I love you, Paula. I bloody love you.
‘Roddy.’
Roddy folds the words back into his mind, saving them for later. ‘All right Mr. McKenzie?’
‘All set for tonight? We’ve a lot of bookings.’
‘I think I’m sorted.’ He flicks a tea towel across the surface of the machine before pressing the green button.
‘Listen, you won’t need the other sink this evening, will you? I landed a cracking pair of bream this afternoon. Amazing what you get in the river these days, especially when you consider the shit that used to be in there? He swings a plastic carrier bag onto the draining board, tips out its contents. Two copper-coloured shapes flop into the metal sink. Roddy leans to look. ‘They’ll be fine in here for now. Chef says he’ll deal with them later, when he’s finished serving.’
‘That one’s still alive,’ Roddy says, pointing at the smaller of the fish. ‘Look, its mouth’s moving.’
‘Christ, so it is. That’s amazing, It’s ages since I landed them.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to whack them on the head? Finish them off?’
‘Yeah, you are, but, to be honest I didn’t think it would be necessary.’ McKenzie screws up his face. ‘Not squeamish are you, Roddy? I have enough of that from the wife. Don’t look, if they’re bothering you. I can’t imagine they’ll last much longer and, listen, if you have time, could you run over those shelves with a damp cloth. I got a call from George at The Stag’s Head, this morning; he had environmental health round yesterday, doing a spot check. Better to be safe than sorry, just keep your eye on things, will you?
After the boss has gone Roddy looks again at the fish. One is clearly dead, its eye a glazed black disc, but the other shows a sickening lust for life. He runs water into the sink and the fish begins to flap, its mouth telescoping forwards.
‘What’re you up to, big boy?’ Roddy feels a hand slide between his legs, the press of lips on his neck.
‘Alright Emma?’ He turns toward her, shielding the fish with his body, suddenly, and inexplicably, protective.
‘How come you always choose to work at weekends when it’s busy?’ She asks. ‘Could there be a special reason?
‘Maybe.’
Emma smells of cigarettes and peppermints, her eyes are spidered by mascara. ‘And what would that be then?’
‘Money,’ replies Roddy.
‘Aww and there’s me thinking it’s so that you can see me.’ She sinks a nail into the soft flesh of his groin.
‘Well maybe it is, Emma. Maybe you’ve found me out.’
‘Oogh, you know how to make a girl’s heart race, you sex god!’
As she leaves he catches her reflection in the window, sees her stick her fingers down her throat, mock retching. He wipes a hand across his neck to check for lipstick marks, his fingers catching on a rash of acne nestled on his shoulder.
The dish washing machine begins to beep and he tips its metal jaw upwards, sliding out the last of lunchtimes dishes. Its breath is hot, filming Roddy’s glasses with its steam. Service has begun and he can hear the frantic clatter of preparation and the swing of the restaurant doors.
‘Check on, chef. Two soup, one sole, one venison.’
Outside there is the sudden scrunch of gravel and a cone of light slips across the pantry window. An interior light flicks on and Roddy watches as Paula leans across to kiss her father goodbye. That, he thinks, is the difference between Paula and Emma; Paula’s parents care enough about her to ensure she gets to work and back in safety; Emma is left to catch the bus or hitch chances are that at the end of the evening she will be slumped across the bar, half cut and desperate to cadge a lift from one of the regulars. He’s heard she pays in kind.
‘Hi, Roddy.’ Paula is standing in the doorway, shrugging her jacket from her shoulders and tugging at a soft beige scarf looped at her throat. Her dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail emphasising the slightly upward slant of her eyes.
‘How’re you doing Paula?’
‘Good, thanks. Only one more week to go and then I’m free!’
‘’Just one week?! ‘He says, surprised. ‘Where is it you’re going again?’ ‘
Edinburgh, to study social anthropology.’
Roddy knew the answer but asked anyway; it was like wobbling a loose tooth, painful, but a reminder it’s still there. ‘Sounds exciting,’ he offers.
‘I hope so. It’s got a great reputation and, more importantly, the nightlife looks fantastic.’
Roddy has no idea what social anthropology involves, nor any clear idea where Edinburgh is on the map, but Paula has a way of talking that assumes he may respond with ‘Yes, I considered that course myself; but, in the end, I plumped for kitchen porter; better prospects,’ as if she believes that these are choices open to everyone.
From the kitchen, Emma’s voice breaks the moment. ‘The man on table five suggests you keep the window closed, chef,’ she shouts. ‘He says he’s found a privet leaf in his venison stew.’
‘A privet leaf!’ chef bellows from the kitchen, ‘it’s a fuckin’ bay leaf, the moron! Tell him there’s a McDonalds in town which may be more to his palate. Jesus, what an arse!’
Paula swings her coat across her arm and smiles at Roddy. ‘Better get cracking.’ She says and disappears down the corridor to the restaurant.
One week; Roddy tries to stretch it in his mind days, hours, minutes, seconds; nothing makes it long enough. And when she has gone, what will work be like then? What will be the incentive? God knows not the money!
Emma struggles in with an armful of pans. ‘Chef says can you wash these, pronto?’ She puffs, adding, as if it were necessary, ‘Christ, he’s in some mood tonight.’
‘Maybe it’s withdrawal symptoms,’ suggests Roddy.
‘You must be joking! Stopping the bar staff serving him during restaurant hours doesn’t alter the fact that he has all that cooking brandy stashed away in the kitchen. You should smell him; he’s rank with the stuff.’ She leans back against the machine, placing her hands against its hot flank. ‘I see Paula’s in tonight.’
‘Is she?’
Emma says nothing but winks and slaps his backside as she leaves.
