BROCCOLI

Slow and easy, that’s how the water under the bridge flowed. A gentle meandering around rocks. The passing of the occasional sluggish twig or leaf had the same attitude; there was no need for haste. This bridge, this stream, was their favourite place.  

There was a breeze. From the north carrying the chill of faraway ice that demanded at least a thick pullover even though there was heat from a bright sun. But they could linger, they were zipped up tightly enough to fight off the cold.  

Coming up to ten-years-old they were, the two boys swinging in unison on the wooden rail of the wooden footbridge spanning the wide stream. At their feet a bulging bag. Both wearing the same bright blue fleece, the same black jeans and the same white crossovers. Not speaking, dreaming, mesmerised as they stared through the water wishing they’d brought their rods. But no time for fishing they had orders accompanied by the words, ‘And quickly please.’ 

They both stared back the way they had come then glanced at the way they were going and carried on swinging. In their youthful world those words had grated a touch. Their mum’s words and so familiar. It was where she lived, in a fast place, a million miles an hour place of rush, tear and impatience. An alien place for them. 

Her voice always an octave or two higher than it needed to be as it sent a stream of demands, up the stairs, into the garden all racing towards them. Incessant was the boy’s perception but the reality was different. She demanded infrequently, only when essential, when her terrors, as she called them, were being particularly difficult although that was not how they saw things. Like all young people their world was a slow place where time took only as long as necessary to pass but annoyingly the pace of that flow was continually disrupted by orders of haste. 

One sighed and looked at his brother who shrugged. Enough time had passed. The moment had been reached where they could return with the shopping quickly enough to pacify but slowly enough to make their point. The swinging ceased and a sauntering began to weave its way along the slow route, the long path through the trees. 

“What do we do?” one said. 

“We have the power,” said the other. 

“But…” 

“I know, there would be consequences.” He stared at the bag and saw the green lump sitting on top of the heavier things thinking how easy it would be for it to slip out. 

“But…” 

“I know, would it be worth it?” 

“Not sure.” 

“Me neither.” 

“Is it best…” 

“To do nothing?” 

“Probably.” 

“Yes, probably.” 

Breaking clear of the woods, the downhill slope made the last stretch an easy walk to their house. From the back door the smell of roasting beef put some purpose in their step as they crashed through to be confronted by a stare but no words. At least they had returned just soon enough. 

“Did you get everything?” their mum asked. 

Two nods. 

“And the broccoli?” 

Two more nods but with the twin scowl of disgust. 

“Don’t be like that, you know it’s good for you.” 

“Really,” two voices said with the confirmation that in the uncomplicated slow world of the young just like haste there was no place for broccoli.