dirty blue apron was wiping down a big steel tea-urn behind the counter.
Have you got any cold Coke? he asked.
In the fridge, there.
He looked around for the fridge, finding it just behind his back, half hidden by the open door of the cafe. The girl finished cleaning the urn before serving him, then took the money in a hand
still damp from the rag she’d been using.
Back outside he saw that a small, ferrety-looking man had taken a seat at the bus-stop and was eyeing the fishing gear. The fisherman watched him from the door of the cafe, drinking his Coke in
the shade, taking big, painful gulps that were hard to keep down. He drained the can quickly, then dropped it into a mesh waste-basket at the side of the café door. He belched, and a little
Coke welled up, still cold.
As he approached, the new arrival looked up from examining the pack and fishing tackle and nodded. The fisherman nodded back.
Yours then, aye? Nice to find a bit of time for the fishing, like. He peeled the cardboard lid off from a small tub of ice-cream and licked the inside of it clean. He twitched his narrow head,
glanced around and then went on talking, nervily. Eh, Jesus, I’ll be glad to get on home, meself. Been working from three this morning, me. He had a reedy, Geordie voice and nodded his head
continuously down to one side, deferentially, as he spoke. The sharp chin and jaw lines of his boyish face were peppered with a gingery stubble. The stubble didn’t match his thinning hair,
which was watery brown, like his eyes. He grinned shyly at the fisherman.
A long day, said the fisherman.
All paid nicely for, mind. Aye, all paid nicely for, he said again, and looked set to go on talking, but first he spooned a soft pat of ice-cream into his mouth with a little plastic paddle.
I’ll be glad to get home mind, he said after swallowing. Glad to get to bed, like.
The fisherman nodded. Know when the bus is due?
The man spooned in another lump of ice-cream, this time talking through it. Naw. Normal days I get me a lift home from the slaughterhouse like, so
I don’t pay any attention to the buses.
The slaughterhouse? he said, interested.
Aye. A tear of ice-cream welled at the corner of his mouth and started to trickle. He smeared it with the back of his hand.
What’s it you do there then?
The man cleared his throat. I’m on the tripe bags, me. Mind I can do the guts too.
The fisherman looked more closely at the crusty brown specks he’d already noticed sprinkling the collar at the front of the man’s white T-shirt. Is it cows you do?
Aye, cows and lambs. And the odd run of pigs, like. Mainly lambs now mind, this time of year. Two thousand through today. That’s how I was in early like. Lots of money to be made with the
overtime this week, like.
There were more tiny stains, the fisherman noticed now, some on the side of his chin and one, darker and smoother, along his right ear lobe.
The slaughterman started scraping at the last of the ice-cream but it was too far gone in the heat. He gave up and drank the remains straight from the tub.
The fisherman looked at his watch and sighed. Christ, it’s hot, he said.
Aye, the slaughterman agreed.
The fisherman tipped his pack and sat on it, levelling his legs out onto the road. Must be a hell of a job in this heat, he said.
The slaughterman blinked at him, surprised. Naw, he said mildly, and shook his head. Naw, it’s fantastic, a great laugh with all the lads, like. He placed the empty ice-cream tub at his
feet, then straightened back up. The fisherman glanced from the empty tub to the man’s boots, filthy with dried blood. They were big and steel toe-capped; yellow, like big, dangerous
clowns’ boots. A great job, he went on. They’re great lads, like. And I can get a whole lamb for the mother for thirty quid, me. Thirty quid! And I know it’s been killed
fresh the day. Oh aye. Aye, it’s great. He fumbled in a pocket and found a pack of Embassy blues. He offered one
Have you got any cold Coke? he asked.
In the fridge, there.
He looked around for the fridge, finding it just behind his back, half hidden by the open door of the cafe. The girl finished cleaning the urn before serving him, then took the money in a hand
still damp from the rag she’d been using.
Back outside he saw that a small, ferrety-looking man had taken a seat at the bus-stop and was eyeing the fishing gear. The fisherman watched him from the door of the cafe, drinking his Coke in
the shade, taking big, painful gulps that were hard to keep down. He drained the can quickly, then dropped it into a mesh waste-basket at the side of the café door. He belched, and a little
Coke welled up, still cold.
As he approached, the new arrival looked up from examining the pack and fishing tackle and nodded. The fisherman nodded back.
Yours then, aye? Nice to find a bit of time for the fishing, like. He peeled the cardboard lid off from a small tub of ice-cream and licked the inside of it clean. He twitched his narrow head,
glanced around and then went on talking, nervily. Eh, Jesus, I’ll be glad to get on home, meself. Been working from three this morning, me. He had a reedy, Geordie voice and nodded his head
continuously down to one side, deferentially, as he spoke. The sharp chin and jaw lines of his boyish face were peppered with a gingery stubble. The stubble didn’t match his thinning hair,
which was watery brown, like his eyes. He grinned shyly at the fisherman.
A long day, said the fisherman.
All paid nicely for, mind. Aye, all paid nicely for, he said again, and looked set to go on talking, but first he spooned a soft pat of ice-cream into his mouth with a little plastic paddle.
I’ll be glad to get home mind, he said after swallowing. Glad to get to bed, like.
The fisherman nodded. Know when the bus is due?
The man spooned in another lump of ice-cream, this time talking through it. Naw. Normal days I get me a lift home from the slaughterhouse like, so
I don’t pay any attention to the buses.
The slaughterhouse? he said, interested.
Aye. A tear of ice-cream welled at the corner of his mouth and started to trickle. He smeared it with the back of his hand.
What’s it you do there then?
The man cleared his throat. I’m on the tripe bags, me. Mind I can do the guts too.
The fisherman looked more closely at the crusty brown specks he’d already noticed sprinkling the collar at the front of the man’s white T-shirt. Is it cows you do?
Aye, cows and lambs. And the odd run of pigs, like. Mainly lambs now mind, this time of year. Two thousand through today. That’s how I was in early like. Lots of money to be made with the
overtime this week, like.
There were more tiny stains, the fisherman noticed now, some on the side of his chin and one, darker and smoother, along his right ear lobe.
The slaughterman started scraping at the last of the ice-cream but it was too far gone in the heat. He gave up and drank the remains straight from the tub.
The fisherman looked at his watch and sighed. Christ, it’s hot, he said.
Aye, the slaughterman agreed.
The fisherman tipped his pack and sat on it, levelling his legs out onto the road. Must be a hell of a job in this heat, he said.
The slaughterman blinked at him, surprised. Naw, he said mildly, and shook his head. Naw, it’s fantastic, a great laugh with all the lads, like. He placed the empty ice-cream tub at his
feet, then straightened back up. The fisherman glanced from the empty tub to the man’s boots, filthy with dried blood. They were big and steel toe-capped; yellow, like big, dangerous
clowns’ boots. A great job, he went on. They’re great lads, like. And I can get a whole lamb for the mother for thirty quid, me. Thirty quid! And I know it’s been killed
fresh the day. Oh aye. Aye, it’s great. He fumbled in a pocket and found a pack of Embassy blues. He offered one
Similar Books
