the town. Some said it was on account of the tanneries in the area way back when, others that it was because of the way the miners had worn their lamps. As far as Carlo could make out it made more sense that it was because they were likely to settle a disagreement with punches rather than words and that they could hit as hard as anyone he’d ever come across.
If he’d had the money he’d have set up in the city, moved over to Glasgow even, but at least he was within ten miles of his kids, the rates on the High Street were cheap as his chips and with four pubs on the doorstep success seemed a sure thing.
‘The Golden Fry’ opened on Valentine’s Day. Carlo fixed up ribbons and fairy lights, ordered in cases of cheap sparkling wine and sprinkled heart-shaped chocolates along the window seat for the kids.
At six the place was buzzing. By half past, the Cava and chocolates gone, the only person left was a girl who’d been giving him the eye since walking in.
They chatted about something, the weather or football or the price of fish. Whatever it was, Carlo couldn’t remember. Nor could he fully recall sharing a quick one against the wall in the Wynd when he walked her home. He had a vague recollection of some fumblings, but they weren’t enough for him to even daydream about while he stood around waiting for customers.
Kylie came in the next day for a poke of onion rings wearing her school sweat shirt. She may have looked at least 18 and he knew nothing illegal had taken place, but if could have run a mile without needing to stop for a rests, he might well have done.
Hers was the only sale that day and the next. The competition had put out word and the Belters were sticking together against the new blow-in on the block with his one eighth Italian blood and fading good looks.
It was Kylie who gave him the idea. If he could lure in the kids from the High School, he’d be quids in.
He took on two extra staff, a couple of older ladies who’d never travelled further than Prestonpans, hand wrote signs and offered food at half the price of anyone else. ‘Credit Crunch Lunch’ he called it and it took off like it was supersonic.
There were still queues of black sweat shirts at the bakeries and the other chippies, but he had the lion’s share, the line of youngsters stretching back to where he and Kylie had had their fun. Hot plates full of fried pizza (Maria’s father would have had a heart attack), burgers, puddings, pies and fish were emptied daily within half an hour, as if a plague of locusts had descended and licked them clean.
They were getting through two hundred polystyrene trays at a sitting, twice that on a Friday when the primary school kids piled in to kick-off their weekend with a healthy fry-up.
After a month of success, Carlo felt that he had finally earned the slice of the luck he’d always deserved.
Things started to change when two lads came in after the rush hour, all swagger and spiky hair with the familiar white line down the middle that always made him think of wobbly skunks.
When they spoke, he just listened until they’d finished and watched them leave without ordering a thing, their mullets bobbing against their designer gear.
Turning to Mrs Edgar, who was wiping grease from the wall tiles, he asked for an interpretation.
They wanted him to put the prices up, she told him, and they wouldn’t be asking so nicely the next time. And, if he didn’t mind her putting in her two shillings worth, the Ramsay boys were nasty pieces of work and it might be worth listening to what they’d said.
Listening? He’d tried that and hadn’t understood a single word.
The wee shites. Who did they think they were telling him how to run his business? They’d have been plankton in Leith if they ever ventured from their tiny pond into those shark-infested waters.
That same afternoon, Kylie told him about the baby. She wasn’t
If he’d had the money he’d have set up in the city, moved over to Glasgow even, but at least he was within ten miles of his kids, the rates on the High Street were cheap as his chips and with four pubs on the doorstep success seemed a sure thing.
‘The Golden Fry’ opened on Valentine’s Day. Carlo fixed up ribbons and fairy lights, ordered in cases of cheap sparkling wine and sprinkled heart-shaped chocolates along the window seat for the kids.
At six the place was buzzing. By half past, the Cava and chocolates gone, the only person left was a girl who’d been giving him the eye since walking in.
They chatted about something, the weather or football or the price of fish. Whatever it was, Carlo couldn’t remember. Nor could he fully recall sharing a quick one against the wall in the Wynd when he walked her home. He had a vague recollection of some fumblings, but they weren’t enough for him to even daydream about while he stood around waiting for customers.
Kylie came in the next day for a poke of onion rings wearing her school sweat shirt. She may have looked at least 18 and he knew nothing illegal had taken place, but if could have run a mile without needing to stop for a rests, he might well have done.
Hers was the only sale that day and the next. The competition had put out word and the Belters were sticking together against the new blow-in on the block with his one eighth Italian blood and fading good looks.
It was Kylie who gave him the idea. If he could lure in the kids from the High School, he’d be quids in.
He took on two extra staff, a couple of older ladies who’d never travelled further than Prestonpans, hand wrote signs and offered food at half the price of anyone else. ‘Credit Crunch Lunch’ he called it and it took off like it was supersonic.
There were still queues of black sweat shirts at the bakeries and the other chippies, but he had the lion’s share, the line of youngsters stretching back to where he and Kylie had had their fun. Hot plates full of fried pizza (Maria’s father would have had a heart attack), burgers, puddings, pies and fish were emptied daily within half an hour, as if a plague of locusts had descended and licked them clean.
They were getting through two hundred polystyrene trays at a sitting, twice that on a Friday when the primary school kids piled in to kick-off their weekend with a healthy fry-up.
After a month of success, Carlo felt that he had finally earned the slice of the luck he’d always deserved.
Things started to change when two lads came in after the rush hour, all swagger and spiky hair with the familiar white line down the middle that always made him think of wobbly skunks.
When they spoke, he just listened until they’d finished and watched them leave without ordering a thing, their mullets bobbing against their designer gear.
Turning to Mrs Edgar, who was wiping grease from the wall tiles, he asked for an interpretation.
They wanted him to put the prices up, she told him, and they wouldn’t be asking so nicely the next time. And, if he didn’t mind her putting in her two shillings worth, the Ramsay boys were nasty pieces of work and it might be worth listening to what they’d said.
Listening? He’d tried that and hadn’t understood a single word.
The wee shites. Who did they think they were telling him how to run his business? They’d have been plankton in Leith if they ever ventured from their tiny pond into those shark-infested waters.
That same afternoon, Kylie told him about the baby. She wasn’t
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