spark of the second Great War.
They were, in fact, arguing over whose turn it was to buy eggs.
And the debate wasn’t even that the other should by this week’s groceries, it was that they should be the one doing it. For you see, Francis Bonnefoy hated eating eggs from caged hens. It was cruel and barbaric, he said, a miserable existence. And organic, free-range eggs tasted better in omelettes.
Arthur Kirkland thought it was a stupid waste of money, they were just eggs and just birds, the feathery creatures were going to end up dead however their lives panned out, just as everybody was going to. He’d rather spend the extra few pounds on getting pissed at the local pub so he didn’t have depressing thoughts that gave him headaches and no real answer.
“Savage,” Francis snapped as he followed Arthur through the park, the younger man power-walking to keep his partner a good meter and a half behind him.
“Birdbrain,” Arthur retorted, not looking over his shoulder, voice loud enough to carry past him and through the wind to Francis’ ears. Both men ploughed through the few inches of snow, Francis catching up.
“It’s my money that you’ve stolen.”
“Hardly your money any more then, as I’ve nicked it.”
Francis’ hand latches onto Arthur’s arm and spins him round, blue eyes frosty and unyielding.
Dark, stubborn green eyes meet his evenly. “What.”
“We’re buying my eggs.”
“No, we’re not,” Arthur snapped, breaking Francis’ grip and turning on his heel to walk on towards the shops.
Francis skittered round him, blocking his path firmly. Letting out a frustrated huff, Arthur threw his hands up in the air and then stormed off the path and over the snow covered grass.
“You’re an immature, selfish little ingrat, rosbif.”
“You’re a whiny, self-centred wanker, frog.”
It took Arthur a few seconds to remember that there’s a pond somewhere in front of him and he can’t distinguish very well between its icy surface and the rest of the white landscape. Stopping short Francis only narrowly avoided crashing into him. Arthur did a ninety degree turn and stomped towards a tree to his right, sliding down its trunk and into the snow, ignoring the immediate cold wetness.
Francis leant against the other side of the tree, and neither of them spoke.
“Bête.”
“Tosser.”
Not for a few moments, at least.
“Do you always have to be so stubborn, rosbif?”
“Yes,” was the flat response.
There was another moment of silence and then Francis turned around, intending on continuing the insult flinging competition face to face, but was distracted by something carved into the wood of the tree. He peered closer at it, one eyebrow rising when he realised that the writing was in French, at least in part. After a few seconds realisation hits, and he leant round the tree to prod Arthur’s side.
“What?” Arthur snapped, glancing up. Francis replied by pulling the younger man to his feet and pointing at the tree. Remembering instantly, and far faster than Francis, Arthur blinked at the wood for a moment before he blushed faintly.
Carved into the tree was an arrow, pointing straight down. Above it, in rough and uneven letters that didn’t reflect the writer’s pretty cursive, was a sentence in French.
Un Anglais toujours en mesure de parler français, creuser ici.
“I remember that,” Arthur commented after a few seconds, edging slightly away from Francis, out of the grip of the hand that had stayed on his shoulder. Gloved fingers traced the weather-worn arrow.
Francis crouched down- careful to avoid getting wet- and started to brush away the snow beneath the tree, revealing damp brown earth and a few despondently soggy strands of grass. The ground didn’t reveal any signs of being dug out and replaced, only three short years ago.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to see if it’s still there,” Francis replied, looking at the ground with distaste, wrinkling his nose.
“We had a trowel last time,” Arthur pointed out as he dropped down next to him, enmity briefly forgotten.
“We still didn’t dig that deep.” Francis dug around in his pocket for something to dig with, producing a key for the shed in their garden they rarely used. The metal scratched the face of the earth, pulling back a few layers of mud and roots.
For a few seconds, Arthur only watched. But then he pulled the spare button from the inside of his coat and joined Francis in scraping the earth away.
It didn’t take long for the pair to dig down ten centimetres and find muddy plastic stop them going any further. Scraping around a little further, they eventually managed to pry a Tupperware box from the hole.
