'Wait! You leave your coke behind!' the woman yells from behind the counter, at the customer jumping into his car outside on the street. Late evening light disperses inside the shop, the glare of a single fluorescent strip light draining everything of colour. Old chrome deadened with smears, Pukka Pies posters - peeling at the edges - fight for attention among dozens of handwritten signs. Pickled egg and gherkin prices are scrawled in heavy black ink alongside generic pictures of pizza, 'delivered direct to your door'. The signs hint at desperation. Dead fish still appear to flap for life inside their glass fronted tank, incarcerated in battered rigor mortis.

Her forehead sweats and she shifts her considerable weight from one foot to the other, slamming the can on the counter and wiping moist, fleshy hands on her apron. Ancient grease clings to her. Short curls frizzle on her head in the damp air. She is hot. The room is stuffy. The stench of old chip grease and fish gone bad, mingle with lukewarm kebab meat turning slowly on its spit. Her husband appears from behind the dirty curtain that attempts to separate shop front from back, but only succeeds in revealing the chaos of two makeshift tables, crowded with magazines and papers. An old stereo teeters on a bookshelf, which also harbours files and folders and albums. A vat of potatoes stands to one side, wrinkled peelings spilling onto the dirty linoleum floor.

Her husband is a skinny man with sallow skin. I think how tired he looks, drained. But his eyes flash. His goatee beard is overgrown and jet-black hair protrudes from under a red baseball cap, which has a worn, frayed brim.
'You stop shouting at customer,' he gestures wildly, as she turns to face him.
'He leave his drink!' she yells, 'What am I supposed to do?'
'Not shout, you stressing me out woman,' and shakes his head as he turns to face me. 'She stress me all day'¦all day.'
'Yes, that's right,' she laughs at him. 'That's right,' and raises her eyebrow at me as she rattles and shakes the sizzling chips, returning them to their oil bath.
'These are your children?' He leans far across the counter to peer at my girls who are trying to wait patiently for dinner.
'Yes, they are.' I reply smiling.
'Two children. You are very young to have girls this age.'
'Three children, and thank you.' I laugh.
'Three?'
'A baby boy too,' and gesture to Isaac asleep in his buggy. His head is drooping to one side, mouth slightly parted, his hand clutching on to the soggy remnants of an ice cream cone.
'Three! Three!' The man claps his hands and comes out from behind the counter.
'I started young.'
He laughs.
'Let me see you all.' He stands, hands on hips and looks at us each in turn.
'You have a beautiful family.'
'Thank you,' and I think, once again, that I am grateful for them.
'Beautiful, beautiful,' he says and smiles broadly.
'What is your name pretty girl?'
'Robyn' my eldest daughter responds, smiling back. His smile is infectious. He has a crooked front tooth, but his teeth glisten.
'Robin, like the bird? And you, little one?'
'Megan,' her sister responds, shyly, looking at him and then at her feet, grabbing at Robyn's hand.
'The boy?'
'Isaac.'
'Yes. Yes. And you are Italian, no?'
'No!'
'But your dark hair, it's beautiful, you must be Italian.'
His wife shakes her head and looks at me again with a 'don't humour him', expression on her face.
'It's okay,' I try to say to her, without words.
'Irish then? You have Latin or Celtic blood in you, I see this.'
'Celtic, yes.'
He pauses for a moment and he looks again at each of my children. Megan is tugging at my dress, and hops from one foot to the other. It's late; we've had a long day. They should have been in bed long ago.
'You want to see me with long hair? I had long, beautiful hair once. I show you!'
His wife laughs, mocking him. 'Leave her alone.' 'He is full blooded Italian, as if you could not tell.'
'Oh shush,' he waves his hand in her face and heads towards the back of the shop, shifting the curtain slightly as he walks towards the bookshelf, pulling down a blue plastic photo album with printed gilt edging. He opens it as he walks, finds the page with a flourish and places it carefully on the counter.
'See. Here and here'¦'
He is excited, animated and points to six photographs sheltered safely in separate plastic compartments. I bend forward to look as he places a finger close to a younger version of himself, sat on the edge of a chair. He is wearing a striped blue shirt, his hair shines and falls to his shoulders. He has a perfect smile. He is handsome, young, vital. A girl leans into him, a smile matching his own. Two men are playing pool, one is laughing and half waves at the camera.
'You look very handsome,' I say, because he does.
'And here,' he points again at another. He stands at the center of a group of male friends, all have their arms around each other's shoulders, they are laughing at something the person taking the photo has just said.
'You see?' he asks me and glances anxiously at my face.
'I see.'
'So.' He closes the album, satisfied, and returns it to the shelf.
'I am half Iranian and half Italian,' his wife tells me, offering the information with a nod of the head.
'I come here twenty years ago. And now, I am stuck here. Here in this shop.'
'This is a stressful job.' Her husband returns to stand at her side, staring out at the street.
'We work 14 hours each day, preparing food and cooking and waiting for the customers to come.'
'Does it get very busy?' I ask. My hunger has flown and I feel exhausted, sadness envelops me suddenly.
He shrugs his shoulders.
'At times. But it is the people that wear you down.'
'People come here drunk at night and they shout and have no manners.' His wife says, too loudly, pointing at no one in particular on the street.
'We have tried everything.'

