Fish And Chips In The Park

Another excerpt from my unpublished novel "The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund"

John had almost finished making breakfast by the time Aileen came into the kitchen. She closed the sliding door behind her, the one he had made and fitted last year after he had had all his ideas about saving space in the kitchen – installing a sliding door, making a table by fixing a large piece of wood to the wall by brackets and dispensing with table legs. She sat down at the bracket table and looked away as he placed a cup of tea in front of her.

"There's toast," John said.

“I don’t want toast.”

“Well, there’s… eggs.”

“I don’t want any damn eggs.”

He sighed. He helped himself to a fried egg and some toast and sat down with a cup of tea.

“Why do you have to humour her like that, Lizzie’s just a bloody spoiled child! Needs a damn clip over the ear!”

There wasn’t really a lot he could answer. When one parent’s idea of discipline is corporal punishment and the other’s is a gentle reprimand coupled with constructive discussion, the two will not find a compromise. John had been subjected to too much corporal punishment at boarding school, from the age of seven, he had never learned the advantage of it. While Aileen’s father had consistently beaten her mother, whom he had only married when Aileen had been 25 years old, the mother who had worshipped Aileen, had treated her like a little angel who had one day surprisingly appeared in her life, like a small porcelain doll.

Actually, it was Aileen who was spoiled, who had never received a damn clip over the ear.

John did not say any of this, but he spent a few moments trying not to think about it.

Aileen took a large sip of tea.

“I told you, you should tell me what the hell all the damn fuss was about. I can’t have that damn bitch treating me like this! What did you she tell you?”

“Girlie, I’ve told you, I promised her I wouldn’t say anything-“

“Oh for God’s sake John! This is absolutely bloody ridiculous! I’m fed up with her moods and her nonsense! I won’t have it – I won’t have you keeping secrets from me with her, what is this bloody nonsense!”

The helplessness of his situation, the ridiculous premise of it all, the innocence and inner fears of his daughter Lizzie, to which he could truly relate, the constant jealousies and tempers of his slightly unbalanced wife, whom he loved so much despite, or perhaps because of these, suddenly made John feel a little sick inside.

He stood up, took his crockery and placed it next to the sink, opened the sliding door.

“Where are you going?” At first, there was only anger in her voice. She wanted a fight, he should stay, fight it out, or rather, simply give in and agree to her demands.

He left the room.

Aileen was close behind him. “Are you going to the launderette? The washing’s on the landing.”

He turned, cleared his throat slightly. It was nervousness, he didn’t need to cough. “No, I’m not going to the launderette. I’m going out.”

“What do you mean you’re going out? Where are you going? What do you mean?” Now he could hear the fear in Aileen’s voice. She wasn’t used to him just walking away, not from anything. He had always taken her part, always.

He had reached the hallstand now, by the front door. She was right behind him. He took his coat from the hanger, and his hat.

“I’m going out. I’m just going out. I’ll be back… later. I don’t know.”

“What? What, John? What do you mean? Where are you going?” Now he could hear the slight hysteria in her voice. But he didn’t know what to tell her, because he didn’t know himself where he was going.

He wanted to shut the front door behind him, but he couldn’t because she was standing in the portal, her mouth open and her eyes filled with anger, fear and tears. He looked away, because he couldn’t bear to see her like that. She would not follow him if he started down the garden path, she would not want the neighbours in Larchwood Road to see her running after her husband, begging him to stay, to talk.

So he turned and walked down the path.

When John came to the end of Larchwood Road, he came to Southwood Rood, the main thoroughfare that led to Sidcup in one direction and down into New Eltham in the other. It was the route that he took every morning to the station, to the right down Southwood Road, into New Eltham. So he took that route because his feet seemed to know it. He would not need to catch a train this morning, there was no pressure, no stress, but he seemed still to walk so quickly, even though he was trying to walk so slowly. Past the Conservative Club on the right, past New Eltham Park on the left. Suddenly he was at the Library, New Eltham Library, from which he borrowed one book every month, and Lizzie borrowed additional books on his library card, because she had already filled up her quota of three books on hers.

If he walked any further, he would be at the shops, at the launderette, and old Chopin might see him and wonder why he was on his own, without Lizzie, and particularly, without any laundry.

He turned and walked up the path to the Library.

