Sunday Lunch

“Hurry!”

“We don’t need to, it’s only across the road.”

“Yes, but the old man serves an extra glass to those who get there early and talk with him.”

They walked down their driveway that had been swept that morning of its leaves.

“You haven’t put the bins out yet.”

“No I haven’t. I can do it later, there’s plenty of time, it’s only lunch, and besides, if I put them out now no-one can park here.”

“It’s too narrow to park here anyway, without the bins.”

“Yes, but if they park further down the road where it’s wider there is trouble with the neighbours, and then we will have to drive into town for our lunch, and find somewhere to park ourselves.”

The couple crossed the road after a trail bike had blirted past.

“They are noisy and smelly those things.”

“Leave him be, he is only having fun.”

“Why can’t he have his fun somewhere else?”

“That is what the neighbours say of us.”

The house they hurried to was not one but two further along the road than the one opposite theirs.

Attached to the mail box an inflated balloon, rocked by the gentle breeze, indicated the house was serving lunch today. A simple sign that first appeared several months after the bedrooms became empty, and had appeared regularly but not continuously for some years now. The balloon was popped by the host once the last seat at the generous sized table had been filled, a signal to those arriving after to try again next week.

The path of sandstone pavers that led off the driveway to the gate at the corner of the house had become more uneven over time. Although well swept the lichen was encroaching from the edge nearest the fence that was shaded by the maple whose roots had now cracked another stone.

“Argh this gate, why doesn’t he fix it? He should just leave it open; he knows people are coming.”

“It’s fine, it doesn’t need fixing.”

Deftly placing his left foot under the picket closest to the house he gently raised one end of the gate until the latch could be easily lifted and the gate swung open.

The path ran along the side of the house, round the corner and underneath the pergola attached to the rear of the house. Immediately to the left on the hand-made bench was the old felt hat into which the payment for the lunch was placed. The price per head drawn in chalk on the balloon as per the suggestion from the guests at the very first lunch. The hat would not be checked until the last guest had left, allowing the pretence that this was only a lunch for friends.

“Ah, you’ve made it. I was hoping you’d come. Here, a glass for you.”

“But I’m not the first.”

“No, not today, but you were when we started.”

The guests had long since stopped asking what wine the glass held, knowing that it had been selected to match the food they would soon be served; each of them receiving the same.

“The balloon!”

“No, I will leave it today. Whoever comes will be fed.”

It was only then that the extra table, already set for guests, became apparent.

“You’re expanding?”

“No. The neighbours, down the road, they win. Today is the last.”

“So, the curtain pullers have their way. Our quiet little street cannot handle a few extra cars.”

“No it cannot, it seems. And the cafes in town cannot get by without your custom, it seems.”

“Do you think they’ll be happy now?”