It had sort of been Arthur’s idea, but it had definitely been Francis’ prompting that had led the box to be buried. For a few minutes, curled up on a friend of theirs sofa at a New Year’s party, Arthur had forgotten himself enough to admit that he was didn’t like the idea of not being remembered.
“I’m not going to forget you.”
“You’d better not. But I mean, well, we’re both going to die one day. It’s unavoidable.”
“You make such light-hearted conversation. People will remember us. You might be forgettable, petite lapin, but I-“
“Shut up, idiot, I’m trying to make a point. Everyone else will forget us too. The best most people can hope for is being remembered for two generations, maybe three. Everyone dies, and I don’t mind that so much. There might be heaven, or whatever. But beyond that, beyond whatever comes next, we’ll still be forgotten.”
Francis watched Arthur’s hands brush the mud away and turn the plastic container over. It hadn’t been a particularly well thought out event. The box only a few centimetres deep, they had no idea how long such an item would last underground and Francis was fairly sure someone from the council would kick up a fuss if they ever found out that a young couple had dug up an area of the park.
What was inside the box really wasn’t that imaginative. There was a newspaper they’d bought on the day and two other pieces of paper folded up into identical squares. On one, in familiar curling writing, there were the words ‘Francis Bonnefoy’, and on the other in more practical black print was ‘Arthur Kirkland’.
Francis’ hand went out to pick up the paper with his name on it, spare hand going up to his mouth so he could pull his glove off with his teeth. With instantly cold fingers he started to unfold the paper, only to have Arthur’s hand latch round his wrist.
“You can’t open it,” he said quickly. “That spoils it.”
Francis raised an eyebrow, but dutifully folded the paper back along the crease he’d just opened. He just about remembered what was inside it anyway. Unfurled, the paper would be A4 size, about half of filled with his handwriting. On the remaining half would be a pencil sketch. The writing is a few words in French to begin, then an English translation and the comment that it was annoying to have to speak in English all the time, though he really should have been prepared for it when he moved to England. Then there’d be a brief explanation on why the box was even buried in the ground. After that the writing would trail off as Francis started to feel awkward writing it.
The drawing would be incredibly good, even by his high standards and the poor materials used to create it. An exact replica of what Arthur had looked like three years ago, when he was twenty and Francis was twenty-three, copied down in white and grey. A sentence in pencil beneath it, and then Francis had folded the paper up without reading through it again and dropped it into the box.
A man who should be remembered.
He wondered what Arthur had written on his paper- one of the rules had been that they weren’t allowed to look at the others.
Arthur was not an artist but a writer, and he had filled up the entire page with crammed words; all entirely about Francis. The first part a detailed account of exactly how he looked, so clear that any stranger could picture the man in their minds eye. The next on what he did, his paintings and sketches, his annoying refusal to let Arthur cook and the way he always knew when Arthur was feeling sad. And on, until the description cut off with a few lines left till the bottom of the page that were taken up with four words.
He should exist forever.
Arthur hadn’t reread his either, knowing himself well enough to know he’d most likely hate what he’d done and rip it up, then toss it in the lake without any attention to the flustered ducks and irritated swans. The paper had been folded up and deposited next to Francis’, the paper placed on top and the whole thing buried a little way beneath the earth and covered up. They’d fairly promptly forget about, until today. A day like all their others (but different), a day when an argument ended up concluding with no apology from either side. But all couples should know things of each other, and they always ended up with a better understanding. How better to know someone’s thoughts but to listen to their opinions, and what better way to get opinions from a mulish Englishman and a dogged Frenchman than through argument?
Francis pulled the lid back onto the box as Arthur held it, before taking it and dropping it back into the earth. Both men got to their feet, legs cold and stiff from crouching in the snow, and neatly shovelled the dirt back over it with their shoes.
In a companionable silence they started to trudge back towards the path, this time level with each other, footsteps even. Francis nudged his hand against Arthur’s, who without faltering linked their fingers.
“You know what we could do?”
“Mm?”
“We could get chickens.”
Maybe sometimes they argued about things they could have avoided arguing over, but the things that they discussed in raised voices and sometimes with fists and kicks were always things that needed to be addressed. But very, very rarely were they things that needed to be argued so passionately, so heatedly and with such consequences.
