Big Girl Small Town Read online

  — And who else will walk up there tae hand their DNA over tae the cops? Destroy the samples after identification my hole. We all know what went on with the fingerprints.

  Majella tugged the zipper at the front of her overalls up and over the swell of her chest, wondering what had gone on with the fingerprints. Marty was watching her. She guessed by the set of him that she was supposed to react, so she shrugged. Shrugging, she’d learned, was a useful response to a lot of questions and statements. Marty pressed on.

  — Y’see, they have tae be seen doing something. And what they’re doing is making a meal of yer poor granny-God-rest-her. If they have their way, they’ll soon have us all on wan big computer over there in London. The cunts.

  Majella was silent, her mouth now full of hairpins. She watched her reflection in the shop window as she fixed her hair under a nylon hairnet. She wanted Marty to stop talking, so she tried saying nothing—another good trick. The silence stretched on until Marty broke it by slapping his hand on the counter in resignation.

  — Ah frig them anyway. Ah’ll stick these fryers on, eh, Jelly? We need tae be ready for them fuckers outside.

  Marty jerked his head in the direction of the shutters: through the slits Majella could see the O’Donnell and O’Doherty weans already queuing up. Majella knew they’d been to the pub straight after school to scrounge or lift money from their parents so’s they could get a bite to eat. Marty said they put themselves to bed, which in fairness Majella and Marty had done themselves from no age. But their parents were usually sitting downstairs watching telly, not off down the town drinking. Majella recognized several families celebrating dole day with a takeaway. She spotted the builders who’d made it back to the town early from their jobs in the Free State, starving. Majella pulled her hat down and fixed it to her hair with the last of the clips. She scratched her arse through the rough nylon of her overalls, then began to empty the bags of change into the till, enjoying the click-clack of coins dropping into place. When she was done she looked over at Marty.

  — Are ye right there, Jelly?

  Majella nodded, so Marty ducked under the counter and walked whistling to the chipper door. He unlocked the door and wedged it open with the rubber stopper, then ducked back behind the counter. He flicked the switch to raise the security shutters. Majella hated this bit. She braced herself as the shutters screeched, feeling the noise feed down from her ears and into her teeth. Before the shutters had ground a quarter of the way up, the wee O’Donnell cub scooted in under them and landed up to the counter with a proud look on his face. Majella looked down at him.

  — What can ah get chew?

  — Big bag a chips with salt ann vinegar ann red sauce please.

  Majella tingled with satisfaction as she heard the crackle and spit of the first basket of chips going down.

  6:30 p.m.

  Item 1: Small talk, bullshit and gossip

  Majella shook the chips in the fryer to make sure they would get cooked all the way through. She liked this bit. Marty wasn’t as particular as her about the chips being done evenly, which bugged her. He shouted from the counter.—Three more chips for the McHughs there, Jelly.

  A minute later, he sidled down with what she had learned was his gossipy head on him.

  — Now don’t turn and gawk, will ye, but take a look at who young Breda Farren’s in with.

  Marty dandered past Majella, and she waited ten seconds like he’d taught her before turning to glance into the takeaway. She guessed that the only girl in the shop, the wee thing with a man old enough to be her father, was young Breda Farren. Majella knew that after they were gone, Marty’d drop by to fill her in on the latest scandal. Majella wasn’t like Marty. He knew everyone in the town. He knew who was fucking who, who had fucked who and who wanted to fuck who. He knew who was drinking, smoking, swallowing or injecting what, and he often knew the where and when. He always had an opinion on the why. Majella eyed the chips. They looked done, so she raised them up and shook the worst of the oil back into the fryer. She bagged up the order and brought it to Marty at the counter. He rang up the sale while keeping up a flow of chat, something Majella could never do.

  After they left, Marty leaned on the counter and put one hand on his hip.—Ye probably don’t know yer man Duffy, now. Works out in the bank across the bridge?

  Majella shook her head to allow Marty to continue.

  — Course he says he’s just dropping Miss Farren off home after babysitting and getting a takeaway for the wife . . . but did ye notice he got young Breda her supper too? Ah bet ye his wife’s chips get coul while he’s gettin hot in the back of that nice new Land Rover!

  Majella didn’t know how Marty could tell all of this from serving chips to two strangers standing in the shop for ten minutes. She didn’t care if he was right or wrong, for what did those two people mean to her? But she wondered what he told other people about her. About her ma. Her da. She’d sometimes wondered if he knew where her da had gone. For all she knew, the whole town knew where he was, and it was just her and her ma who didn’t. That was often the way of it.

  Majella thought of wee Róisín Murphy. She’d always come into the chip shop after the bingo on a Thursday to get a battered sausage supper for her old mammy, Mary Murphy. Marty’d always try to slip a free sausage into their parcel. And after they left he’d comment yet again to Majella about what a shame it was that the child didn’t know that her “Mammy” was really her granny and her “sister” Rose was actually her mammy (and the town prostitute), for Rose had had Róisín so young that her mother had stepped in to rear the baby as her own. The whole town knew about Mary and Róisín and Rose, except for Róisín. Majella didn’t understand all this pseudo-secrecy, the stories people told. She liked things straight. But things weren’t like that in Aghybogey. It was a town in which there was nowhere to hide, so people hid stuff in plain sight.

  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 Maje
lla. 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.

  — 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.