Big Girl Small Town Read online

  — 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.

  Mr. Hunter blinked and took the strong box with a convulsive movement of his arm and addressed Majella’s right ear.—Errrrm. Thank you, Majella. Ah-herrrrrm. Thank you.

  Unlike PissNI, Majella did not have a list of suspects for the attack on her granny. But if she had, Mr. Hunter would not be at the top of the list.

  fivedubblechickenburgurzzanfivefuckenchipzanfivetubsofgarlicmayoannatwoliterbottleaCokewhenyourereadyjellybelly

  The Daly brothers were in. Majella knew without turning who had shouted the order: Charley, the oldest. She also knew that all five of the Daly brothers were someplace close to the top of quite a few PissNI lists, including those related to racketeering, drugs, traffic offenses and domestic abuse. And yet nothing had ever been pinned to them. Majella waited until Mr. Hunter had left by the side door before tugging her overalls loose from her hot oxters. She wiped her face blank and turned around to deal with the Daly brothers.

  1:00 a.m.

  Item 7: Sweating

  Majella’s feet were drowned in sweat. The walls of the chipper were wet with condensation and the air was thick with smoke from the fryers. Marty bagged up the last order of chips and passed it to Majella, who dropped it into a plastic bag and gave it to Joanne Keane, who slurred thanksamillion. Marty stood by Majella’s side and together they stared at the collection of drunks that had piled up in the chippie. Marty pushed the first button, closing the window shutters. Then he hit the second button and moved the door shutters a quarter of the way down. Some customers took the cue and left: the rest stayed put. This behavior had confused Majella when she had started in the chipper. She knew that the lowering of the shutters was a clear signal that the chipper was closing, the same way as the final blessing in Mass was the signal that the end was near. But she’d learned that people didn’t always notice signals or heed rules like opening and closing times. Marty looked at the stragglers, then heaved a sigh.

  — Ah’ll get them lot cleared out.

  He lifted the counter and stepped into the shop. Majella watched as Marty woke Monkey Keane and Mickey the Stool, who had fallen asleep on the window ledge. They took a few seconds to cop onto where they were, but soon gathered up their food and cans and stumbled out the door. Then Terry McGocks came up to the counter and leaned over to Majella.

  — Bag a chips ann red sauce, Jelly.

  Majella looked past his bloodshot eyes and focused on his left ear.

  — Sorry, Terry. We’re done for the night.

  Majella knew that Terry McGocks wasn’t going to be impressed with them being done for the night. She’d seen him in action a few times in the pubs. She knew he’d a reputation for not taking no for an answer.

  — What the fuck’s this shite about being closed? Fucken fuckers fucken . . .

  Majella stepped away from Terry McGocks and began to clear the buckets of mayonnaise and tubs of coleslaw to the back room. McGocks shouted and pounded the counter, but Majella kept on clearing up, ignoring his shouts for wan more bag a chips g’wan for fuck’s sake. The best part of Majella’s night was the clean-up. She’d always liked clean-ups.

  Marty was struggling to get Terry McGocks out the door. Majella came to the counter and kept an eye on the pair of them, ready to help Marty if he needed a hand. But after a few seconds, Marty tossed Terry into the street and ducked back under the shutter. Majella hit the CLOSE button and the shutter screeched down towards the ground. Marty shut the inside door and they had the place to themselves. Outside, Terry McGocks was roaring. Majella’s eyes were tired. The fish on the wall seemed to be moving in the fluorescent light. Then she noticed someone had drawn eyelashes, lipstick and a fanny on one of the fish. Someone else had drawn a big hairy cock on the other one. It was funny, but Majella didn’t smile. She reached into the bag Iggy Connolly had brought and found a Dairy Milk bar. She unwrapped it, broke off a chunk and crammed it in her mouth. She waved the chocolate over at Marty, who shook his head.

  — Naw, you’re all right. Ah’ll just get our suppers on.

