Becky's Organic Pickles

Becky’s Organic Pickles

The sign hung at a slight angle. Becky reached up on her toes and adjusted it slightly. She stepped back, strong hands on her fleshy hips, and cocked her head to one side. ‘Becky Bradley’s Homegrown Organic Pickles.’ Perfect. All around her the Friday Borough Market stalls were setting up. She had come a long way to get here, and this was a special day. Already the foodies of London, and beyond, were pouring through the gates of this weekly market, and she had secured a pitch for both days. She had arrived in London on Thursday night, breathless with excitement as she packed the hire van with jars, and was staying with Claire, a friend from University. But the best of it all was that she had a three night break from that bastard Simon.

Becky Bradley had met Simon on the trading floor of Deutschbank. He was funny, charming and attractive enough. They married soon, in their early twenties, and Becky was proud to be Mrs Simon Hopton. He earned sufficient that she was able to stop working and ‘try for a baby.’ For many years they tried, Simon patiently explaining to their colleagues and family that Becky couldn’t have kids. She gave up smoking, drinking and was careful what she ate. She took her temperature, lay upside down after sex (and during come to that). Simon continued to do the rounds of work socialising, only to be interrupted by his mobile ringing to be told that the moment was right. Under that pressure it very rarely is. After four cycles of IVF, Becky went and bought a puppy instead. Fred was a lively border terrier and her constant companion.

Becky was not sure at what point Simon had changed. Always manipulative, he had become a complete control freak, humiliating her in front of people, even her Mum. Worst of all though, was when he would criticise her cooking. As she had become increasingly insular, Becky spent most of her time scouring the local organic markets with Fred at her side, looking for exciting new ingredients. Her favourite way to spend an afternoon was to make jams, pickles and chutneys, which she often packaged into beautiful antique jars with hand painted labels, as gifts for new neighbours, for the sick or elderly, or celebrate the arrival of a baby on the street. Her pickles in particular were highly prized and two of the local pubs had asked her to provide an exclusive preserve for them.

In the evenings she would prepare a fresh meal and wait for Simon’s return. Often his cold, congealed dinner would end up in Fred’s bowl. Simon would then come home and make himself a sandwich of grumpy back bacon, with bitter butter and sour sauce. Then, when he thought Becky wasn’t looking, he’d kick the dog. On the nights when Simon did come home to eat, he would complain, demanding ‘More salt, more salt!’ His good living had saddled him with hypertension and high cholesterol so Becky was fighting a losing battle with his diet. After dinner he would open a bottle of red wine and drink it alone, then another.

Most nights Becky and Fred went to bed together, Becky crying silently into the soft fur of his neck. Simon would sleep on the sofa, waking to make himself bacon and egg, all liberally covered in salt. Good quality rock salt mind you, not the cheap table stuff. Some days he would wash it down with a tot of vodka. ‘To wake the system up.’ He would always leave his salt encrusted greasy plate for Becky to wash up.