Same Old Stories

It's time to revisit familiar faces and re-hear the same old stories.

We’ve all been there, gathered around a dinner table, sharing the same old stories for the thousandth time. But while those tall tales might be eye-rollingly repetitive, they are also a part of the family.

Not subscribed? This year a subscription to Blank Pages will get you even more. Every month subscribers can join me in our chat to discuss new topics or ask me your burning questions. And at the end of the year, those subscribed will be in for a one-of-a-kind treat.

It’s about that time again. Time to revisit familiar faces and re-hear the same old stories. They wait half a day away, across a stretch of water or under it. From my window seat on the train, I can see the outlines of each tale arrive with every passing view. And their sounds come to me with every new announcement. Ladies and gentlemen, the next stop is… There’s the one with the stranger on the train, the know it all. You can find our buffet coach at the front of the… There’s another with Grandma and her innocent chocolatey mistake. Please take all of your personal belonging with you… Who can forget the mystery item listed in dads will and testament.

“How are you?” I’ll ask.

“Good, and you?” They’ll reply.

“Good, same old,” I’ll answer, and we’ll smile as we hug each other tight, trying to work out what we’re hiding from each other.

The table’s already laid, and someone has gone to the trouble of placing a centrepiece in the middle. It's a decoration usually reserved for holidays or, at the very least, birthdays. A scent moves through the house, as familiar as it is delicious. My stomach growls, like an old friend rolling their eyes at an ancient joke. It’s something hearty, like a stew or a pie, but I want to keep it a surprise and move around the dining room. There are more places than people in the house.

"Who else is coming for dinner?"

"What?!" Mum asks, unable to hear and cook at the same time.

"Who's coming for dinner?"

"They'll be here soon."

I suppose I'll find out sooner or later. Until then, I drag my finger along the table's chipped edge, each scare marking a moment in family history. The biggest one, inflicted by a stake knife, is my work. My engraved initials are my brother's.

I don’t have to wait long to learn who will fill the extra seats. There’s a knock on the door, and I inspect the sound, trying to guess who's responsible. Before I reach the door, the scent of heartiness hits me again: it's growing stronger. If anything, this dinner has been well timed, something that doesn’t like to share space and time with the stories about to be retold. My brother and his wife are the first through the door. And my chest loosens a little. No one cuts tension as effortlessly or deflects a difficult discussion as decisively.

“How are ya?” He’s asking.

“Not bad, same old. You?”

“Yeah, not too bad,” he answers, with our shared vagueness.

“Hey! You got a new haircut,” She’s always been the more observant and energetic, although the latter isn't hard. I guess it makes them the perfect pair. I rub my buzz cut and smile, and she does the same.

“I like it,” she says before the hearty scent hits them and takes their attention.

“Mother, what's cooking?”

“Yeah, it smells good.”

I close my ears and flee to the dining room again, but it doesn’t take long for the next row of knuckles to knock crisply on the door.

“I’ll get it,” I call, but I needn't have. No one else is rushing to open it.

“Good evening, brother,” it’s Grandad’s usual hello. He has a bowl of something in his hands and puts it down by his feet to cup my right hand in his.

“Oh boy!” It’s grandma’s usual reaction to our well-rehearsed greetings. Then before I know it, she is pulling my head to her height and landing an eardrum-popping kiss on my cheek.

“Pick that up, man! I didn’t make it for the ants to eat,” she says, and Grandad’s quick to swoop down and save it from the greedy colony waiting under the paving slabs.

“Boy, what have you done to your hair?” I was expecting that.

“You don’t like it? I think it’s rather smart.” I say, and now she’s stumbling into a wave of laughter.

“Something smells good,” Grandad says. Whatever was in the oven has been removed, and its scent has grown bolder. There’s rosemary, onions and something sweet like maple-glazed carrots.

“Get up the table. It’s coming,” my brother says, emerging from the kitchen and into the hallway.

“Perfect timing,” Grandad says, smiling at his wit.

The extra places are accounted for, and only two seats are unoccupied while we wait for the cooks. But we’ve already started one of the same old stories.

“What’s for dessert?”

“Your grandma brought something… so be careful,” Grandad says, in a voice conspiring with the past we all know.

“Oh no, it’s not another batch of boozy profiteroles?” My sister-in-law replies. She’s just as well-versed as the rest of us.

“Not this time,” Grandma says, defending herself.

“Boozey trifle then?” I ask.

“Jelly shots?” My brother adds.

“Oh boy, who do you think I am?”

“That’s always been a mystery,” Dad answers her as he begins placing plates in front of us.