  Majella watched Marty lower a basket for the last fry of the night. Food was part of the deal. They were allowed to take home a supper of their choice—nothing extra. Majella shoved the last few chunks of Dairy Milk into her mouth and wiped her fingers down her overalls. She lifted the J-cloth and started to clean. Marty joined in. He only gave the place a cat’s lick. It made Majella’s fingers itch, but she had learned a long time ago to leave well alone, and not go over what he’d wiped, for it drove him mad because he didn’t see the sense in doing more than would keep Cunter off their backs. Marty didn’t understand that Majella didn’t clean to please Cunter. She was pleasing herself. When she’d started, the takeaway had been crusty with the dirt of year
s. She’d spent a satisfying month scraping muck off the counters and digging it out of crevices and cracks. Now the shop gleamed. They worked in silence, both pausing from time to time to wipe sweat from their faces. When they were done, Majella cleared the till. It had taken three years for Cunter to trust Majella with the takings. Since then she no longer turned up last thing at night to collect them, which was a relief for both Marty and Majella. When she came back to the counter she saw that Marty was finished up. They stripped off their overalls beside the heat of the fryers. Then Majella pulled off the cap and loosened her hair from the net. In Majella’s head, this marked the end of the night. She was off duty and could relax. Some nights Marty and Majella shagged in the storeroom. Majella never knew when the notion would take Marty. She never said no to a shag. She liked the way that they sometimes had sex just because they both happened to be there. She didn’t fancy Marty, not really. It was different when she’d first started in the chipper, nine years ago. He’d been engaged to Philomena at the time, not yet married, and he wasn’t one bit interested in Majella. She’d been at her skinniest ever—just after quitting her A levels, with no idea what to do with the bones and curves that had surfaced from underneath the layer of fat that had kept her warm from birth. So she hid herself under cardigans or in her overalls. But after a few months of chipper food, the fat started to fold around her limbs, thickening her legs and arms, widening her face and arse. She was relieved that this made her more invisible to most men, and interested that it was only then that Marty had wanted her. The first time he’d come after her she’d been in the storeroom checking the stock before they opened the chipper. She was squeezed into her second set of overalls but already needed a bigger size. She had heard Marty walk into the storeroom, then stop and stand behind her. Her chest had tightened and she’d turned around. Neither of them spoke. Marty’d fucked her in the storeroom, against the wall, under the fluorescent lights and beside the boxes of chicken nuggets, Daddy burgers and fish fillets, all the time telling her how much he liked big girls, real girls, girls you could get a hold of. Majella wasn’t keen on all the talk—she’d trained him out of it eventually. After they’d come, he’d reached down and cupped his hand firmly between her legs. He’d pressed the heel of his hand into her pubic bone, into the afterheat, and brought his mouth close to her ear, his stubble grazing her wet neck.

  — You’ve a cunt like a Hovis loaf. Ah could eat you alive.

  From time to time at work, Majella remembered his words and hot waves would travel her through her body, making her face glow under the sweat.

  2:03 a.m.

  Good list

  Item 2: Dallas

  Majella’s estate was silent. She let herself into the house and walked quietly to the kitchen. She closed her eyes before flicking the light switch. The bulb stuttered, then hummed into a harsh glare. Majella didn’t understand why people used fluorescent lights. No matter where they were used, they over-lit rooms, making everything hurt. She shivered. Her ma had let the fire go out and not bothered about the heating. Majella set her food down on the counter and walked into the living room. QVC was chittering away, offering her snoring ma a ring with fabulous simulated semi-precious stones in gold-dipped claw settings for less than half retail price. The light flickered around the living room, reminding Majella of Christmas years ago, when she was allowed to sit up later than normal to watch a movie. The only other thing they’d watched as a family was Dallas. It had been on every Saturday night for what felt like decades. After her bath, she’d kneel down to say her prayers beside her daddy, their backs to the telly. Majella would be damp and warm in her nightie with the sleepy-eyed bears on it. She could always tell when Dallas was drawing close, as her daddy’d start to race through the last of the prayers.

  . . . Angel a God,

  my guardian dear,

  to whom God’s love

  commits me here,

  everthisday

  beeatmyside

  taelightannguard

  taeruleannguide

  Amen

  Inthenameathefatherannatheson

  Annatheholyspirit

  Amen

  On the Amen, her da would hit the volume control on the remote with his left hand, while blessing himself with his right hand, and the Dallas theme tune would burst into their living room.

  Duh Duh, Duh Duh, Duh Duh Duh Di Duh . . .