Sour-faced Johnson was there, in his brown velvet jacket (did he own another one?) and Brenda Anthony from Larchwood Road, Aileen’s friend who worked as a librarian photographing the library cards together with the books that were being loaned on their photographic machine. The machine made a satisfying clunk and a light flashed over the books and the cards when Brenda pressed a button, it was highly efficient and futuristically modern, everything on microfilm. A small queue of people stood at the counter at the entrance/exit to the library, waiting to have their books and cards photographed by the futuristic machine. Brenda Anthony was dealing with each customer patiently, efficiently, while sour-faced Johnson was darting around quickly, officiously, probably unneccessarily, in his brown velvet jacket, monitoring and supervising, occasionally picking up a book and frowning at it before placing it somewhere else.

To the right was the Childrens’ Library, where Lizzie spent time between school and home, and to his front lay the sprawling mass of the rest of the library, to his left the closed-off Reading Room with its daily and weekly newspapers and everywhere the signs SILENCE, while at the back lay the Museum. John headed for the Museum.

The Museum principally contained stuffed owls and other birds, old Roman coins, earthenware pots dug up from hundreds, hell! maybe thousands of years ago. John examined each item carefully from behind its protective glass showcase, not because the items interested him, although he felt an inner guilt that they should, that he should accord them the respect deserved at least by the person (possibly Johnson?) who had placed them there so meticulously, not only because it had been that person’s job, but also their calling, or their purpose, or their meaning in life, but because it calmed him to observe them closely, carefully, and slowly, reading each label with care and forced interest, while at the same time taking nothing, not one word in, so that sometimes the owl labels seemed to be describing the coins and the earthenware labels the owls, because his mind was filled overwhelming, indisputably, and completely with Aileen.

When he had read all the labels and viewed all the items and had observed, suddenly, that he had reached the end of the showcases and was now facing the entrance to the Museum again, which of course was also the exit, and that he had learned nothing at all, John left the Museum and returned to the sprawling mass of the library, with its clunking futuristic machine and Brenda Anthony now on his left and Johnson crossing over on a diagonal course to his right just in front of him, en route to the Reading Room with a book in his hand and a fume in his eye.

John left the Library.

He had wandered aimlessly now through New Eltham, through all of it, up and down the main streets, past Dr. MacNair’s on Footscray Road, past the greengrocer’s and the butcher’s, past the newsagent’s and the toyshop and even the station, but not as far as the launderette. He could not risk Chopin calling out to him, “Oy, Mr. O! Where’s yer washing, you not coming in today?” He did not pass Jim’s 24-hour shop, the one which opened despite all the laws, which Jim still opened because he had a family to support and people still came and shopped there, when they needed something late at night or on a Sunday. Because Jim would also say, “Where’s Lizzie then? All right, Mr. O?” And John could not truly say that it was so.

So instead, he had wandered into a pub, drunk two half-pints of beer in a corner, and on emerging from that pub, was surprised to discover that it was more than one hour later and that time seemed to have stood still.

But he was hungry now, and he did not want to go home.

There was a fish and chip shop. He had never been there, he did not eat fish and chips. That was a very English thing, fish and chips. Aileen would never condone it, it was working class, and it was strange. Once, with Clive, in the lunch-hour, in the city, they had found a fish and chip shop and they had bought a takeaway, and they had eaten it together in the lunch-hour, in the Park. Clive had eaten fish and chips alone before, but he was not allowed to do so with his wife Celia. She had strictly forbidden fish and chips. Unhealthy English food, she had said. So they had bought the fish and chips in a clandestine manner and enjoyed them as such in the Park. An interesting taste, Clive had said. An interesting meal. And John had eaten it, it had been satisfactory and not unpalatable. And so now, he made his way to the fish and chip shop.

It was early afternoon now. John took his package of fish and chips, heavy in his hand but wanting in his stomach, and headed for the park. The park was the place to eat fish and chips, as he had with Clive, on a bench, carefree and clandestine, enjoying the unhealthy but filling and not uninteresting fruits of the English working class.

The park was large, and one corner housed only children’s playthings, the swings, the seesaws, the larger seesaws for the bigger children, the smaller swings for the smaller children. The rest of the park was empty, grass, for people with dogs, for people taking walks, for people like himself with a package of fish and chips, but there were still only two benches. The first bench, closest to the entrance, was soiled, he could not say exactly with what. Possibly a person with whom alcohol had not completely agreed, at least to the extent to which they had drunk it, had recently been obliged to place themselves on this first bench. The second and only other available bench was located a little further away, and was not entirely free. A not unattractive lady in a pale blue coat and black high-heeled shoes was perched at one end of it, staring at the horizon or the larger seesaws to the right.

