— A sausage supper, my good woman, a sausage supper.
Marty already had the basket down, with Jimmy’s chips and sausage bubbling furiously in the golden fat.
— It’s on its way, Jimmy.
Majella took Jimmy’s five-pound note in her hands and rang it in. There was no point asking Jimmy if he wanted anything extra—like a pint of milk or some red sauce—or anything different—like a chicken burger. Jimmy only wanted his sausage supper. Majella snapped the till shut, which was the trigger for Jimmy’s joke.
Jimmy shifted his weight, then leaned in closer to the counter.—D’ye want a bit of my sausage?
He wheezed a bit, slapping his hand on the counter. Majella waited for the usual five seconds before replying with the line Marty’d given her six years ago.
— I’ll batter yer sausage if you’re not careful, now.
Then Marty joined in with the laughter for boysadear it was some joke now.
• • •
10:30 p.m.
Item 6: Cunter
Majella was out the back having a fag. She detested the smell of fags. Her da had always hated smoking. He’d tried everything to get her ma off the fags—hypnosis, patches, emotional blackmail, herbal fags, holy wells, nicotine gum and prayer bouquets—but nothing had worked. Her ma had continued to smoke.
. . . ah only started because of you anyway. Ah never smoked in me whole life, and then ah had you inside me belly. D’ye think ah wanted tae be split open having a lump of a wean and me hardly more than a girl myself? Ah HAD to start smoking. Fucken hated it at the start. The taste and the stink and the price of it. But it worked. You were a wee babby. About five pounds, ah think. Smallest in the ward. Thought ah’d stop smoking after you were born. But fuck me after that gas wore off, all ah wanted was a fag. And that’s the way it’s been ever since . . .
Majella took up smoking when she’d started in the chipper, because it was the only way of getting a break. Before she smoked she’d just nip outside for five minutes here and there, to knock back a Coke and pace up and down, flicking her fingers and rocking on the balls of her feet. It was a break from the heat and fryers and the stream of faces. But one evening Mrs. Hunter had burst into the yard, wanting to know what the fuck did Majella think was she doing, itching and twitching out the back, wasting the time she was paid to be working. She’d ordered Majella inside, then stood close behind her back, causing her to muck up the orders. After Cunter left, Marty’d told Majella to bring a packet of fags in to work. The next time she fancied a break she was to go outside and light up a fag, and if Cunter came near her again, she could just say she was having a fag break. Everyone was allowed a fag break and there was nothing Cunter could do about it. So Majella had nicked a half-empty cigarette packet off her ma. In the start she didn’t light any fags, instead rolling one between her fingers, pointing the tip to the sky. But one day she’d heard Cunter coming, so she fumbled for a lighter and lit up just as Cunter entered the alleyway. She had stood and stared at Majella for a good minute before she spoke.
— Don’t be all night about it. There’s work to be done.
Then she stalked off, leaving Majella with the cigarette. Majella watched it burn down to the butt. It took her ages to get the smell off her fingertips and out of her hair. But she’d found gazing at the burning cigarette soothing and out of curiosity, she started sucking on the butt, choking on the smoke but sort of liking it. From there she’d ended up smoking. She never sucked on the cigarette like her ma did, never lit up one after another, and she never smoked at home. She smoked out the back of the chipper and occasionally at the pub. Because really the thing she liked best about smoking was blowing small clouds up at the stars.
11:07 p.m.
Item 4.1: Bright lights: Fluorescent bulbs
Majella closed her eyes against the flickering fluorescent lights. One of the strips was at death’s door, jittering on and off, but Cunter had refused to replace it, saying as long as it lit up at all it would do them rightly. Majella’s stomach was rumbling. She wondered if she could get away with a couple of wee chips before the pub run.
— Anyone dead the night, Marty?
— Naw, love. Oul Paddy Onions was the last death ah heard of.
— Found dead in his bed, wasn’t he?
— Aye. Young Red Onions found him.
Majella nodded. Apart from the reek of his breath, she’d not minded Paddy Onions. He was an old neighbor of her granny’s and she’d seen him from time to time throughout her childhood. He’d often cycle up to her granny, carrying messages, bringing her the odd wee thing that couldn’t be got from the bread van or the milk van or the shop van. Sometimes Majella listened as her granny and Paddy spoke of the olden days. Paddy had been a friend of her grandfather’s. If he’d a drop taken, he’d talk about their involvement in the border campaigns. About resistance. They didn’t talk so much about internment. That topic seemed to shut down conversations. Marty interrupted Majella’s thoughts.
— Oul Paddy Onions made it tae a right oul age, didn’t he?
— Did he?
— Och aye, aye. Musta been in tae his late eighties. Great health he had too. Ye wouldnta have taken him for wan that’d be dead before Christmas.
Majella shrugged.
— Ye never know.
Marty winced and reddened. Majella wondered if he was worried he’d upset her. He hadn’t, but she was terrified that he might try to make amends, so she turned away and attempted to shuffle the paper napkins under the counter into order. She only succeeded in squashing them while Marty blustered around behind her, whistling ferociously. Then the door opened and a rush of air hit Majella’s sweaty face. She sucked it down into her lungs as she surveyed the customers who’d left the pub early to beat the rush. A Salt and Battered! closed at 1 a.m. Monday to Thursday, and Marty and Majella were always busy to the last second.
— What can ah get chew?
Daddyburgernonionringsanchipsngravy
sausagesupperneggfryrice
gissakissjellybaby. gwan. gwan. justaweewun . . .
ihope theygethefuck thatdidyourgrannylove
batterburgeranchipsanressauce
Ivetayworkthemarrafucksake
ihope theyfuckenbustizzballz. fuckenbastart.
12:00 a.m.
Item 29: The Daly brothers
Mr. Hunter came at midnight on the dot to collect the bulk of the evening’s takings. This was the only time of day that Majella and Marty saw him. Majella noted with approval that Mr. Hunter was wearing a yellow shirt, blue tie and grey suit. Mr. Hunter always wore a yellow shirt, blue tie and grey suit. And he always coughed nervously on entering through the side door in the alleyway, looking with distaste at the raw food piled up on the counter, flinching as the fryers foamed when Majella or Marty threw something in. Majella thought that Mr. Hunter looked like he could do with a good feed and a ride. But Mr. Hunter never ate anything that was made in A Salt and Battered! and by the look of him he ate damn all anywhere else. Majella couldn’t imagine Mr. Hunter eating or getting a ride. Hunter and Cunter didn’t have weans despite the life sentence of their marriage being well into its second decade. Majella felt sorry for him. She reckoned it would do him the world of good if she took him home, fed him up a bit and rode him. When she handed him the strong box with the night’s takings, she smiled at his left ear.—Here you go Mr. Hunter.