Five Reasons Why Gene Loves Pink Wafers, Green Cortina, Sytaxia
1.
*Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.*
“Honestly, Love, it wouldn’t hurt you to come to church with me once in a…”
*Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.*
“And what on earth have you gotten onto your coat this time? Is that blood? Honestly, your profession frightens the living daylights out of…”
*Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.*
“Honestly, where do you get off, thinking you can just saunter in here, pissed to the roof and…”
*Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.*
“Honestly, Gene, it wouldn’t hurt to have my sister over more often and…”
*Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.*
“Honestly, would it hurt you to…”
*Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.*
“Honestly, how could you possibly be so soused as to have to sleep over at your DI’s every soddin’ night of the…”
*Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.*
Gene loved pink wafers. The missus did not.
2.
“Don’t you go looking at me for sommat, I’ve nowt got thruppence to spare, let alone bloody food!” Mrs. Dickerson, the neighbor woman who sometimes looked after Gene and Stu, listened to the sounds of the screaming row that was occurring in the next house over and turned a pained look to the clock. Half ten, and the great drunk was already beating on his poor wife, who, from the sound of it, was doing her best to fuel him on, screaming obscenities that would have made a wharf-side mugger blush between squeals and crashes. From the look of the two boys in front of her, both of them had recently been on the receiving end of the man’s ire as well; ten year old Gene and twelve year old Stu were both sporting a wide array of bruises, made only more ghastly by the unmended and unwashed rags that they were wearing. Both of them were staring at her with wide, angry eyes, as if either one were ready to lash out at her like they wanted to lash out at their father. Part of her ached for the boys, and another part wished that they’d be evacuated before they could turn into drunken louts or petty criminals or German bullet-fodder. Or all three, which she was sure many of the boys that were still in town were likely to become.
Mrs. Dickerson sighed, “When was the last time you two ‘ad sommat to eat?”
In response to her question, Gene simply glowered further, hunching his shoulders, still looking as if he were spoiling for a fight. Stu, on the other hand, brightened up with a slight bit of hope and eyed her pantry door, “Not since dinner yesterday, ma’am.”
“We don’t need charity,” though the younger and smaller of the two, Gene was by far the more belligerent, and the harder nut to crack, in her mind. If the war continued on past his twenty-first, or even past his sixteenth, if she gauged his attitude properly, he would likely make another soldier. 1946 seemed like as good year to lie about one’s age and be blown to bits in France as 1940 did…
“An’ I’m not offerin’ yeh any. Jus’ a bit of old soup is all,” Mrs. Dickerson turned on her heel and headed for the pantry, withdrawing the pot that held what was supposed to last for another two days, and ladled a bit into a bowl, before hearing Gene’s voice behind her.
“We don’t need any, thank you, ma’am,” Stu had followed her into the kitchen, but Gene was still standing in the entryway to the house, his coat and hat still on, as if his mum were going to come and collect him in a minute, despite the fact that she was obviously otherwise engaged, and likely would be for hours, if history proved to repeat itself again.
“I’ll take some, Mrs. Dickerson,” Stu had already climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs, and she set the bowl down in front of him before placing the lid back on the pot and securing it back in the pantry.
“It’s nowt ours, Stu! You can’ just take from other people!” Gene was going red in the face, and Stu gave him a wide-eyed look, as if he couldn’t believe that Gene had shouted like that in front of an adult. Gene, however, didn’t seem to mind what he said or did in front of Mrs. Dickerson - or anyone, for that matter.
“I’m not takin,’ she offered! An’ I’m bloody hungry!”
“Language!” Mrs. Dickerson whirled around and glared at Stu, fixing her gaze upon him until he offered his mumbled apologies, and then turned around, only to hear the sound of her own front door shutting.
Two days later, Ada Dickerson was surprised to hear a knock on her door, and even more surprised to open it to the sight of Gene Hunt, sporting a freshly blacked eye, and holding out a penny in one grubby hand. “What’s this about? I told yer mam I couldn’t watch yeh tonight...” Ada’s voice trailed off as Gene thrust his hand her way.
“This’s to pay for Stu’s dinner Thursday last. I came by it honest,” Gene said, and from the look of his clothes, he’d come by it by helping to search for valuables in a bombsite, a job that many of the vultures rattling around town often paid tuppence for, in return for hours of crawling through tight spaces amid unsteady rubble.
She shook her head, “Gene Hunt, that’s nowt what needs payin’ for. Jus’ me bein’ neighborly.” In response, Gene simply thrust his hand at her again.
“We don’ need your charity, ma’am.” Gene thrust his hand at her again, and for a moment, his eyes swam as if he were about to burst into tears. She stared at him for a moment, and then considered the penny in his hand.
“See here… What I gave yer brother weren’t worth a full penny. Ha’penny, maybe. Let me see if I’ve owt to give yeh to make up the difference.” She disappeared back into her house, and came back with a small, paper wrapped parcel in one hand.
Gene watched as she took the penny from his hand, and then peered at the item that she’d replaced it with. “What’s this?”
“Been savin’ a packet of ‘em for a while now sealed up in those fancy waxed paper wrappers they came in before the war, a good dozen for when our Martin comes home. We’ll not miss jus’ those,” she said, and then gave him one last look before shutting the door, with him still standing on the stoop.
