the chippie

We were only talking.

“Graham!”

“I see you, Sophie love. Be up in a jiff.”

Sigh. We were only talking. But I suppose that’s the way of it. Don’t need him to keep me company, anyway. Graham is good for a chat, if I want it, and I don’t want it generally. He was a bit of a talker, that one. Sometimes it was all you could do to make the bugger keep shut. Best he’s gone…

Oh hell. “Graham!”

“Yes Sophie! Here y’are, my love. What you wanted?”

Dear old Graham. It’s not on to make him cross, he works hard.

“Thanks, darling. They’re lovely.”

Well. He need not sniff that way. Here to wait on folk, isn’t he? But um—these are lovely. Graham’s right enough.


What’s meant by gone, anyway? It’s a chippie, isn’t it? Open to the public isn’t it? And suppose he’s off on an assignment for work—what was it he did? Pharmaceutical engineering. Fittings for orifice applicators, wasn’t it? That would be as likely to take him out of town for a time. Not likely to be many who can serve in that field. Quite good at his work, too, I think. He said as much; rather, he never said as much but you could read between the lines. Might equally be that he’s on holiday. We used to talk a lot about that, didn’t we? He was keen to go to Ibiza. Neither of us had been, just heard a lot from old schoolmates, would be fun to see all the sots carousing on the beach, like we never were. There was just the matter of the bikini…

We talked about going there together, didn’t we? Played it like it was a joke, but… It came up bit too often for only a joke…I should think. Didn’t it?

“Graham! Another, if you please.”

“Of the same, Sophie?”


Yes, just the matter of the bikini. We talked about that a little, too. It was a relief to find that some men think about other things. Like what’s in the heart. He really cared the most about that. At least I know there’s some men about like that.

And that some men know what a challenge it can be. That’s the thing of it—he wasn’t any Adonis himself, was he? I mean, good looking. Quite good looking, for a heavy chap. He was heavy, no getting round that. And didn’t help that he was always coming in here for a basket of chips. But if he hadn’t, we’d never have…

Hell. “Graham, when you have a moment.”

“Aye, Sophie?”

“A couple packets of tartar sauce. And…”

“Aye?”

“I think...”

“Would you fancy a beer, love?”

Sigh. “A Flowers, Graham. Thank you.”

“Aye, Sophie.”


All the flowers I get, come in a pint glass. Got to get them myself. Get them for myself. All the flowers I’ll ever get. Not the sort anybody buys a Flowers for, me--not even in a pint glass. He never bought me a beer. Paid for a couple baskets chips, I think. That was just conspir…consp…just a dirty trick, I guess. To get me heavier than he was. And now he’s gone.

Just a damn public chippie, isn’t it? He might be back next week. Shouldn’t wonder. But I won’t speak to him. Not first. If he wants to speak, he can speak first. He can buy the bloody Flowers.

Sniff. Seemed like the type to buy the real flowers, sometime, if he…if he fancied the girl.

Suppose he’s in Ibiza, with some other heavy girl, watching the sots carousing on the beach. Suppose he uses that line on them all. Makes you feel sort of special. Bet she swallowed it whole. Didn’t I?

“Graham!”

“Another of the same?”

Shouldn’t.

“Yes, please.”

(first published 6/28/07, 9.35am)