In The Fish Shop

Now and again I give my custom to the fish shop. There’s Ronnie Scott’s which is not a branch of the jazz club but is a fine source of rhythmic conversation. I used to enjoy the stroll out to the industrial end of town and a yarn as I selected something for the restaurant and something for my own lunch. I’ve taken to having my dinner in the middle of the day, the way I did growing up.

My Da, like most Da’s who worked in town, would come round the corner on his bike and the stew would be ready.

But I’ve taken to the route round Lazy Corner. I used to think the turn in the hoil was called that because of the railings. Whenever there’s a railing in Stornoway there’s some old guy’s foot leaning on it and the other straight beside it. You take a look for yourself. It was a Skyeman pointed this out to me. It’s what we do. Though I’m not an old guy yet. On a good day there’s a couple of coves yarning though storytelling is of course a thing of the past, they tell me.

It’s called Lazy Corner because that’s where any debris will collect. The tide is slack there and the rainbow of diesel will lie on the surface for longer. I went into the other fish shop, by the fisherman’s co-op. There’s a fellow in front of me but he waves me on. He’s in for a yarn with the guy behind the counter, before he buys his fish.

‘It’s all from the east coast the day, Peter, the boat’s haven’t got out.’

‘No, it’s been shit weather,’ the other fellow says.

I knew his voice. ‘Well, hell, it’s yourself. Remember all the Broad Bay haddies you flogged from the Bedford van,’ I says.

‘Yes and I used to give you and your pal a spin round Westview and drop you off on the corner of Leverhulme Drive. That’s where you are now, isn’t it? Still with the Coastguard?’

I told him no, I was working for myself now and living round the corner from here. ‘Think of all the lorry-loads of whitefish we sent from here to Aberdeen market. The by-catch from the prawn trawl.’

‘Where did it all go? What happened?’

The former fish merchant looked younger than me. He took a look at me and he said, ‘You don’t half look like your olman. Sound a bit like him too.’

‘So is that you getting younger or me getting older?’ I asked.

The guy who was serving was also from these streets. This was his retirement job, three days a week and this was why he was doing it.

‘You used to work with old Seamus, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘He didn’t last long after he retired. There was some characters in the Coastguard, then.’

‘Aye, first watch with him, he taught me how to skin a rabbit. Tying a bowline behind my back came later.’

I was there again. That first cut with his neat small knife of German steel. Seamus showed me that. Then he told me to get my thumb in between the skin and the meat and left me to get on with it. I looked down at the skate wings, through glass. They would be local and skate doesn’t have to be as fresh as other fish. My old neighbour behind the counter was the man who showed me how to skin skate. A small cut. Just enough to prise your thumb in. It’s a bit tougher on the hands than a rabbit. But I didn’t buy a skate wing. I knew I shouldn’t be eating a big slab of butter and probably not the capers and balsamic either. It wouldn’t be the same without the old beurre noir.