Fish by Claire Powell / Fiction / Untitled Books

"He walks closer to me. Smell gets stronger. The window had been open in the kitchen. There was coffee, flowers, bleach down the sink. Now: only fish. He's above me, shoulders higher than my head."

Fish by Claire Powell

Different looking chap today. Carrot-top.

'You got a name?' I ask, as he's walking down the drive.

'Gary,' he says, and he looks down at his white coat, 'should say it on me badge.'

He's holding the crate. Mottled pink and white skin pattern his knuckles, like scales. I can smell him.

'All that for me?' I ask.

'Mrs Goldin,' he says, and he looks over my head at the door number.

'The other chap calls me Stella,' I say.

The other chap's a Scot. Older. Pocks on his face like someone's trod on him in high heels. Hair white as a dove.

'Do you wanna show me where you want this then Stella?'

I lead him through to the kitchen. On his way he stops and peers into the front room. Rests his head on the doorframe and smiles.

'Canary,' he says, 'me mum used to keep them.'

Little Fella's singing. Always singing. Chirp chirping away in his cage; happy little bird he is.

'I've had him two years now,' I say. 'Present from my granddaughter, bless her heart.'

'Bet he keeps you company,' he says, moving into the kitchen.

'I should say,' I say.

He puts the crate on the table, scratches his orange head then opens the freezer.

'Don't mind me moving things about do you?' he asks.

'Oh no,' I say, 'do what you got to do.'

I stand by the sink and watch. He gets down on his knees and rolls up his sleeves like he's about to fix some pipes. He takes out of my freezer a bag of frozen veg, box of Vienetta and a frosty loaf of Hovis. Lays them on the floor.

'I can take that now if it's easier,' I say, and I point down at the Hovis. He passes it up to me.

'Watch it old girl,' he says, 'hold it too long, it'll take your fingers off.'

I pop it by the window. In the sunlight I see that the pads of my fingers are still wrinkled from the bath. Spending longer in there each day.

'Do you know, I can't even remember what I ordered,' I say, and I go over to the crate to peer in. 'Seems an awful lot.'

'Did you do it online?' he asks.

'Have a laugh,' I say. 'The other chap popped by at the weekend and asked what I'd want. What he always does. That pink stuff crab?'

He stands up and starts patting the pockets of his coat. Squints his eyes like he's thinking. He looks taller in my kitchen than he did out front. Head not far from the ceiling.

'There's a form somewhere,' he says, 'Maybe I left it in the van. That'll say what you ordered.'

Such a pale face. Boxer's nose, thick and sturdy, but the rest of his features are thin, fading, like they're cowering behind it.

'Not to worry,' I say, 'How 'bout you just tell me what I've got as you put it in the freezer.'

'Okay,' he says, and smiles at me, 'if you're sure.' He's standing above the crate, hands on his hips, looking inside.

'You Irish?' I ask.

'Cod,' he says, taking out a pack of white fillets. 'Me? I'm from Gravesend.'

He leans down and pushes the fish to the back of the freezer.

'What about your parents? Scottish?'

'Not that I know of.' He's rubbing his chin with his palm, looking into the crate again.

'So you're not the usual chap's boy then?' I ask.

'The jock?' he laughs. 'He's old enough to be my granddad.'

Is he? I lean my head toward my shoulder, looking at him sideways. He'd seemed a grown man when he arrived but now I see it: that ugly unevenness of a boy's features just before he turns into a man.

'You done this for long?' I ask.

'Breaded scampi,' he says. ''bout nine months.'

The scampi comes in a big bag. He takes the veg that's on the floor and squeezes them both in, next to the cod. The white coat stretches tight across his shoulders as he bends down. His back's as wide as a table. Needs a vase balanced on top!

'That long?' I ask. 'It's only 'cos I've not seen you before.'

'I don't tend to work this area,' he says, and he pulls out the pink pack. It's not crab. 'Salmon fillets here.'

'Did I order salmon fillets?'

'Must've done.'

'Don't think I have before.'

'Maybe you felt like a change,' he says. He puts it in the bottom drawer, then, seeing the Vienetta on the floor, slides the box on top of the fillets. 'Now. What's left?' He takes two more bags, balancing them in his hands. 'Mixed seafood and a kilo of cockles.'

I glance into the crate to check that's the last of it. 'I'm embarrassed,' I say, hand to my cheek. 'Can't believe I thought I'd need all this. You must think I'm a daft old bat.'