I was right on two accounts, there is indeed rosemary involved and onions too, but the carrots aren’t glazed, and it’s neither a stew nor a pie. It’s a classic roast.

“Looks lovely,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. “I mean it,” I add, dispelling the sarcasm that lives on my tongue.

“It does look good dear,” Grandma says, and her words put a smile on Mum's face. I suppose they should. After years of cooking roasts herself, she’s the judge you want to impress.

There’s a pause in the conversation as we all take our first bites. I swallow and realise I was right about three things. The rosemary, the onions and the heartiness. It doesn’t take long before the next same old story pulls up a chair and joins us around our chipped table.

“How was the journey here?” Dad asks.

“No bad, although there was a couple a row ahead of me that wouldn't stop talking.”

“Well, at least it wasn’t the sleeper."

“But had they ever pulled the emergency cord?” Dad asks, and there's a collective grown knowing where he’s heading.

“Actually, that never came up,” I say, not resisting. “But, they did seem like the people. At one point, they solved the EU’s ageing problem. After that, they swiftly dealt with corruption and to top things off, they had an answer for global poverty.”

“But they've never pulled the emergency cord… ” My brother adds through a mouthful of roasted potato.

“No, they weren’t quite that unbearable.”

“Where did you meet that man again?” Grandma asks while her shoulders jump up and down from the laughter she produces like a well-run factor.

“Sheringham,” My brother answers.

“No. think it was Yorkshire,” Mum corrects.

“I thought it was up in Scotland,” Dad adds, although he has no intention of finding the answer. And to be honest, it doesn’t matter. The emergency cord puller is a character so strong you could put him anywhere, and he’d shine for everyone to see.

Rosemary, onions and heartiness give way to apple crumble. Before we know it, that’s gone too. We aren’t a family that lingers over food for too long, and silence falls around the table when the dessert appears. Until that is, the sound of spoons falling against empty bowls vanquishes it.

It’s getting late, but there’s one more story yet to appear. Burning logs and fresh coffee present the perfect stage, and out of the corner of my eye, I see it warming up in the wings.

“Do you remember Ann?” Mum’s asking.

“Which one? We know about ten Ann’s?”

“The one who looked after you when you were young?”

“That narrows it down to three,” I say.

“The one with red hair?”

“You could have started there,” there was only ever one Ann with red hair.

“Well, she died.”

“It’s always a delightful after-dinner conversation with you, Mother,” He’s not even in the room, but my brother enjoys little more than pointing out the obvious. I guess he has as much sarcasm in him as I do. But it’s taken well, and now tears are welling in her eyes and a smile hanging from her cheeks.

“Yes, please do tell me more. How, where, and why? Was it the doctor in the drawing room with a candle stick?” I add on, unable to help myself. When we’re in the same place, which is hardly ever these days-he and I return to our younger selves. Throwing jabs wherever we see and opening.

“Stop it, don’t be mean,” Mum replies, although her shoulders are moving up and down now, trying to maintain a veil of respect for the dead. “Heart attack, I think,” she says eventually.

“Oh no, you better be careful dad, a few more hearty meals like this, and we'll be fighting over that Basson,” I say, and he rolls his eyes.

“Actually, I updated my will the other day and removed it.”

“So, who has it now? That hardly seems fair.” My brother protests.

“There was never a Basson,” he says, and we all know it, but there’s no fun in admitting that.

“Well, of course, there is. Otherwise, why would you put it in the will in the first place?"

“That’s a good point,” my sister-in-law adds, regaining consciousness from her nap by the fire.

“It was an accident."

“I don’t buy it. You aren’t one to make mistakes,” I say, and now Mum is all but on the floor. She’s always like this when we are home, rolling around as if it’s her first time hearing every story.

After the last log has turned to embers, we call it a night. I hug my Grandma tight and give Grandad a firm handshake. Who knows what they'll be like next time I come home to hear the same old stories.

As I board the train back home, I can’t help but think of those same old stories and smile. It isn’t the stories themselves that put a smile on my face. I suppose, for most people, they would be thoroughly underwhelming. But to me, to us, those silly tales of the know-it-all, the boozy profiteroles, or the phantom Basson feel like a hug from every member of the family. They’re as soft as Grandad’s hands when he cups them around mine, as loud and piercing as a kiss on the cheek from Grandma or as sarcastic as my brother’s tongue. I leave them behind to make my own stories that might play the same role one day, but I'm never alone. Because whatever happens when I’m away, those same old stories will always be there to welcome me home.

---

Love, Luke

P.S Tell me your ‘same old stories’ in the comments.