They come in with wet shoes, bare knees, they shove their hands deep into their pockets, and stand in silent contemplation in the greasy air. Their faces look weary after the working week. Rain sits on their shoulders. “Next!” calls the young woman in a tabard behind the counter, and the queue shuffles quietly forward.
Gaskell’s has been here in Orrell, just outside Wigan, as far back as anyone can remember. It offers cod and chips and cans of pop; smacks, chip barms, spam fritters, steak puddings. Behind the glass of the Preston & Thomas display lie sausages and crispy bits, a clear space where the fresh batch of fish will soon sit. Fridays are the busiest day, and from 4.30pm onwards the queue will run along the counter, along the wall and on out the door, about 10-strong. “Normally we never stop,” says Sophie Dauod, 27, one of three young women behind the counter. The queue runs from the very old to schoolchildren. There are factory workers, finance managers, builders, university lecturers, pensioners, housewives. There is a man who buys a sausage especially for his dog: “He knows it’s Friday and he won’t talk to me unless I give him a sausage!” says his owner, halfway out the door, cradling his chips.
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