That night, Gene had opened the paper to find two long, thin pink biscuits inside, and had stared at each one for a long time before eating them. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted anything as good…
3.
Sam held his hands up in front of his face and then ran them jerkily through his hair, a gesture that only made him look mad and was likely only a few steps away from resulting in him yanking half of his hair out by the roots. “Gene, will you… I know it’s just a bloody cot… Jesus, Gene, will you bloody stop that? You’re getting crumbs in my damned bed!”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Gladys, I sleep here as well, some nights,” Gene winked at Sam and rolled over on his side, crunching into another pink wafer and letting the crumbs fall down onto the green coverlet.
“You’re going to draw mice, you daft bastard!” Sam spun on his Cuban-heeled foot and raised his hands again, then crossed them against his chest, looking from one side to the other before staring at Gene again.
“Good. Bit of company for you when you’re rattling about with just your barmy thoughts for company.” Gene crunched down again, littering more crumbs onto the coverlet and brushing them off and into the shag carpeting.
Sam held up an index finger as if he were about to make a point then closed his fist and shook his head. He raised the hand again and pointed, very emphatically and with his hand bobbing jarringly up and down, towards the table of his bedsit, “Couldn’t you eat them there, instead? Why in the bloody bed? I’m going to wake up with bloody bits of whatever the hell flavor ‘pink’ is stuck to my arse!”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Sammy boy,” Gene said, crunching down again, and this time, he accidentally crumbled half of the wafer in one hand, spilling a massive amount of crumbs onto the sheet, which he had exposed by nudging the coverlet with his elbow.
“How can you… Why… I mean, I know this is hard for you to bloody comprehend, but some people enjoy living in something that isn’t a complete shit heap!” Sam was waving his hand about in front of his face, alternately gripping his elbows and slapping lightly at his thighs as he did so. “Are you going to do that all day?”
“Sam, my wafers and I could watch you do this all week,” Gene said, drawing an annoyed look from Sam.
“What the hell do you - watch me do what?” Sam’s face screwed into a bizarre expression as he waggled his hands in front of Gene, bending his knees as he did so.
Gene chuckled, and crunched down on another wafer.
4.
As the Cortina slammed up against a curb, the glove box flew open, and Sam stared at the item that was about to fall into his lap. “Guv - tell me that isn’t a box of bloody pink wafers in your glove box.”
“Indeed it is, Sammy boy. Emergency provisions. Booze,” he tapped one of his flasks, “Fags,” he tapped his pocket, “Food.” He gestured towards the packet.
“How the hell does this constitute food? Where’s your registration? Where’re your maps? Where’s the owner’s manual?” Sam slammed the glove box shut.
“Registration is for civilians. Plod know who I am, and why the hell would they risk the beating they’d get if they ever pulled me over? I don’t need any maps - know this city like the back of me hand, I do. And what the bloody hell is an owner’s manual?”
Sam sighed, and then glared at Gene, “Why not pack something else? What is it about pink wafers?”
Gene turned towards Sam, resting one arm on the steering wheel, “Cans of hoops are too wide. Kit Kats melt. Curly Wurlys melt. Penguins melt. Freddo Frogs melt! Hell, Tyler, bloody everything else melts! Or are two wide! Or go stale! The pink wafer packet is the one box of food soddin’product that fits easily into any glove box! The pink wafer is practically the field ration of the modern police officer, and don’t you bloody forget it!”
“Field rations in touch with the general quality of diet and fitness in today’s force, I see,” Sam said, a rather self-important tone to his voice, and Gene glowered at him.
“Precisely.” Gene ripped the packet from Sam’s hands and opened it, pulling out a wafer. Sam rolled his eyes as Gene continued to munch.
5.
Gene stood at his office window, slowly opening a packet of pink wafers and gazing at his DI. Poncey git by appearance: all high fashion flares and leather jacket, looking like a rock star except for that ridiculously short hair cut, only just too long for the military, only just too short for anyone else. Medallion on his neck. Bloody ponce! He stared down at the wafer in his hand - pink was a girlie, poncey color, wasn’t it?
Tyler was easy to distress - anything could send him into a ridiculous near fit of exasperation and speeches on cleanliness, orderliness, and regulations. Paper thin and crumbly, that’s just another layer of him. Gene stared down at the top layer of his wafer - paper thin and crumbly, that was the outside…
And then the next layer of Tyler - soft and easy still, thick and creamy and cooing over the ladies, all miss manners and “what about their feelings” and “be nice, Guv.” Soft and creamy… Gene considered the filling in his wafer…
And stacked amongst the soft, creamy bits were biscuit-like, hard, crunchy layers - hard and far more substantial than you would give them any credit for, they held in the creamy bits, trapped them there, and stood out against the teeth, making the wafer a treat that just wouldn’t be sucked, but had to be crunched down on. Sam would hold his ground, would go out fighting, would defend his point mercilessly, even if the point was a direct result of him talking out of his arse. Gene considered the inner wafers…
Gene slowly placed the wafer in his mouth, still staring at Tyler. The human pink wafer… Gene stared down at his biscuit - he did, in fact, love pink wafers…