Fish and Chips

“It’s so cold! I’ll hide in this shop doorway.” The old man’s torn raincoat slapped back and fore in the cruel wind. He pulled his scarf over his battered hat, and tied it under his chin.

“Ah, that’s better. But what’ll I eat tonight?” He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out all the money he had. “Just a few coins. Oh No! Just a few coins. All I can buy is some chips – and not many at that.”

After he’d huddled in the doorway for a bit, he felt a little warmer. “OK. Now it’s for the Fish and Chip Shop.” He limped out of the doorway, Along Wellfield Rd to the Fish and Chip Shop.

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Just about that time, Mam and Dad and I had gone into the same Fish and Chip shop for a special treat for me. I watched the man behind the counter dip fish into the thick batter, then into the bubbling pan for cooking. Chips: rich, brown, tasty. Sprinkled with vinegar and salt.

Oh, how my mouth watered with the thought of it. “Dad, when I grow up I want to work in a Fish and Chip shop and eat and eat all day!” Mam and Dad smiled at each other and at me.

“You’ll never starve, Neil!” Dad said.

Finally, the next fish and chips were ready and the queue of hungry boys and girls and their parents, cheered!!

I heard the bell ring as the Fish and Chip shop door opened. An old ragged man stumbled in. His scarf pulled his battered hat down onto his ears. He was so ragged, old, and unhappy - I felt sorry for him.

Dad paid for our fish and chips and the man behind the counter wrapped them up in yesterday’s newspaper. Then Dad looked at Mam and she nodded. They didn’t always need to speak; often a glance was enough for them to know what to do.

Very quietly, Dad spoke to the man behind the counter, “A good feast of fish and chips, please, for him. But don’t say who paid for it. I was hungry in the war and someone fed me his last piece of bread,” Dad said.

The man behind the counter said, “Good on you, Sir, good on you.”

Mam, Dad and I walked out of the shop. Outside, I looked through the window.
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The ragged old man said, “ A few chips, please, all I’ve got are these pennies, so I don’t mind some of your burnt ones, you know the ones you throw away.”

“Very good Sir.”

The man behind the counter got out a huge piece of fish, all covered with lovely brown crispy batter. He ladled chips upon chips into a bag.

“But I can’t pay for all that,” said the old ragged man.

“It’s paid for, Sir.

“Who paid for it?”

“A friend who’s also been hungry.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s gone.”

“Please tell him, thank you. And tell him I’m sharing it with some of my buddies.”
The old ragged man felt like a new man. Someone cared for him!

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I walked home with Mam and Dad. We warmed up the fish and chips again in the stove; poured them onto our plates and poured on HP sauce. What a feast!

Far off, three ragged friends also feasted, huddled in a shop doorway.

Now, many, many years later I remember Wellfield Rd; Cardiff; my kind parents; and the old ragged man.
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