I glance again at the posters behind his shoulder.

His wife nods in assent. She moves slowly to the frying vats, leaving the chips to drain, takes the fish and battered sausages out of the warming compartment and I wonder how long they've been there. She slowly shovels hot chips into each packet and pauses to listen to her husband. She tips salt and vinegar on to the food and hot acidic sweetness fills the air.
'How old are you?' he asks me.
'Thirty two.' I reply.
'We are the same age!' He claps his hands again. Then pauses and watches his wife fold the paper over the steaming food.
'We are the same age'¦but I have no children.' He stares at me directly then. I don't know what to say. He wants me to see the sadness in his face, and I try to show him that I do. He comes to the counter as his wife hands me the warm lumpy parcels, I feel their heat in my hands and clutch them to my chest like a baby. I can feel the grease already start to leak through to my palms.
He leans forward towards my daughter.
'Pretty girl, with the beautiful eyes,' he says softly.
Robyn laughs again and Megan tugs harder at my dress, she is hungry. I balance the fish and chip parcels in my arm and hold her hand.
'Robin girl. You listen to me, to what I have to say to you now.'
Robyn nods, very seriously, and looks him straight in the eye.
'Life is a bird. It has wings and flies away quickly'¦don't let it go.'
The chip paper is sticking to my dress and suddenly the heat is overwhelming. A car passes by, three men on a bench outside the pub opposite laugh loudly in the summer evening air.
'Thank you for showing me your pictures,' I say, something catching in my throat. I pile the warm parcels into the bottom of the buggy, and walk towards the door.
'You see I had beautiful, long hair!' he said.
'You did,' I reply. I pause at the door and turn to face him once more.
'You should grow it again.'
He half-smiles and catches his reflection in the shop window.
'You will come back?' he asks.
His wife tuts, and slaps his arm.
'Ignore him!' she says. 'I always do.'
I laugh. 'We will come back.'

As we walk away, they stand there side by side. My children wave and they wave back. I wave too. The wife grips the counter and her husband pulls at the brim of his cap. The scent of fish and chips mingles with traffic fumes and then sweet apple blossom, as we enter the gate to the park. Megan catches Robyn's hand and they run ahead of me.
'We're birds Mummy!' Robyn calls.
'I'm a Robin bird flying home!'
And they disappear under the dark arches of tree branches, their long hair streaming out behind them. I break into a run with the buggy, bumping along rocks and stones across the path and onto the grass. Fresh air rushing to meet my face.

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