By John Silverton
From the days of his mother’s milk, food and drink nurtured the significant occasions in Peter’s life and he wasn’t about to depart this world without a last meal. He wondered what other people chose for their final repast. Surfing the internet revealed a list of last suppers requested by condemned prisoners, a customary right preceding execution. There was nothing of gastronomical inspiration or evidence of fine dining, merely a philistine litany of fast foods loaded with carbohydrates. A healthy diet is hardly priority for a last supper, of course, unless you are a firm believer in an afterlife. The Last Supper, unleavened bread and red wine, was unpalatably chaste for Peter’s omnivorous appetite.
He did recall one last meal scenario in the movie Kind Hearts and Coronets. The film opens with Louis D’Ascoyne (played by Dennis Price) imbibing claret and writing his memoirs in a prison cell. His grace is due to be hung at 8 am. The prison warden enquires of his wishes for what would be his last breakfast. “Just coffee and a slice of toast thank you. Oh, and perhaps a few grapes.” Louis considers it too early for a conventional breakfast.
Peter had no such early morning qualms and was almost ashamed to admit to his favourite breakfast, redolent of a greasy spoon café: a fry-up of bacon and eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms and hash browns. As he scraped the plate of this scrumptious fare, he hoped it would be on the menu in the afterlife café at the end of the galaxy, or wherever.
In considering the method by which to summon The Grim Reaper Peter favoured the suggestion of an elderly lady friend. Although she’d recently given up driving, both on the roads and on the golf course, she remained active and compos mentis. However, she considered selling her flat and moving to a residential care home. The sale would finance about five years of care home residency, aged ninety, long enough you may think, except her family tree propagated branches of exceptional longevity.
‘What will you do when the money runs out?’
‘Jump into a taxi to Beachy Head,’ she replied. ‘You wouldn’t even have to pay the driver, just ask him to wait.’
Peter telephoned for a taxi to catch the noon low tide. He paid the fare, not wanting to leave this world indebted or to occasion anyone’s ill will towards his memory. Like a fixated lemming he headed across the grassy slope to the cliff edge, checking for the highest point with the eponymous red-and-white lighthouse below.
In recent years vertigo had been an unwelcome companion but today as he stood on the cliff edge the fear departed along with the desire for life. Five-hundred-and-thirty-feet below the rocky tombstones of the legion before beckoned. He paused, summoning the courage to dive into space, as ably as he would dive into the town’s swimming pool.
He took a last look at the familiar vista. The grassy surges and craggy cliffs of the Seven Sisters sweep westward, the cliff faces in need of a coat of whitewash. A distant windfarm out to sea and the defunct Belle Tout lighthouse the only interventions upon the natural beauty of this celebrated coastline.
Despondent souls from all over the country travel to Beachy Head, for it has acquired a perverse romanticism as a portal to the next life. Their numbers prompted a chaplaincy of volunteer Christians to patrol the cliffs to intercept and dissuade the dispirited leapers. One noticed Peter, his agitated yellow jacket and swinging binoculars indicating the urgency of his stride as he hurried forward calling and waving. Hopefully, thought Peter, the guy will not be too upset failing in his soul-saving mission. He will report Peter’s demise to the coastguard. Peter took comfort in knowing his body would be recovered before being washed out to sea, or preyed upon as carrion by the seagulls circling in front of the cliffs like expectant vultures.
Although it’s a hell of a long way down, doubt entered Peter’s mind. What if the fall did not prove fatal? What if he survived with horrendous injuries? He recalled a disturbing documentary featuring a man who did survive the big jump, to be left a wheelchair invalid in constant pain. One of thousands yes, and the odds were stacked as high as the cliffs in favour of Peter’s intent. However, doubt and fear conquered his despair and Peter turned away from the cliff edge. But a sudden gust of wind toppled him over the edge.
He screamed, ‘Aargh! Help me,’ stretching his arms out to the chaplain.
He’s falling … plummeting into a black abyss of nothingness … but he’s saved, the chaplain has hold of his arm. Except, it’s not the chaplain, its Mary, Peter’s wife.
‘Wake up! Wake up Peter, you’ve been dreaming again,’ she said, tugging at his arm.
He sits up in bed, his heart pounding, the dream so frighteningly real, relieved to be alive, hungry for another breakfast fry-up.
Author Bio:
John Silverton is the author of A Pearl Amongst Oysters, a passionate suspenseful interracial romance spanning fifty years and two continents, available in paperback from Amazon Books.
A collection of short stories will be published later this year. John is twice winner of the Anderida Writers short story competition, 2024 and 2026, and a collection of stories is due for publication. A second novel, a crime thriller set in the art market, will be published in 2027.
Contact Author:
Email: johnsilverton@hotmail.co.uk
