They were there, outside the fish and chip shop, all of them. The dad with his household order on a scrappy sliver of paper. The girl of 11 or 12 quietly reciting her own family’s demands, lips miming through lyrics of Mum’s mushy peas and little brother’s Vimto. Teenagers documenting the seconds that passed on mobile phones. They argued over whether gravy on chips was disgusting or not without looking up from their screens. A man of 60 or so joined us, rubbed his hands together and addressed my mum: “You can’t beat Chippy Night can you, love?” For a few splendid minutes, the democracy of the chip-shop queue made everything seem all right.
Mum agreed with the man. It was she who declared this was our Chippy Night, an electric phrase that still, in my early 40s, elicits a cry of “Get in!” and a cheer from my teenage daughter. All three of us were there now, outside the Fisherman’s Wife in York, our nostrils tickled by the smell of batter and vinegar, our eyes drawn to the cosy glow of a fish and chip shop on a dark night. Among the closed shops and curtained windows of Bishopthorpe Road, it gleamed like a gold tooth in a barren mouth.
