V for Violet by Alison Rattle Read Free Book Online

piece of cod. She’s got no teeth and must have to suck the flakes of fish into her mouth and mash them up with her gums. Mr Brogan comes in with his rolled-up fag stuck to his bottom lip. Mum doesn’t like him because he’s Irish, but I like the honey in his voice. When he talks it sounds like poetry. Then there’s Mr and Mrs Rodgers. Her all sallow-faced and him with a huge dewdrop dangling and wobbling from the end of his nose. Then Eileen Carter with red lipstick on her teeth and another new baby on her hip, and then a girl whose face I remember from school but not her name. I smile at her anyway, but she ignores me and fiddles around with her bag while I wrap her supper for her like I’m her bloody servant or something.
    Suddenly, a horrible picture comes into my head.
    It’s me in five years, ten years, fifteen years’ time; I’m standing here in the same spot, wearing the same apron, serving up scoop after scoop of chips and the only thing that’s changed is the date on the sheets of newspaper. For a minute, I can’t move. I’m frozen in time. Then I shudder, like someone’s walked over my grave.
    ‘S’cuse me, love. You serving?’
    I blink. And then blink again. There’s a boy standing at the counter. My heart does a stupid flip-flop thing, and I don’t know why, but my hands reach up to my hair to try and smooth it back behind my ears. The boy is wearing a leather biker jacket that looks hard and dangerous but as soft as fudge all at the same time.
    ‘You all right, love?’
    He’s grinning at me.
    ‘You was away with the fairies then!’
    I open my mouth to ask what he’d like, but nothing comes out. I stare at his hair. It’s dark and long with a waxed quiff that falls into his eyes. Blue eyes that are laughing at me. And cheekbones like James Dean.
    ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘What can I get for you?’
    ‘Six of chips,’ he says. ‘Plenty of vinegar.’ He taps his fingers on the counter and watches me closely as I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand before I bend to fetch his chips. When I straighten up and begin to pile his chips on to the waiting newspapers, he is still watching me. He is leaning close and he smells of cigarettes and petrol and warm beer. My insides feel all weird, like a dish of butter melting in the sun.
    ‘Sixpence, please,’ I say. I push the packet of chips towards him and hold out my hand.
    He digs around in his jeans pocket. ‘In here somewhere,’ he says. He checks his other pocket. ‘Nope.’
    He’s frowning now as he unzips a pocket in his leather jacket and rummages inside. ‘Sorry,’ he says. And he grins at me again.
    I watch his lips change shape as he purses them in concentration. My insides are totally liquid now. I look away from his lips. It’s rude to stare. Then – I don’t know why I do what I do next – the words just come out of my mouth before I can stop them. ‘It’s all right,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t worry about the money. Here, just have them.’
    He looks up at me and his eyebrows flicker in surprise. ‘I have got some,’ he says. ‘Just can’t remember what bloody pocket I put it in.’
    ‘Really,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. You can have the chips.’
    He stares at me for a minute, like he thinks I’m joking or something. Then he reaches for the packet. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’
    ‘It’s Violet,’ I say quietly.
    ‘Well, thanks, Violet.’ He winks at me.
    I swallow hard.
    ‘See you around,’ he says. Then he opens the door and disappears into the fog outside.
    Suddenly, Dad’s standing at my shoulder. ‘You have a problem with him?’ he asks.
    I shake my head. ‘No problem,’ I say.
    ‘Good,’ he says. ‘We don’t want to encourage his sort in here. Bloody trouble makers. The lot of them.’
    What do you know? I want to say. A leather jacket and a motorcycle doesn’t make someone a bad person. But I don’t say anything. There’s no point. Because according