John placed himself at the other end of this bench and opened his package of fish and chips.

They were good. And he munched on the chips for a while, and ate a good deal of the fish.

The lady at the other end of the bench took out a packet of cigarettes and a matchbook and struck a match. She was not successful and struck another. That was when John noticed her. Because one always noticed when someone was trying to strike a match and it was unsuccessful. And she was unsuccessful at her second attempt as well. And at her third attempt, the matchbook fell on the ground.

She swore under her breath and bent to pick up the matchbook, but John was a gentleman, and he turned, placed his half-eaten package on the bench, picked up the matchbook before she could reach it, and struck her a match, covering the flame with his hand.

“Please allow me,” he said, bending closer to light her cigarette.

She looked at him briefly, then moved in to catch the flame.

“Thanks,” she said. Then, “You’re a real gentleman.”

He handed her the matchbook, picked up his fish and chips.

“I used to smoke,” he replied with his usual little preceding nervous laugh. “Not any more though.”

She acknowledged this with a similar little laugh and turned to him. “Why’s that then eh? Your wife not a smoker then?”

“I accidentally burned my daughter with a cigarette when she was a baby. Then my wife put out a book about smoking… well, I read it and stopped.”

She turned back, staring at nothing on the horizon, gave another little laugh. “Yeah well, you did the right thing, eh.”

He finished his fish and chips, his hunger at least now satisfied, and folded the papers carefully and intently. Once he had breathed deeply and slowly, and examined the empty horizon again, he would rise and continue his aimless walk.

“You got a family, have you? What you doing sat here Saturday lunchtime on a park bench eating fish and chips then? You don’t mind me prying, do you? Sorry, just thought like, you know. You don’t mind me asking, do you?”

John stopped in his effort to stand up. He felt embarressed. Terribly embarressed. What on earth was he doing, walking round New Eltham for hours on end by himself, sitting in pubs, buying fish and chips, sitting on park benches talking to strangers, when his wife and children were sitting at home, especially Aileen, worried sick about where he was. He was supposed to be down at Chopin’s launderette, for heaven’s sakes! What the hell was he thinking, what was he doing, why was he here! God, he had to get home. He had to get the laundry done.

His legs were leaden. He stared at the ground, unable to move, his hands full of the fish and chip papers, the forbidden fruit. He laughed his little nervous laugh.

“I don’t know,” he said. He wanted to cry.

“Oh Gordon Bennett.” There was a little movement, a little swishing as she repositioned herself at the other end of the bench. “Oh flippin eck. Ere look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… you know… sorry.”

“Oh no,” John said. He must pull himself together. “I’m sorry. A little… upset… at home. That’s all. I’m terribly sorry.” If he concentrated hard, he could pull himself up now, pull himself together. He was about to stand up.

“Look, I’m Angie. Pleased to meet you.”

That was when he finally turned round, turned to his right, and faced her. Not her, really. Just faced to his right. And he saw her hand, outstretched, in greeting. And he looked up, and for the first time, he saw her face.

“Hello, Angie,” he replied. “I’m… John.” And he took her hand and shook it.

They were a little closer now, on the bench. Angie had offered him a cigarette, and he had accepted it, just one he’d said, and Angie had laughed. He was on his second now, but it was good, it was feeling good, and he had started to feel relaxed. Like when he was with Clive. Like he was sitting together with someone he liked, with whom he could talk.

Angie had told him about herself. She was divorced, but she was living (in sin, she said) with a man who seemed to be out and about with another woman.

“Met er down the King’s Arms,” Angie explained. “Tart, always down there, most nights a week. Pardon my French. Gets off wiv any bloke buys er a rum and coke.”

“I’m so sorry,” John offered. His problems seemed paltry in comparison.

“Oh no, don’t be, e got it coming to im,” Angie explained. “Not the first time by a long chalk. Anyway, I ain’t got no family like what you ave. Anyway, you got a bit of a funny accent. Where you from then? Not round these parts eh?”

“I grew up in India,” John explained. “I’ve been here a few years though.”

“In-dia?” Angie turned, incredulous. “Blimey, what, you a Paki then? You don’t look it, mind. Not that I’ve got anything against Pakis. Ard-working, is what they are.”

He was used to this. “No, I’m English. My family were… working in India.” It was easy to explain it like that.

