7:15 p.m.
Item 3.4: Noise: Shite singing
Majella was eyeing the Connolly cub. He was sitting on the bench beside the war memorial, hunched up inside his hoodie. She knew he was waiting until the chipper was empty to run over. He was funny like that. She served the McHugh woman standing in front of her.
— There you go. Three fish suppers, a battered sausage supper, anna extra portion of chips ann onion rings.
Mrs. McHugh swung the plastic bag off the counter and walked out, leaving the chipper empty for the first time since opening. Majella caught a whiff of fag smoke over the fat fumes; Marty having a break out the back. Iggy Connolly seized his opportunity. He mooched over, hiding his face in his hoodie. He opened the door about thirty centimeters and slid himself in without triggering the buzzer. Majella had wiped the counter clean of the spills of salt and vinegar.
— What about ye, Iggy?
— Ah’m all right. What about you?
— Grand. Surviving.
Majella threw the J-cloth into the sink and put the tap on. She lifted it and rinsed it through several times and then wrung it out. She liked a clean cloth. When she turned back to the counter, Iggy was standing close to the till, his hands deep in his hoodie pouch.
— Was thinking of heading over tae the shop. You looking anything?
Majella nodded, reaching for her purse. She pulled out a list and a tenner.—Some sweets and crisps. And a bit of bread and stuff. That all right?
— Aye. Gimme it here, sure, and ah’ll be back up in a minute.
Iggy slid himself out the door. Majella wondered if he knew she didn’t like the buzzer or if it was something he avoided for himself.
Marty came in, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.—Fucken nippy out there these days. We’ll have tae get the oul thermals on soon enough, eh, Jelly?
Majella didn’t wear thermals, but she nodded all the same.
Marty frowned.—Maybe this year I’ll hibernate. Or move tae California!
Marty started into a song about California. He was a woeful singer and the noise went through Majella. She threw the wet J-cloth at him and he caught it just before it slapped him in the face.
— Fuck off. You’re just jealous, Jelly. I could’ve been a fucken superstar, me.
— Aye. And instead you’re that cunt Jamie Oliver.
It was rare enough that Majella cracked a joke, never mind a funny one, so Marty stared at her open-mouthed for a few seconds before laughing.
Majella glared at the floor.—Go away and earn yer keep will ye? Get into the back room and count out a dose a chicken nuggets, for they’re getting scarce.
Marty plodded into the back room, humming. Majella didn’t mind the humming so much, for it was absorbed by the bubbling fryers. Iggy had been gone four minutes, so Majella threw on a small portion of chips and a couple of battered sausages, then hauled herself up onto the food-preparation counter to rest her feet. She would love to have a stool that’d make it easier for her to take the weight off her feet, but Mrs. Hunter wouldn’t allow it as she believed it would encourage idleness. What Cunter didn’t realize was that a stool would make no difference to the fact that Marty was a worker and was only happy when he was buzzing around at something, while Majella had her own pace. She was no chef, but the chips never burned, the oil never caught fire and they never ran low in stock when she was on the ball. She liked to clean, so she kept the place gleaming. Marty didn’t like to clean. He’d said that he could barely be bothered to wipe his own arse, never mind the counter.
The door opened again. Majella slid down from the counter and raised Iggy’s chips out of the scalding fat. Done to a tee. Perfect timing.
— Salt ann vinegar on yer chips?
Iggy nodded from inside his hoodie. He pushed a plastic bag onto the counter along with Majella’s change. She passed his parcel of food to him.
— Ah threw in a few extra ketchups. And a fork. Thanks a million for the shopping.
— No bother, Majella. Ah’m away.
He went out with his head down. When the door shut she opened the till and dropped in some coins to cover his supper. Majella didn’t like people much, but she liked Iggy. She liked him the way she’d liked strays when she was wee. The cats or dogs that skulked lame about the estates for days or weeks, before ending up lying dead in the road. Behind her Marty emptied a batch of bread-crumbed chicken fillets onto the food-prep counter. Majella stared at the window. She couldn’t see beyond her faint reflection in the window, but knew that somewhere out there, her granny’s murderer was probably settling down to watch telly. She couldn’t picture where her da was. Not anymore.
8:23 p.m.
Item 1: Small talk, bullshit and gossip
— Course your grandmother was a lady and that’s what makes this whole thing such a terrible disgrace. A real lady who only ever stepped out with Mickey-God-rest-his-soul and was loyal to him throughout their troubles with the police back in the day.
Biddy Doherty’s voice wrecked Majella’s head at the best of times. This was not the best of times.
— The oul baste, is what I say. The oul animal to attack a widow lady of her age, ann her the mother of a dead patriot. You’d like to think them that call themselves patriots that are still walking around would stir themselves to look in tae the whole affair.
Majella wondered where the fuck Marty had got himself to. He’d disappeared again. This wasn’t on.
— And did she say much in the hospital when you were up visiting? Did she give ye any details on the attack?
Majella shook her head.
Biddy paused and gave Majella the eye. Majella stuck with her blank face, so after a few seconds, Biddy continued.
— Ye know the dogs on the street have more idea of why someone would attack yer poor granny than them eejits in PSNI. Them that’s done this will be caught, wan way or another.
Majella lifted a J-cloth and began to wipe the counter.
— I tried to get in to see her you know. Was up in Omagh doing a few wee messages so I just thought I’d head out, but sure I shouldn’t have bothered my head for they hardly let me in the door, let alone near her.
Majella went to the fryer and pulled the basket up. The chips looked half-raw. She dunked the basket again. The fat spat, splashing her arm. She rubbed it to relieve the pain as she returned to the counter. Biddy Doherty leaned in close, lowering her voice to a more intimate pitch.
— It was a blessing she died really. For how would she have gone back to that caravan on her own, with no one to look out for her? She was left very vulnerable with Bobby-God-rest-him in his grave and yer da . . . well yer da disappeared.
Biddy gave Majella a significant look. Majella turned to the fryer. The chips would do. The fucken fish would be fine. And if they weren’t, Majella wasn’t going to break her heart over Biddy Mouth Almighty Doherty getting food poisoning.
— Salt ann vinegar on yer chips?
10:00 p.m.
Item 8.4: Jokes: Repeated jokes
It was already ten o’clock. Majella knew it was ten without looking at her watch because Jimmy Nine Pints was in. He worked in the chicken-rendering factory in Strabane. Marty had explained to Majella that it was Jimmy’s job to put his hand up a chicken’s hole, grab the guts, twist, wrench and release the innards into a plastic container for the gizzard harvesters. Every morning at six Jimmy’d be waiting for the factory bus. Every evening at seven he’d be into the Wulf Hound for the first of his nine pints of Guinness. Majella knew this because Marty’d told her. She had never met Jimmy outside of the chipper, even though he lived out her granny’s direction. Six nights a week at ten on the dot, Jimmy left the pub and called into the chipper for his sausage supper before getting a lift out the road. Jimmy rolled in, well oiled by nine pints. Then he plodded over to the counter and laid down a grubby five-pound note.