Writing inspired by the following SWC prompts:

International Day of Rural Women

Celebrate the United Nations’ declared International Day of Rural Women by writing
a story or poem inspired by it.

A Free-Range Family Feud

by Caroline Stevenson

Sisters Annette and Dorothy waved to each other from their cars – Annette’s a sleek Jaguar, Dorothy’s a sturdy 4×4 – as they both pulled up at the entrance of Fresh and Wild, the new restaurant taking the gastro scene by storm in the suburbs of Bristol. Their reunion was seasonal and always Dorothy’s initiative, as though the first leaf falling in autumn fired a synapse in her brain: That reminds me, I ought to ring Annette. And lo, here they were at the venue Annette had insisted on trying before everyone found out about it and it became impossible to get a reservation. As was usually the case, the location was far more convenient for her, what with her living in super-central Clifton, while Dorothy had to drive for over an hour from the farm they had both grown up on as children, but Annette had insisted as compensation that this would be her treat.

The restaurant exterior was reminiscent of a Tudor house with its black and white stripes, adorned with a stained-glass effect in the windows. Annette’s heels clacked behind Dorothy, who wiped her mud-lined boots on the welcome mat. She made an ungainly entrance when the imposing oak door turned out to be featherlight with surprisingly well-oiled hinges. She just about avoided tumbling head-first into the waiter, who was unfazed and immediately set to work hanging up Dorothy’s cagoule and Annette’s Burberry trench coat before escorting them to their seats.

“Today’s special is eggs three ways,” he explained. “Boiled, scrambled and poached. Our eggs were all laid fresh this morning at our farm, and” – he gestured towards an announcement on the blackboard behind him – “in honour of International Rural Women’s Day, our female guests hailing from the countryside get a 20-percent discount. We just require proof of address.”

“Oh splendid!” exclaimed Dorothy. “I’ll take the special.”

“As will I,” said Annette through somewhat gritted teeth. She and her sister froze in their polite poses until the waiter had turned his back on them.

“Proof of address?! That’s hardly fair,” wailed Annette in an almost whisper. “I grew up on a farm too. That still makes me rural, right? Surely the waiter can tell we’re sisters.” That would be faintly plausible, if Annette released her hair from its chignon and if Dorothy took off her glasses.

“You paying full price for your dish is hardly going to burn a hole in your purse.” Dorothy would consider herself wealthy if she earned even half of her sister’s pay packet.

“That’s not the point, it’s the principle…”

“You still get the benefits of International Women’s Day.”

“Oh but that’s so generic, and only one day! If Pride gets a whole month, fifty percent of the human race should be allocated more than one day.” A man wearing a rainbow watch strap who was sitting behind Annette perked his ears up at this and looked towards their table with arched eyebrows. Dorothy blushed.

“Where’s Urban Women’s Day?” Annette continued. “And no offence, Dorothy…”

Dorothy rolled her eyes, ready for the wave of inevitably offensive remarks to wash over her.

“… I mean it’s valuable what you do, and Dad would be thrilled that farming is still being kept in the family, but… it’s not as if you had to fight to get to where you are today, being the one in charge of it. The worst you had to contend with was the odd burst of Dadsplaining, and not a barrage of sexism to work your way to the top floor… Anyway, I shan’t go on about it…” Annette declared, whilst stretching out her manicured fingers the way cats habitually flash their claws.

“…any longer,” muttered Dorothy under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

Dorothy coughed and placed her napkin in her lap. “Our food’s here.” A little too soon, she thought.

The poached eggs with chive gelee were placed down first, then the scrambled eggs accompanied by a toast foam. Small pans were placed over miniature heaters for the not-yet-boiled eggs. The waiter then took great care to lower the eggs into the simmering water with a gold-plated slotted spoon. Dorothy tried her hardest to refrain from tutting. The whole point of treating yourself to a restaurant meal was not having to do the cooking yourself.

“Well, that is a nice touch, I must say,” Annette conceded. “Giving the customer control. Then they can have their boiled eggs just the way they like them.”

“And that way the restaurant isn’t liable if you get food poisoning,” Dorothy remarked.” She frowned at the egg rumbling around in her pan. “I’ll skip the boiled egg.”

“What?! Honestly, Dorothy, why did you even order the special – “

“Your egg looks fine, but mine isn’t fresh.”

Annette was still nonplussed.

“Can’t you tell?” Dorothy gave her sister a grace period. When this lapsed, she explained: “Your egg sank straight to the bottom of the pan, so yours is fresh. Whereas mine’s bobbing around at the top. I’m amazed you don’t remember that.” She reached for the carafe of water she suspected was not complimentary.

“Looks like you can take a girl out of the countryside… but yes, you can take the countryside out of a girl after all.”
Annette racked her brains for a comeback. “Not all of us have the time to cook for ourselves.”

“You’re welcome to eat mine, if you’re so outraged by my discount…”

And so it went on while the eggs, in all their forms of representation, languished within their bespoke crockery. A few centuries previously, a good number of the sisters’ ancestors drowned because they were unable to stay afloat in water unaided, whilst the other villagers observed them from the safety of the riverbank and resolutely refused to help. It was the damp deaths of Annette and Dorothy’s great-great-great aunts that vindicated them posthumously from accusations of witchcraft. If their spirits were peeking through the windows of Fresh and Wild right now, would their chests be swelling with pride to witness their descendants, two independent women with disposable income and waterproofs, bickering over an egg’s ability to stay afloat? Hard to say.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so bothered,” said Dorothy with increasing exasperation in her voice. “You’re still making a saving since you’re the one paying.”

Annette looked at Dorothy blankly for two-and-a-quarter seconds before she recalled an insincere promise she had assumed Dorothy would forget.

“Ah, yes! So I am!” She swivelled in her chair to catch the waiter’s attention. “Can we have the bill, please?”

“Just a minute!” Dorothy salvaged through her rucksack for her phone. “If I show you a gas bill, will that do for proof of address?”

“Certainly, madam,” the waiter confirmed.

“Why can’t Clifton addresses have cutesy names. If I lived at Orchard Lea the bill would be cheaper still,” Annette grumbled into her Radley purse.

Dorothy didn’t take the bait. Her sister had been floundering for some time, and no one could keep floundering forever.

When they were back outside in the car park, they gave each other swift pecks on the cheek whilst making minimal eye contact.

“You should come have lunch at the farm sometime,” offered Dorothy. Where I rule the roost. “I’ll cook.”

“That’s a lovely idea,” chirped Annette. “Let’s arrange a date.”

“Yes, let’s.”

If you’re the one to ring me this time.