Listening to them, you’d think the pair was quarrelling over the meaning of life itself, if God existed, if Napoleon was a hero or a villain, if Hitler was the reason World War II happened or if he was just one of the people in his generation that could have been the spark of the second Great War.
They were, in fact, arguing over whose turn it was to buy eggs.
And the debate wasn’t even that the other should by this week’s groceries, it was that they should be the one doing it. For you see, Francis Bonnefoy hated eating eggs from caged hens. It was cruel and barbaric, he said, a miserable existence. And organic, free-range eggs tasted better in omelettes.
Arthur Kirkland thought it was a stupid waste of money, they were just eggs and just birds, the feathery creatures were going to end up dead however their lives panned out, just as everybody was going to. He’d rather spend the extra few pounds on getting pissed at the local pub so he didn’t have depressing thoughts that gave him headaches and no real answer.
“Savage,” Francis snapped as he followed Arthur through the park, the younger man power-walking to keep his partner a good meter and a half behind him.
“Birdbrain,” Arthur retorted, not looking over his shoulder, voice loud enough to carry past him and through the wind to Francis’ ears. Both men ploughed through the few inches of snow, Francis catching up.
“It’s my money that you’ve stolen.”
“Hardly your money any more then, as I’ve nicked it.”
Francis’ hand latches onto Arthur’s arm and spins him round, blue eyes frosty and unyielding.
Dark, stubborn green eyes meet his evenly. “What.”
“We’re buying my eggs.”
“No, we’re not,” Arthur snapped, breaking Francis’ grip and turning on his heel to walk on towards the shops.
Francis skittered round him, blocking his path firmly. Letting out a frustrated huff, Arthur threw his hands up in the air and then stormed off the path and over the snow covered grass.
“You’re an immature, selfish little ingrat, rosbif.”
“You’re a whiny, self-centred wanker, frog.”
It took Arthur a few seconds to remember that there’s a pond somewhere in front of him and he can’t distinguish very well between its icy surface and the rest of the white landscape. Stopping short Francis only narrowly avoided crashing into him. Arthur did a ninety degree turn and stomped towards a tree to his right, sliding down its trunk and into the snow, ignoring the immediate cold wetness.
Francis leant against the other side of the tree, and neither of them spoke.
“Bête.”
“Tosser.”
Not for a few moments, at least.
“Do you always have to be so stubborn, rosbif?”
“Yes,” was the flat response.
There was another moment of silence and then Francis turned around, intending on continuing the insult flinging competition face to face, but was distracted by something carved into the wood of the tree. He peered closer at it, one eyebrow rising when he realised that the writing was in French, at least in part. After a few seconds realisation hits, and he leant round the tree to prod Arthur’s side.
“What?” Arthur snapped, glancing up. Francis replied by pulling the younger man to his feet and pointing at the tree. Remembering instantly, and far faster than Francis, Arthur blinked at the wood for a moment before he blushed faintly.
Carved into the tree was an arrow, pointing straight down. Above it, in rough and uneven letters that didn’t reflect the writer’s pretty cursive, was a sentence in French.
Un Anglais toujours en mesure de parler français, creuser ici.
“I remember that,” Arthur commented after a few seconds, edging slightly away from Francis, out of the grip of the hand that had stayed on his shoulder. Gloved fingers traced the weather-worn arrow.
Francis crouched down- careful to avoid getting wet- and started to brush away the snow beneath the tree, revealing damp brown earth and a few despondently soggy strands of grass. The ground didn’t reveal any signs of being dug out and replaced, only three short years ago.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to see if it’s still there,” Francis replied, looking at the ground with distaste, wrinkling his nose.
“We had a trowel last time,” Arthur pointed out as he dropped down next to him, enmity briefly forgotten.
“We still didn’t dig that deep.” Francis dug around in his pocket for something to dig with, producing a key for the shed in their garden they rarely used. The metal scratched the face of the earth, pulling back a few layers of mud and roots.
For a few seconds, Arthur only watched. But then he pulled the spare button from the inside of his coat and joined Francis in scraping the earth away.
