Disclaimer: This is the BBC. EXTERMINATE!
Author's Notes: Eh, blame the nostalgia. But most of all, blame the fen. Some naughty swearing, but quite innocent otherwise.
In Passing
Who're they, then? asks Agatha, resting her large bosom on her forearms, which in turn are resting on the counter. She's staring out distractedly through the crowd.
Who're who? says Annette. She's seventeen, and doling out fried fish to a weatherbeaten family of four as she speaks.
Them, Agatha says, pointing. With you in a minute, love, she adds to a customer, and ladels hot chips into a Styrofoam tray, clarifying to Annette Them over there who just bought fish and chips –
Annette rolls her eyes.
Don't be cheeky, my girl, Agatha says, and juts her chin at the pair she means. Them over there, you can't miss 'em.
And you can't, for some reason. It's Whitby, for goodness' sake, and even though it's September already and Summer is dying fast there are still visitors everywhere, milling about ten-to-the-dozen and often dressed like slags and yobs – however, these two, dressed perfectly normally, stand out, though she can't think why. They're not particularly noisy, colourful or offensive, or even nearby. Agatha just noticed them, is all, and she's wondering why.
They're sitting on the pier with their legs dangling over the sides, up against the cast-iron bollards, alternately feeding and fending off seagulls in the time-honoured way. He's all in black: black boots, black jeans, black jacket like Our Tracy who's a lesbian wears, black hair cropped close to the skull; he's surrounded by birds, tossing scraps or batter high into the air to watch them fight for the stuff and laughing like a little kid, though that's something he's definitely not, not compared to his companion. She looks about twenty, maybe younger; she's got blonde hair, a dye-job by the looks of it, nice-looking trainers and a vest-top, giving her arms a good airing; it's still warm enough for it. It's been a good summer. She's saying something stern to him, probably about the seagulls. By the effort she's making to throw her chips far away from the pier, Agatha thinks she must be trying to coax the gulls away, trick them. She's wasting her time, Agatha mutters to Annette, who nods sagely. The seagulls 'round here are fat and clever; they know where the next meals coming from. Agatha's got a long cane stuck up in the rafters especially for beating the buggers off. There's no crapping in her chip-pan.
So who are they, then? she repeats. Behind the partition, there's splashes and sizzling – Greg's frying up some more fish, good boy. Agatha sticks her head back and calls and we need more sausages too, there's a love.
How should I know? Annette says. They're just some couple.
Never, Agatha says, in that keen way like when she's heard a bit of gossip that she ought to disapprove of. She looks over at them through a gap in the moving herd of people – Annette's taking the time to refill the vinegar bottles and wipe the brine off the sides of the pickled-egg jar. She's a good girl, even if she is a bit lippy. Agatha watches the pair a little longer though, and eventually, regretfully, says No. he's too old for her.
It happens, you know, says Annette – too knowlegably by half if you ask Agatha. You're always reading stories about young girls running off with older blokes. I think it's disgusting, she adds archly.
No, Agatha says, irritated. Look at 'em. They're not a couple. They don't act like that.
Annette looks deflated, but concedes the point. They don't act like that: he laughs like a maniac and teases the gulls – Agatha doesn't know how he has the nerve to do that, 'cos they're vicious bastards and huge up close – while she tells him off and shakes her head, obviously trying not to grin. Just that; not cuddled up against the breeze that's starting to blow or making eyes at each other or gallantly defending each others' chips.
It's a bit of a shame, actually, because even if they're a bit mismatched they're such an attractive pair, and now they've got her bloody wondering.
Not a couple, she murmurs, and strokes her chin.
Annette mimicks Agatha's position (although obviously she's got a good deal less bosom) and say, Maybe he's her dad. She sounds skeptical of herself, though.
Nah, says Agatha. Not the way she's telling him off.
Kids tell their dads off, Auntie, says Annette in a scathing voice, and Agatha feels pained that you can't give kids a clip around the ear these days.
He's not her dad, she says shortly. They don't look anything alike, for one.
Annette sniffs.
And she looks like she's having fun, concludes Agatha.
Annette squints at the pair, who are gathering up the empty wrappers and bundling them together for the bin – or at least, that's what the girl's doing; the man seems to have gotten distracted, and is feeding a hovering seagull his last chip, straight from his fingertips. As it takes off with a loud raaak and an ungainly heave of its wings the girl comes back, and the man says something that makes her burst out laughing.
I suppose, Annette grumbles at last, and Agatha is satisfied that her point is well made. When's the last time you say a grown girl enjoying a parent's company like that? There's always a tiny, self-conscious distance, unless you're too young to be embarrassed or too old to care.
Not her dad, then.
So who are they? Annette prods.
I was asking you, says Agatha.
Well, you've got all the answers, seems like, says Annette, straightening up again. There's a customer approaching, looking hungrily at the gold-coloured fish throwing steam on the glass of the stall.
Agatha ignores her, watching her odd little pair go. He nudges her shoulder with his, grinning with affection; she looks up, beaming, and tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. They walk away like that, up the pier and past the stall, bickering expansively about something; Agatha doesn't hear what. Doesn't need to.
Maybe they're just friends, Agatha says quietly. For some reason, that… mollifies her. It seems enough. She's in the habit of gossiping, because there's not much else to do in the fast-paced world of wholesale fish gastronomy and potato-frying, but she's not in the habit of making up things that she doesn't believe. Maybe she just lacks imagination, but… there it is.
Annette rolls her eyes, thinking Agatha can't see her, and gives the hungry man his change.