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Authors: Trisha Merry
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those with your fingers, you know.’
They all looked stunned for a second, as if this was some kind of trick I was playing on them. But then the unwrapping ceremony began. I watched them with amazement. It was as if they were all
trying to keep up the suspense, slowly unravelling their paper, one corner at a time, sniff-sniff-sniffing as they did so.
‘Ooohh,’ gasped Anita dramatically, as if it was nectar.
‘Go on,’ I coaxed them all as I unwrapped Simon’s package for him, sprinkled on some salt and vinegar and handed him a chip. ‘Tuck in.’
As everyone savoured their first mouthful, Hamish puffed out his little chest with pride. It was so lovely to see him like that, his face beaming, with no worries about anything, perhaps for the
first time ever.
All the portions of fish were huge and the chips were piled up high as well. As we all sat there, eating and enjoying it all, nobody spoke a word. When it was finally gone and the papers were
all empty I could hear each of them take in a big breath and let it out slowly, one after the other. Four big fat bellies and four very satisfied children.
Well, that was the start of a family tradition. The following Friday morning, I can remember Hamish coming down early and into the kitchen.
‘It’s our fish and chips night tonight, isn’t it?’ he said in an excited half-whisper.
‘But I was going to . . .’ I began.
His face fell.
‘I know we had fish and chips last Friday,’ I said. ‘But it’s not every Friday.’
There were only a few times that I ever saw Hamish close to tears. He hardly ever cried, but the lip was going . . . At that moment I’d have bought him a whole fish and chip shop.
Just then, Mike walked in.
‘We’ll have fish and chips tonight,’ I said.
‘Oh really?’ he said with a quizzical smile.
So that was it, our ritual. Every Friday from then on was fish and chips night. I’d have scrubbed floors if I had to, just to make sure Hamish could have his fish and chips on Fridays.
Even when we took them on holiday we would take them all down to the quay and have a bag of chips and a Mr Whippy.
From the very first evening they were with us, all of the three older children behaved badly towards each other and swore like troopers. Simon didn’t speak at all then,
but even Caroline, with her speech defect, used all the swear words. With Anita, it was almost every word if she was angry. I do find children fascinating. As I watched and listened to them speak
with each other, I soon noticed that both the girls only used the word ‘cunt’ to each other, but never to their brothers. And it was ‘fucking hell’ every time, in every
situation. Especially Anita.
They used every single swear word you can imagine. And the sad thing was that with the older two it was usually in context, though Caroline sometimes got it spectacularly wrong.
It was strange for us, and upsetting or shocking for other people, but we had to remember not to show how we felt about the swearing at first. Of course, we’re all used to hearing swear
words in the shops, in the park, on the television . . . but this was different. We couldn’t assume they knew these words were anything wrong.
‘These children have been in a worse mess than we realised,’ I murmured to Mike one morning, when the air was particularly blue.
I mentioned the swearing to Carol, the social worker, the next time she came round.
‘Well, of course, your expectations might be a bit high,’ she said.
I didn’t say anything back, but I did think: Oh yeah? All five- and six-year-olds can wipe their bottoms, and know what toilet paper is, don’t they?
One day, I took Anita to one side when we were in a shop and she swore loudly at Caroline.
‘You know, Anita, “cunt” is not an acceptable word when you’re with other people, especially with other children, because it’s what we call a swear word, and a lot
of people don’t like swear words, so they prefer not to hear
They all looked stunned for a second, as if this was some kind of trick I was playing on them. But then the unwrapping ceremony began. I watched them with amazement. It was as if they were all
trying to keep up the suspense, slowly unravelling their paper, one corner at a time, sniff-sniff-sniffing as they did so.
‘Ooohh,’ gasped Anita dramatically, as if it was nectar.
‘Go on,’ I coaxed them all as I unwrapped Simon’s package for him, sprinkled on some salt and vinegar and handed him a chip. ‘Tuck in.’
As everyone savoured their first mouthful, Hamish puffed out his little chest with pride. It was so lovely to see him like that, his face beaming, with no worries about anything, perhaps for the
first time ever.
All the portions of fish were huge and the chips were piled up high as well. As we all sat there, eating and enjoying it all, nobody spoke a word. When it was finally gone and the papers were
all empty I could hear each of them take in a big breath and let it out slowly, one after the other. Four big fat bellies and four very satisfied children.
Well, that was the start of a family tradition. The following Friday morning, I can remember Hamish coming down early and into the kitchen.
‘It’s our fish and chips night tonight, isn’t it?’ he said in an excited half-whisper.
‘But I was going to . . .’ I began.
His face fell.
‘I know we had fish and chips last Friday,’ I said. ‘But it’s not every Friday.’
There were only a few times that I ever saw Hamish close to tears. He hardly ever cried, but the lip was going . . . At that moment I’d have bought him a whole fish and chip shop.
Just then, Mike walked in.
‘We’ll have fish and chips tonight,’ I said.
‘Oh really?’ he said with a quizzical smile.
So that was it, our ritual. Every Friday from then on was fish and chips night. I’d have scrubbed floors if I had to, just to make sure Hamish could have his fish and chips on Fridays.
Even when we took them on holiday we would take them all down to the quay and have a bag of chips and a Mr Whippy.
From the very first evening they were with us, all of the three older children behaved badly towards each other and swore like troopers. Simon didn’t speak at all then,
but even Caroline, with her speech defect, used all the swear words. With Anita, it was almost every word if she was angry. I do find children fascinating. As I watched and listened to them speak
with each other, I soon noticed that both the girls only used the word ‘cunt’ to each other, but never to their brothers. And it was ‘fucking hell’ every time, in every
situation. Especially Anita.
They used every single swear word you can imagine. And the sad thing was that with the older two it was usually in context, though Caroline sometimes got it spectacularly wrong.
It was strange for us, and upsetting or shocking for other people, but we had to remember not to show how we felt about the swearing at first. Of course, we’re all used to hearing swear
words in the shops, in the park, on the television . . . but this was different. We couldn’t assume they knew these words were anything wrong.
‘These children have been in a worse mess than we realised,’ I murmured to Mike one morning, when the air was particularly blue.
I mentioned the swearing to Carol, the social worker, the next time she came round.
‘Well, of course, your expectations might be a bit high,’ she said.
I didn’t say anything back, but I did think: Oh yeah? All five- and six-year-olds can wipe their bottoms, and know what toilet paper is, don’t they?
One day, I took Anita to one side when we were in a shop and she swore loudly at Caroline.
‘You know, Anita, “cunt” is not an acceptable word when you’re with other people, especially with other children, because it’s what we call a swear word, and a lot
of people don’t like swear words, so they prefer not to hear
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