Part 3 – Afternoon
The chippy smell comes from halfway down Cross Street. It is still raining and I imagine Mam is with me. I am showing her everything, impressing her with how I can stride through crowded streets, dodge puddles and yells, people looking at me oddly because of my hair or height or I-don’t-know-what. In my dream, I point to the chippy, see Mam’s approval. I just have chips, part of me aching. I have never missed meat, but fish is… something else.
I have a moment, as I walk on, where I realise these streets are my habitat. And where Mam is – the house and cat and kitchen and apple tree – is hers. I pop into the Swedish shop with the colourful backpacks and text her, shocked at the price tag. I say they are the height of fashion. She says they haven’t arrived in Wigan yet. I smile. I pass the scaffold Christmas tree still up outside the town hall. If you squint, you can just about see it. The star on top helps.
I enter the round belly of the library, grab a soft seat. When the sticky plaster in the crook of my
