Free V for Violet by Alison Rattle

like all our lives are about to be blown to pieces and scattered all over Battersea.
    But nothing happened. No explosion. No tears. No shouting, no screaming. Mum just walked through the door, took off her coat and scarf and poured herself a cup of tea. Dad didn’t even ask her where she’d been. For a moment I thought I’d imagined it all. Or that perhaps it was me that had been asleep in Dad’s armchair and I’d dreamed the whole thing. It didn’t seem possible, that after all I’d seen in the park, Mum could just stroll back into the house and pour herself a cup of tea as though the fact that she’d just met up with another man was the most ordinary thing in the world. She even yelled at Dad. ‘Frank! What have I told you about putting out these disgusting things in my saucers?’ She’d tut-tutted and stomped around the kitchen emptying Dad’s fag ends in the bin and rinsing the saucer under the tap.
    And now, I’m standing behind the counter in the shop, slapping a piece of cod onto some newspaper and wondering what the bloody hell is wrong with my parents.
    It’s busy for a Wednesday evening. Sometimes it goes like that. For no reason at all it’s like every other person in the neighbourhood suddenly fancies a fish supper. There’s a queue of customers snaking out of the door and as fast as Dad can fill the hot cupboard with freshly fried fish, I’m wrapping it up and handing it over the counter. Halfway through the evening, the demand starts to beat us and I have to apologise and tell everyone there’ll be a ten-minute wait. I rush out the back to grab another bucket of chips while Dad mixes up another batch of batter. Nobody seems to mind. A couple of customers wander outside for a smoke while the rest shuffle around chatting amongst themselves. I fill the chip fryer again and take off my glasses to polish the steam off with the bottom of my apron.
    And that’s when I see him. At least I think it’s him. I quickly put my glasses back on and push the loose wisps of hair off my face. It’s definitely him. He’s standing outside, at the back of the queue, leaning casually against the window. My stomach does a small flip and begins to sizzle, like the pieces of cod that Dad’s just dropped in the fryer.
    I knew he’d come back. I just didn’t know it would be so soon.
    I begin to serve again and as the till rattles with shillings and sixpences, the queue begins to move. He’s in the shop now, and I serve people as fast as I can, until eventually he moves closer and closer to the front of the queue. ‘Hey. Violet,’ he says, at last. ‘Remember me?’
    I nod, stupidly. How could I forget?
    ‘I wanted to settle up,’ he says. ‘And to say thanks again. You know. For the other night.’
    I shrug. As though giving away free chips is something I do all the time.
    ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘Here’s what I owe. And another sixpence for tonight’s supper.’ He presses two coins into the centre of my palm. They’re still warm from where they’ve been in his pocket.
    I clear my throat and begin to measure out his order. ‘Open or wrapped?’ I ask.
    ‘Open, I reckon,’ he says. ‘I’ll eat them while I’m waiting for you to finish, shall I?’
    I’m not sure I’ve heard him right. But I feel my cheeks colouring anyway and I keep my head down as I douse his chips in salt and vinegar and fold the newspaper into a cone.
    ‘I’ll only wait if you want me to,’ he says.
    I want to be all cool and nonchalant, as though boys asking to meet me after work happens all the time. Bloody cheek, I want to say. But instead, when I look up to give him his cone of chips, all I can manage is a croaky, ‘Yeah, okay.’
    He grins at me and takes a bite from one of his chips. ‘Later, then,’ he says. His quiff flops into his eyes as he turns to walk out of the door and my heart flops around in my chest, like there’s nothing left to hold it in place any more. ‘Oh,’ says the boy, just before he