Fish & Chips

by Victoria Bromley

Here our team member Vic offers a short story about rekindling sisterly friendship amongst the backdrop of Dublin’s bustling streets.

The Enterprise train from Belfast to Dublin chugged slowly into the station. The breaks screeched to a stop. I glanced over to Grace with a ‘what now?’ sort of look, and her eyes said, ‘might as well go get some food.’

It was midday on a weekend in the busiest city in Ireland. After trailing around the city centre comforting our grumbling stomachs with the promise of food, we agreed we’d walk into the next restaurant we saw.

‘Fish and chips?’ I pointed to a sign with a garish seabass staring back at us.

‘That’s too English for Ireland.’

‘But it’s food.’ It was becoming increasingly difficult to trick my stomach into thinking it wasn’t hungry.

‘I’m not in the mood for it anyway.’

Onwards we strolled, scuffing our shoes against the pavement with not enough energy to lift them high enough off the ground. The heavy ball of hunger weighed us down like we were dragging a screaming child along with us who refused to move. Through the throngs of the Irish, British tourists, and pigeons, we navigated this new place, led by our noses.

‘Shall we try down here?’ I stopped by a narrow street which cut off the main road like a tributary.

‘Might as well try.’ Grace followed me down the street, but it only led to a residential area. We turned around and walked back the way we came.

‘It’s almost two,’ I said, keeping up with Grace’s long strides, ‘so places may be quieter now.’  

Our wishful thinking evaporated when we came to the end of the road and still hadn’t found anywhere we could even get close enough to see the menu because of the crowds queuing outside. Defeat began to taste sour in my mouth. It must have been from the banana I had on the train, now decomposed inside me, a reminder that it was the only thing left keeping me going.

‘I think I’m more thirsty than hungry.’ Grace perched on a bench. We only had one quarter of the bottled water we got in Belfast station left, and if anything it just made us need the toilet.

‘I’d even have a Guinness at this point.’ I tapped the bench to check it was dry then sat with my back to Grace. ‘We did promise Mum we’d try one.’

‘I’ve had Guinness before.’ She turned to catch my eye, a starving look withering her usually bright complexion.

‘Shall we buy a meal deal and head to the museum? We could eat it on the way.’ We stood up, went to the closest convenience shop, then made our way to catch the tram.

I ate my ham and cheese sandwich, shielding it from the elbows of the other passengers on the tram. Grace munched on her bacon wrap without a word. The crisps went in seconds from our greedy handfuls. Finally able to sit and be together without any chaos, I had a chance to look at my sister – to really look at her. The new job in London was going well, she said, but I knew from Mum how much pressure she was under. Housing and finances were a whole other issue, but Grace insisted she pay her part of the trip. A cheap hotel in Belfast for three nights, then one day trip to Dublin, wasn’t breaking the bank. But even if it meant I had to cut back on a few things when I got back to my one bed flat, it would be worth it to spend some time with my big sister again. She didn’t elaborate much when I asked about her colleagues or how many holidays she got. I didn’t want to push her.

Fed and rested from the twelve-minute tram ride, we hopped off at our stop and walked across the road to the museum. It was what people did in a new city: the cultural and tourist attractions, the places we promised our grandma we’d visit while in Dublin. It was not a secret how we both had limited historical knowledge, even just of England’s past, never mind the Troubles. We listened in school and put in the effort, but for most of the displays we needed to read everything written beside them to understand what they meant.

‘IRA stands for the Irish Republic Army,’ said Grace, halfway round the exhibits.

‘I knew that!’ I then wondered whether I did already know that or if, when she said it, it just made sense.

My eyes skimmed over photographs of desolate buildings, blistered with rubble, and blown out windows. Grace stood by a glass cabinet of old diaries and other domestic items. We didn’t say anything as we turned into the final room and saw the exit sign. With a steady pace we walked outside and back across the road to wait for the next tram.

Beyond the road I could make out the Guinness logo on a gigantic industrial building. ‘Maybe we should have gone there.’

Instead of waiting any longer for the tram, we looked on Google Maps and found that the walk back into the city centre followed the river. A scenic view to clear our heads. It was mid-afternoon and the April sunshine made the water glisten like the rippling of a thousand silver scales. We snapped photos with our phones to send to Mum.

‘Think it’s time for a drink.’ Grace searched for bars in Dublin. They shone like stars across the digital map.

The blue line on the map was unnecessary as all we needed to do was walk towards the sound of drunken cheers and music which pulsated through the veins of the city. Every other building on the street was a bar or pub. Although the challenge, yet again, was finding somewhere we could get into. Traipsing the streets to find somewhere to have a drink felt nostalgic from our teenage years, hunting down bars which would serve us and not check our fake IDs too closely. Back then we thought being in our 20s meant we wouldn’t have difficulty getting into a bar. Little us had never been to Dublin on a Saturday when the football was on the telly.

‘This place?’ Grace shouted despite me standing right beside her. I nodded and followed her inside.

Like meat forced through a grinder, we squeezed our way through the cramped doorway into the warm bar welcomed by a sweet scent of beer. There were clusters of people with drinks in their hands, facing the TV, and others sat at tables with chips and other nibbles. We scanned the room for two empty seats but gave up hope quite quickly. A buffer of sturdy backs congregated around the bar, about five bodies thick. We didn’t need to look at each other before heading back to the door and pushing our way outside into the bustling street. Punctuated between the overcrowded bars were some tourist shops. Grace grabbed my hand and declared she wanted to get Mum a fridge magnet. I stayed outside. She returned with a green monstrosity which was supposed to be a four-leaf clover drinking a Guinness.

While it wasn’t dinnertime yet, our chances of finding somewhere to eat later were slim, so the next place we found for a drink would be where we ate. Usually that would dictate where we went, but it wasn’t a time to be fussy. Our desperation was palpable.

The party was taken into the streets as women dressed in sashes and feathers danced around trying not to spill their Aperol Sprits or get their heels stuck between the cobbles. A man with a harmonica provided the entertainment. Everyone clapped and cheered, but our heads were down, watching our steps as we almost broke into a sprint to reach the end of the street, hoping to be greeted with a half empty pub and a sign for 2 for 1 cocktails.

It took another half an hour until we were sat on plush velvet stools lifting glasses of wine, and a novelty glass of Guinness, to our lips. Grace took off her trainers and nursed her foot with one hand, her other tipping the wine into her mouth. Soon our lips were maroon and the lining of our stomachs almost disintegrated. We asked a waiter for some menus then were shown into the main restaurant.

Despite the room being full, there was a peaceful rhythm amongst the lilting chatter and soft jazz which played from above. A moment to breathe. She asked me how the flat was and whether the landlord had figured out the cat fur on the sofa wasn’t really from my own shedding scalp. We also discussed Mum’s new curtains and how Grandma secretly despised them. It was a chat only sisters could have away from large family gatherings and Mum eavesdropping in the kitchen. It was the type of sentimental moment, warm from the red wine, knowing food was on its way, that I wanted to tell Grace I loved her.

The waiter returned to take our order. I asked for the Irish stew. Something hearty. I watched as Grace scanned the menu again and tapped her nails upon the table.

‘Fish and chips, please.’ She handed over her menu.

I ordered another glass of wine.