“Blimey,” Angie said. “Furthest East I ever been was Bethnal Green!” she laughed, and turned to John, and he laughed too. She had an infectious laugh. “I was born in Deptford,” she explained. “Deptford, born and raised. Only moved ere down New Eltham cos of im. Posh place, this. Dunno what to do wiv myself arf the time. I got a job cleaning,” she continued. “I do that, mornings. Not bad money, cash in ‘and. Don’t tell im about all of it. Well, I don’t see no money from im. Girl’s gotta look after erself. What about you, John? Reckon you gotta give your missus the ousekeeping and the kids, int you?”

“We have a joint back account,” John rejoindered. “It’s not really about… giving. My wife has… well, full access really.” Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do?

Angie pulled out another cigarette and John did the honours with the matchbook again.

“Look, you’re a right gentleman, John, if you don’t mind my saying. So what’s going on then eh? Ow come’s you sat ere on this park bench chattin me up?”

She must have noticed a stiffening on his side, a slight retraction, a slight shock, and immediately rephrased.

“Look, I’m sorry John. I didn’t mean that. That was out of order. Sorry. Just wondered, like, you know.”

He nodded, automatically now. She was right. What was he doing on this park bench talking to a woman and smoking cigarettes with her? And why was he enjoying it? If Aileen could see him…

He took a deep breath. “Could I trouble you for another cigarette?”

“Oh yeah, no problem,” they lit the cigarette together, her striking the match and him cupping his hand around the flame.

“My daughter’s got problems,” John said, leaning back and staring once again into the middle distance of the park. “She’s twelve, she’s going through… you know, changes… she’s scared about… certain things. The problem is, I can understand her. There’s things she’s scared about, that maybe I was scared about when I was her age. Maybe I’m still scared about them. I mean, she’s my daughter. So we’re probably similar. But my wife… she’s different. She doesn’t understand all those things. And maybe she doesn’t understand me. I can’t talk to her…” he stopped, wondering whether he should continue at all.

Then, “I can’t really talk to her at all,” he said. “About anything… that is really intrinsically important to me. But I love her very deeply.”

And that was when he broke down, threw the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, and put his head in his hands and cried.

Angie had taken him in her arms, had cradled him while he had sobbed, had whispered her soothing words, and then they had sat, for a very long time, hand in hand, heads together, in silence, staring into the empty horizon, while the park had remained largely empty, except for a few distant children on the seesaws and the swings, and a very few people walking their dogs and the sound of the traffic from Southwood Road, while the sun went slowly down, and it became a little chilly, and when John looked at his watch, it was already nearly six o’clock.

And it had not seemed to matter that they had spoken so little, because they had experienced so much, together.

“See.. the wind,” Angie said. “See them trees?” The trees in the park were bowing gently in the wind and the birds were loud and it seemed astounding that so few people had appeared in the park, that they had had so much time alone together.

“Listen to them trees,” Angie said. “Listen to that Nature.”

John listened. There really wasn’t anything else to listen to. Nature itself was so loud. John wondered how you usually only just heard the noisy, man-made stuff, when Nature itself was so busy.

She stroked his head gently. “It’s gettin late,” she said. “Listen, e’s out tonight. I know it. E’s gone off to er place. E won’t be there right now. If you want, you could come up for a cuppa tea, or a whisky, if you’d like it. E’s got some whisky. What do you reckon? You fancy a drink eh?”

John said nothing, he trusted himself to say nothing, and then Angie said, “It’s all right, John, you don’t ave to come. It’s all right. I wasn’t tryin to, you know.”

“It’s all right, Angie,” he said. “I know. Thank you so much for your invitation. But I should go home.”

She wanted him to stay. She never wanted him to leave. She wanted them to stay, entwined like this, for a very long time. But if they could not, she wanted him to come back.

“Will you be ere again, if I come again?”

And it was in that moment that he knew that he would. Even though he knew that he should not.

“I’ll be here, Angie,” John said. “I don’t know when, but when I do, I’ll be here on the bench, it’s nice here. You come again, we’ll have a little chat.”

When he finally returned home it was nearly 7 o’clock in the evening. Aileen and the children had apparently heard the front door open and immediately burst out of the kitchen and into the hall. He started to hang up his coat, but Aileen was in tears, and flung her arms around him crying, “Where have you been, I can’t live without you!” and all the children tried to hug him at once and ask where he’d been, but John said, I’ve just been out.

And then Lizzie took the children upstairs so that John and Aileen could talk, which they did until it was time to go to sleep.