The pans have a thick layer of brownish scum clinging to their bases and Roddy takes a knife to it before submitting them to the machine. The little room has become misty with steam, the smell of grease and stale food is strong. Every so often he pats the right hand pocket of his jeans to reassure himself that the box is still there a small velvet covered box, midnight blue in colour, a striking contrast to the dainty silver chain contained within, the filigree heart attached. He practices the words inside his head, ‘Just a little something to remember us by, just a little something to remember me by, something I saw that I thought you’d like, nothing fancy.’ And then the kiss, just a small one on the cheek.
‘Got those pans, Roddy?’
‘Yes, chef.’ As Roddy hands over the pans, still wet, he sees, quite clearly, Emma’s point Chef’s face appears like a garden gone wild, the majority of it being given over to an unkempt mass of ginger beard. From its depths , his eyes, red rimmed and moist, stare out like those of a small, but potentially savage mammal which has taken refuge there.
‘You’re looking smart tonight. New shirt?’ chef grunts, swinging the pans effortlessly as though they may be part of some, as yet unreleased, Gordon Ramsay fitness video.
‘Thought I’d make an effort,’ replies Roddy, cautiously, aware that a wrong word now could be dangerous.
‘Make an effort? Chef snorts, ‘In this shit hole? I wouldn’t bother son, there’s nothing here to make an effort for, believe me!’
Roddy feels his skin redden, his neck gleams with sweat.
Paula pokes her head around the doorway. ‘Sorry chef, the lady on table two says that her steak is undercooked. She’s sent it back.’
‘Undercooked? Chef’s voice drops to a menacing tone. ‘Undercooked! I tell you what, I’ll deep fry it for her, cremate the fucking thing. Is that what she wants? Will that suit her? Jesus, what is it with these people?’ He lunges towards Paula, swinging the heavy metal stockpot at the plate she is holding, knocking it from her grip. Peppercorn sauce spatters against her legs and shoes, looking like the result of a Friday night’s overindulgence in Cream liquor. Paula ducks as, roaring, chef swings the pan again, seriously denting the wooden doorframe. Instinctively Roddy takes Paula’s arm and pulls her into the pantry, away from the mess, she is trembling slightly and her face has whitened accentuating the carmine of her lips.
‘Holy God!’ she says, leaning forward over the sink, head bowed, eyes closed in an effort to calm herself. Roddy stands behind her, afraid her knees might buckle. He can smell her shampoo, something herbal, and the faint, sour tang of sweat. He moves his hand slowly forwards, intending to touch her shoulder, wanting to reassure her. His mouth is strangely dry, his tongue feels large and wooden as his fingers stretch out and brush against the soft hairs on her neck.
Then Paula screams, loud and shrill, reeling back against him. Panicking he grabs her by the arm, pulling her towards his body in a clumsy embrace.
‘Roddy!’ Emma is standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock. ‘Roddy, for god’s sake let her go.’
He drops his grip, shaking, and backs into the machine, something has gone wrong, something must be said to put things right. ‘I didn’t...’ Sweat is streaming down his face.
‘Roddy!’ There’s something hiding in Emma’s voice disdain, disappointment, triumph?
Paula lifts her face from her hands and looks directly at him. ‘What a fright I got,’ she hisses.’
With sudden, shocking clarity Roddy sees himself through Paula’s eyes. ‘Oh god, Paula, I’m sorry,’ he mumbles.
‘That bloody thing’s still alive’ She replies. ‘Who, in God’s name, put those fish there? What a fright I got. Look at it; you can see its mouth still moving. Jesus, it’s disgusting, shouldn’t you have knocked it on the head?’
Emma walks away, losing interest in the drama and Roddy begins to laugh, a slow bubble of a laugh that starts to grow within his stomach and then bursts out of his mouth, quick and yelping and out with his control. Paula stares, confused.
At the end of the evening Roddy drains and wipes the machine, leaving it, jaw open, for the night. Before he kills the light he takes the silver chain out of his pocket and dangles it above the fish, slowly lowering the heart onto its back which is covered with a thin layer of bluish slime. Both fish are now clearly dead and he feels a foolish sense of disappointment, of having been let down by their lack of fighting spirit.
Paula had gone home early, at Emma’s suggestion; she hadn’t said goodbye. Roddy had watched her go with his head pressed against the pantry window, the condensation cool against his skin and lips which have left a puckered mark against the glass.
Emma stumbles in, her chin pressed down upon a mound of dirty linen in her arms.
‘Nearly finished?’ he asks.
‘Yup, that’s just about me.’
‘Where’s chef? I thought he was supposed to be doing something with these fish.’
‘There’s not much chance of that. I’ve just practically carried him up to room four. It’s empty tonight, so he’ll be safe in there. I tell you what though, I’m glad I ‘m not the one responsible for cleaning it tomorrow, he looked pretty rough when I left him.’
‘What do you think I should do with these then?’ he asks, gesturing at the sink.
‘Aww, I wouldn’t worry about that,’ she replies. ‘Mckenzie will probably have forgotten about them by tomorrow. You’d be as well sticking them in the bin just now, to be honest. Poor buggers. And what was all that carry-on with Paula this evening? Jeezo, what a fucking drama queen.’
Roddy smiles, then takes a clean tea towel and lays it over the fish; he’ll ditch them in the morning. ‘How’re you getting home tonight?’
‘Not sure. I was going to check out who is left in the bar. There’s usually someone heading into town.’
‘If you’ve got the strength for hanging on, I could give you a lift on the bike,’ he says.
Emma shrugs and stuffs the laundry into the waiting basket.
Roddy cuts the light.
- THE END -
No comments:
Post a Comment