Fish N Chips

Of course it would smell in the house for a couple of days, but it was Friday, after all. Old habits die hard. Paul liked his fish and if it had homemade chips to go with it, even better.

Pam eyed the cupboard where the pans snuggled. The smell was nice even if it did linger. Better than chippy fish. And her chips were better than theirs. She hadn’t fried fish for ages.

Steamed salmon with lemon and thyme; poached haddock; pollack in almonds and Parmesan; but not good old fish and chips.

Paul would say it reminded him of school, but he would be straight to the table still in collar and tie if she cooked it. She smiled at the thought. Bless!

She was still smiling as she trotted through the gate and caught the bus into town.

“My,” she thought, “I am being environmentally friendly today. I must remember to buy some air freshener.”

The streets of Leighchester bustled with the school holiday throng: fed-up mums dragging bored kids around the shops, hoping they were buying the right clothing for whatever weather summer had to throw at them.

Pam looked at the reflection of the bus in the plate glass windows. She looked up to see the alternately spruced up stone and shoddy old brick of the upper floors. As the bus drew up towards the market she stumbled down the aisle towards the doors. How was it that some bus drivers just had the knack of making you walk as if one leg were shorter than the other?

“Thank you.”

“Mind how you go.”

Shame he hadn’t said that while he was driving.

The damp warmth of British summer met her as she got off. She observed how the people on the street seemed to get older the closer she got to the market. Why did young people not do markets? She changed her mind when she saw a couple of Goths. Or were they Emos? What was the difference?

Tripping over an uneven paving stone, she made for the entrance: “Grand Market Hall”, nearly bumping into the sweet old lady wiping her eyes by the little newsagents.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, love.”

The Aladdin’s cave that is Leighchester Market Hall opened its arms to her: jewellery stalls, homewares, cheap art for the lounge, cobblers, haberdashery and, down at the bottom end of it all, Meat and Fish. The warm breeze that meandered through the hall brought that familiar blood and suety-meat smell gradually tinged with fish as she passed the butchers and reached her goal, the fishmongers.

Succulent fillets of cod, haddock, bass lay atop glittering hillocks of crushed ice. Crabs and lobsters; squid tubes and prawns; red mullet and plaice. Four different mongers offering a variety of succulent seafood tempting buyers with the promise of firm flesh bursting in the mouth with flavoursome lusciousness.

Pam sighed a little sigh and wondered what Paul would say if they had fish every day for a month. She resisted temptation and turned a keen eye to cod. She moved back to the second of the stalls.

“Now then, love. What can I do you for?”

“A couple of the cod steaks, please. And could you just check for bones?”

“No problem. They’ll cook up a treat, these. Look at that, firm and fresh.”

She stepped up to take the parcelled fish and her toe struck the edge of the wood that framed the stall. There was a clink and, not wishing to lose any change, she stooped down to reclaim it, brushing the beige hem of the woman next to her.

It was a little, silver locket. She must have kicked it and mistaken the noise for a loose coin as she dislodged it from where it had been dropped.

“Someone’s dropped this.”

“Have they? There’s your change. You’d be amazed what people drop in here. Give it to the market manager if you don’t fancy keeping it. Now then, love, what can I do you for?”

Pam strolled away, the little locket in her hand. It was a pretty thing, lightly engraved with entwining vines. The slim chain was broken. It could have done with a much more substantial one, she thought. She didn’t open it to see whose picture was there; too intrusive, she thought.

She popped it into her pocket and took the next aisle to the housewares stall. She just couldn’t get those sponges anywhere else, try as she might.

“That isn’t yours!”

She turned to see the elderly woman in the beige mac who’d been crying by the entrance.

“I’m sorry?”

“Taking other people’s things. You’re a disgrace.”

Pam reddened as people began to stare.

“What are you talking about?”

The Housewares man was eyeing her suspiciously.

“Nearly fifty years I’ve had that and then some lowlife like you comes and nicks it,” the old lady raised her voice, “It’s not right!”

“Oh, you mean the locket. Is it yours, then?” Pam’s hand ran to her pocket, “I was going to take it to the market manager.”

“That’s what you say.”

“Here, please. I found it by the fishmonger.”

The little woman seemed rather more pacified,

“I did go look at the stalls down there. That must be where I dropped it. Sorry, love. Thanks.”

With that, the locket disappeared into her own pocket and off she toddled.

Pam got herself to Boots pronto. Nothing like a quick look round the nail varnish to take your mind off things. She knew she’d better not be long; the batter would need to stand for a while.

Just inside the entrance to the market the old lady was looking much happier now.

“There you go, twenty quid,” said the second-hand man.

“It must be my lucky day,” she replied, “I only came across it by accident and now I’ve enough for the bingo and a fish supper!”

© Martin J Saxton 2009