It didn’t take long for the pair to dig down ten centimetres and find muddy plastic stop them going any further. Scraping around a little further, they eventually managed to pry a Tupperware box from the hole.
It had sort of been Arthur’s idea, but it had definitely been Francis’ prompting that had led the box to be buried. For a few minutes, curled up on a friend of theirs sofa at a New Year’s party, Arthur had forgotten himself enough to admit that he was didn’t like the idea of not being remembered.
“I’m not going to forget you.”
“You’d better not. But I mean, well, we’re both going to die one day. It’s unavoidable.”
“You make such light-hearted conversation. People will remember us. You might be forgettable, petite lapin, but I-“
“Shut up, idiot, I’m trying to make a point. Everyone else will forget us too. The best most people can hope for is being remembered for two generations, maybe three. Everyone dies, and I don’t mind that so much. There might be heaven, or whatever. But beyond that, beyond whatever comes next, we’ll still be forgotten.”
Francis watched Arthur’s hands brush the mud away and turn the plastic container over. It hadn’t been a particularly well thought out event. The box only a few centimetres deep, they had no idea how long such an item would last underground and Francis was fairly sure someone from the council would kick up a fuss if they ever found out that a young couple had dug up an area of the park.
What was inside the box really wasn’t that imaginative. There was a newspaper they’d bought on the day and two other pieces of paper folded up into identical squares. On one, in familiar curling writing, there were the words ‘Francis Bonnefoy’, and on the other in more practical black print was ‘Arthur Kirkland’.
Francis’ hand went out to pick up the paper with his name on it, spare hand going up to his mouth so he could pull his glove off with his teeth. With instantly cold fingers he started to unfold the paper, only to have Arthur’s hand latch round his wrist.
“You can’t open it,” he said quickly. “That spoils it.”
Francis raised an eyebrow, but dutifully folded the paper back along the crease he’d just opened. He just about remembered what was inside it anyway. Unfurled, the paper would be A4 size, about half of filled with his handwriting. On the remaining half would be a pencil sketch. The writing is a few words in French to begin, then an English translation and the comment that it was annoying to have to speak in English all the time, though he really should have been prepared for it when he moved to England. Then there’d be a brief explanation on why the box was even buried in the ground. After that the writing would trail off as Francis started to feel awkward writing it.
The drawing would be incredibly good, even by his high standards and the poor materials used to create it. An exact replica of what Arthur had looked like three years ago, when he was twenty and Francis was twenty-three, copied down in white and grey. A sentence in pencil beneath it, and then Francis had folded the paper up without reading through it again and dropped it into the box.
A man who should be remembered.
He wondered what Arthur had written on his paper- one of the rules had been that they weren’t allowed to look at the others.
Arthur was not an artist but a writer, and he had filled up the entire page with crammed words; all entirely about Francis. The first part a detailed account of exactly how he looked, so clear that any stranger could picture the man in their minds eye. The next on what he did, his paintings and sketches, his annoying refusal to let Arthur cook and the way he always knew when Arthur was feeling sad. And on, until the description cut off with a few lines left till the bottom of the page that were taken up with four words.
He should exist forever.
Arthur hadn’t reread his either, knowing himself well enough to know he’d most likely hate what he’d done and rip it up, then toss it in the lake without any attention to the flustered ducks and irritated swans. The paper had been folded up and deposited next to Francis’, the paper placed on top and the whole thing buried a little way beneath the earth and covered up. They’d fairly promptly forget about, until today. A day like all their others (but different), a day when an argument ended up concluding with no apology from either side. But all couples should know things of each other, and they always ended up with a better understanding. How better to know someone’s thoughts but to listen to their opinions, and what better way to get opinions from a mulish Englishman and a dogged Frenchman than through argument?
Francis pulled the lid back onto the box as Arthur held it, before taking it and dropping it back into the earth. Both men got to their feet, legs cold and stiff from crouching in the snow, and neatly shovelled the dirt back over it with their shoes.
In a companionable silence they started to trudge back towards the path, this time level with each other, footsteps even. Francis nudged his hand against Arthur’s, who without faltering linked their fingers.
“You know what we could do?”
“Mm?”
“We could get chickens.”