He squats down and squeezes the bags next to the salmon. He uses his fist to push them in. A slow-motion punch.

'Well, that's your lot,' he says, and as he stands he puts his knee against the freezer door to shut it. The door springs back, open.

'Will it not all fit?' I ask.

He has his hands on his hips again. 'Probably shouldn't have ordered so much.'

'I didn't realise. The other chap usually fits it all in.'

'You saw me put it in Mrs Goldin,' he says, 'Didn't I try my best?' There is a change in his voice. Makes me think of the way I've spoke to the grandkids. Or to their dog.

I look down at the door. His knee rests against it, casually. The gap is dark and thick as two chocolate fingers.

'Can you not take some of it back with you?' I ask. 'Seems a waste on a small thing like me. I don't have the appetite of boys like you.'

'No can do,' he says. 'I've gotta stick to the order form I'm afraid.'

I look up at him, confused. What order form? His eyes have no lashes.

'Right you are,' I say, blinking. 'I'll just have to cook some of it for my lunch, won't I?'

His lips stretch into a thin smile, but he stays standing still, hands on hips, next to the freezer.

'Giv'us a moment then,' I say, and I shuffle out the kitchen, head down.

In the front room Little Fella's still singing. 'Yes, yes,' I say to him, 'I know, I know.'

I take the key from the jewellery box on the shelf and open the top drawer of the dresser. I think how usually the other chap - the older chap - starts singing at this point. Kitchen gives his voice a lovely echo sound. Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.

The money's in a small biscuit tin, a tube of notes wrapped tightly with an elastic band. I roll the band off, put my thumb and forefinger to my tongue then unwrap two scores.

'Does thirty cover it?' I call out.

'Thirty?'

I jolt. The voice is loud, nearer than expected. I turn and the chap is standing in the doorway. He smiles, and with his hands behind his back he leans into the room, having a nosy.

'Made me jump,' I say. Heart quickens. 'I usually pay thirty. Will that cover it today?'

He's walked over to the birdcage and is wiggling his little finger inside it. 'You have ordered more than usual Mrs Goldin. Isn't that right?'

Little Fella chirps, flutters about on the opposite side of his cage.

'Well yeah,' I say, 'I just didn't...' Stuttering. 'Dunno why I...' Shaking my head. 'If I'd realised-'

He interrupts. 'I'd love to call it thirty Mrs Goldin, but I'd be bad at my job if I did that, wouldn't I?'

The notes are squeezed between my palms. Sweaty.

'More like forty?' I ask. Voice gone weak.

He strokes his neck, and looks up at the ceiling. 'More like forty, yeah, but more than that as well.'

He walks closer to me. Smell gets stronger. The window had been open in the kitchen. There was coffee, flowers, bleach down the sink. Now: only fish. He's above me, shoulders higher than my head.

'Red Rum,' he says, nodding at the painting on the dresser behind. I turn to look at it, and as I do he opens my hands and takes out the roll of cash. His touch is cold, icy.

'Now it's not gonna cost all of this,' he says. He perches on the back of the settee, legs apart, then licks his thumb and forefinger and begins to unpeel the notes, laying them on the dresser. I can see him counting in his head, calculating. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty... My hands are still out in front of me, like Oliver Twist. Please Sir, can I have some more.

He stops. 'Did you have scampi?'

I nod, yes. Mouth open, dry.

He counts a few more notes then picks up the wad from the dresser and compares it with the ones in his right hand, less than half the thickness.

'That's me being generous,' he says, folding the larger wad into the pocket of his coat. He drops the thin pile onto the dresser.

I follow him out to the kitchen and watch as he collects the crate. He pushes his boot against the freezer but it opens more. Gives a short laugh. 'You need a bigger freezer, love.'

I shut the door as soon as he's out. I wait. I watch him through the crystal glass, his hair moving further away. Brightness fading.

I go back to the front room. Little Fella's still in song but my ears ring. I should open the windows at the back; let in some air. I don't. I close the curtains.

I stand where he'd sat, and look at what's left. Take one of the notes and put it on my flat palm. It curls inwards, like a Fortune Fish.

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Claire Powell is a writer from south-east London. She works as a scriptwriter on patient-information films and commercials for Russian magazines. She was recently published in Issue 5 of Station magazine.

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Thursday, 20 January, 2011

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Issue 44 / May 2012

"He walks closer to me. Smell gets stronger. The window had been open in the kitchen. There was coffee, flowers, bleach down the sink. Now: only fish. He's above me, shoulders higher than my head."