  For years afterwards, Majella could hear the theme tune every time she said her prayers, and could see J. R. Ewing’s bright white teeth bared in a smile, the shine from his moist, alcoholic eyes, and she felt his searing disdain for most folks, but especially Barnes, who just got dumber and dumber every day. Majella realized that her fish and chips were getting cold. She went back to the kitchen, grabbed her plate from her cupboard and dumped the package on it. She tore the paper open and breathed in the sharp vinegary steam that rose up around her. She tasted a chip. It was lukewarm, so she shoved the plate into the microwave and hit the MIN button. She listened to the telly offer her snoring ma a diamonique, faux-titanium choker necklace while she followed the microwave countdown, opening the door just before the bell pinged. She got her timing from her da. He always caught glasses before they hit the floor, her ma before she passed out. He’d even once claimed to have caught a falling piano, when he was working in America. And Majella had believed him. She’d been really gullible as a child. Her da’d taken advantage, filling her head with lies and notions and stories that she’d repeated to teachers or other weans, only to be laughed at. He’d once told her that bald men lost their hair as a punishment from God for wearing ladies’ knickers in bed. It had taken Majella years to understand why Baldy Bradley had gone mental on her when she’d told the class she knew he wore ladies’ knickers. Majella grabbed the red sauce and squirted a farty squelch of it over her chips, then shook more vinegar and salt over the whole lot. She tucked the two-liter bottle of Coke under her oxter and picked up her plate. On her way past the living room she looked in at her mother. Majella considered throwing a blanket over her ma. But she knew there’d be a risk of waking her and having to hoosh her up the stairs to her bed, so she left her to it.

  Majella locked her bedroom door, plugged in the fan heater, and then climbed into bed to eat. She liked to believe that if she lived on her own the house would be different. Cleaner. With sparkling windows. She’d have plump cushions that you could sink into instead of the foam things they had, squished flat as pancakes from years of arses. She’d pull out the fluorescent lights, tear off the wood-chip wallpaper and rip out the swirly eighties carpets. She’d paint the walls magnolia and varnish the floorboards. Majella’s room hadn’t been done up since the time her ma’d stopped eating for what seemed like months. She’d gone so thin that there was talk of her being sent to the T&F. The T&F wasn’t like a normal hospital, where you were sent for broken bones and to have bits of you cut out. It was a special sort of hospital for people who were bad with their nerves. Nobody who went there seemed to get well. They just disappeared for a while, then came back like zombies.

  When her ma heard the talk about the T&F, she started to drink the banana-flavored nutrition shakes that Majella’s da had bought. Majella remembered him spooning the powder out of a tin, like baby formula. Then he added milk and beat it with a fork until it looked fluffy and sweet, like the American milkshakes Majella had seen on the telly. But it had tasted like wet, perfumed chalk. Majella didn’t know how her ma could prefer that shite to the real dinners her da cooked. Years later, when Majella first tasted a banana-flavored condom, she’d been reminded of her mother’s health drinks, and that special trip they’d taken to celebrate her eating again. Her da had driven them and her granny to Omagh and they visited Harry Corry to get Majella a treat. The four of them had walked around eyeing the matching curtain and duvet sets. That had been the big new thing back then: matching shit. You could match your curtains with your duvet with your pillowcases with your scatter cushions with your lamp shade with your wal
lpaper with your wallpaper border with your rug with your bin. You weren’t supposed to just buy a pillowcase or a duvet cover anymore—it had to be a whole room. But they couldn’t afford all that. Majella was told to choose curtains and a duvet cover. But Majella’s granny didn’t approve of the red duvet cover she chose.

  Get the cuddy something plain so ye get good washing out of it.

  They drove home from Harry Corry’s with a basic cream duvet and matching curtains. Majella hoped she could choose the carpet. But her da measured her room and went down on his own to Hector’s Hardware and Household Goods and took the remnant that was the best fit. After her da nailed the carpet down, the room felt warmer and sounds from downstairs were muffled. But Majella hated the way the carpet scratched her knees and the swirls snagged on her eyes. The duvet cover was eventually ripped to dusters after thinning out in the wash. The curtains still hung there, skimming the warmth from the light outside.

  Majella crushed several mashed chips into her mouth. When Majella was eleven, she’d weighed more than her ma. She guessed she weighed about twice her ma now—she wasn’t sure as she didn’t let her ma push her onto the scales every week anymore. Her size didn’t bother her. Didn’t bother any of the men she met in the pub. And she seemed to have settled now. Not getting much bigger or smaller even when she ate less. Majella had reached the bottom of the pack, where the chips and fish were mushed up together. This was her favorite bit, with the salt and vinegar thick on each mouthful. She paused to sigh in contentment. Then she scraped at the paper with her fingers, before ramming wads of food into her mouth. Chip fat coated her fingers and smeared around her mouth. She dropped the plate on the carpet and lay back on the bed, wiping her fingers and mouth clean on a handful of napkins. It felt good lying there, the heater blowing hot air around the room, her belly, eyelids and diddies heavy and warm. She stretched out her hand and checked her mobile phone.