Henry Wilkins had few talents that he could use to entertain his fellow man. He couldn’t play the tuba, he couldn’t hold a paintbrush, he was unable to string together a coherent sentence.
Henry Wilkins didn’t know he was talentless because nobody he knew could do these things either; people at the depot where he was a bus conductor had no use for such nonsense. They knew how to place a treble bet at the bookies (although few could pick a winning horse); they gave expert advice every Saturday afternoon to the manager of United on exactly what his team was doing wrong and they could instruct their teenaged children on the correct clothes to wear on Friday nights.
Henry had one talent and that lay with the HP Sauce bottle. Each and every morning at the breakfast table he peered at the label and read aloud the words printed thereon. He often recited them from memory in the works’ canteen at dinner time.
‘HP Sauce is a high quality blend containing oriental fruit, spices and vinegar. It contains no artificial colouring or preservatives. Serve with hot meats, especially sausages, bacon, hamburgers, chops and cold meats. Delicious with cheese, fried eggs, fish and chips. Adds flavour to stews and casseroles.’
He could also repeat, the French version, ‘La Sauce HP est un melange de haute qualite de fruits …’
When Henry’s wife could stand it no longer and ran off with the milkman, it was three days before he noticed.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 