Sole Plaice | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Sole Plaice | Previous Challenge Entry
By Corinne Smelker
03/09/23
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I opened the crumpled newspaper and inhaled the fragrance. The vinegar's acid complemented the delicate scent of freshly caught fish. As I breathed in the smell of the salt-infused chips, my mind cast back to my first memory of the fish market. The jostling of the crowd, holding tightly to my da’s hand, and when I lost that in the melee, to the back of his pea coat, should have frightened me, but it only piqued my curiosity. Even though I was only really eyeballing the backs of peoples’ knees, I was utterly fascinated by the smells and sights.

Lining the narrow aisles were ice-laden booths covered by seafood – hake, haddock, cod, Dover sole, Lemon sole, mackerel, herring, salmon, whitefish, bream… Different sizes, shapes, and even scents, and I was captivated.

My father wended his way expertly through the crowd and stopped in front of a corner booth. “Wotja, Duke,” he greeted the large man behind the counter.
“Hiya, Fred. Hey, who’s this?”
I shyly peeked around my da’s jacket and waved. “This is Saoirse.”
Duke bent down and reached out his hand to shake mine. “Hello, Saoirse,” he said softly.

I think it was at that moment that I fell in love, not with Duke, but with the market. In the distance, I heard, “Get your cockles and mussels ’ere. Fresh cockles. Only 10p a bowl.”
“Can I have some, da, please?”

“…through streets broad and narrow, crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’” played through the tannoy as we approached the mollusc counter, and I had my first ever bowl of cockles.

Every Saturday before we emigrated from the Emerald Isle to the United States, my da and I went to the market, picked up fresh Dover sole for our dinner, and shared at least two bowls of fresh cockles. It was ‘our’ time, sacrosanct and almost holy.

I loved my adopted country; the wide-open spaces, the enormous cities, the joie de vivre that every American seems to be born with, and the can-do attitude. I scoured the east coast, then the west coast, and even the Gulf coast with its pristine white beaches, but I never could find a fish market quite like the one my da and I frequented.

Twenty years and one degree later, I decided to fly ‘home’ for the summer and spend time with my cousins and extended family. The first Saturday, I asked my cousin Teague to take me to the market. “I’m sure it’s changed,” I said, “but I need to go.”

As we walked through the marketplace, I was struck by how it had shrunk. Or perhaps it was because I was no longer a young lass. Then I heard “…through streets broad and narrow, crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’” through the tannoy, and the cry, “Get your cockles and mussels ’ere. Fresh cockles.”
Teague and I stopped and shared at least two bowls of the acidic molluscs before moving on. Suddenly I heard, “Hello, lass. It’s Saoirse, isn’t it? You look so much like your da.”
“Duke!” I hugged him, not even caring that he smelt of raw fish and had what looked like entrails on his apron.
“Hey, missy, I’ve expanded my business. Come back this evening for a slap-up fish and chips meal.”
“I will,” I promised.

True to my word, that evening, I stood in front of Duke’s shop, ‘Sole Plaice.’ Duke himself served me fish and chips, but with sole instead of battered cod. “To your da, lass,” Duke said as he handed off the crumpled newspaper. I cried a little as I remembered the many Saturdays Duke had fileted a sole for our dinner.

I threw the now-empty newspaper in the rubbish bin and wiped my fingers on a serviette. The sole sated my appetite, but the fish market filled my soul.

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