The Fishwife’s Ready-Made Dinner

My grandmother’s fishwife, Kate, came to the back door twice a week with a fish-filled creel on her back and two fish-laden baskets over her arms. A dark, curious, friendly woman in fisherman’s navy, who smelt strongly of fish as she sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Her fresh fish had come from boats in the harbour at Broughty Ferry, a short walk along the shore. It was dumped into the kitchen sink and her cup of tea and chat came after she had done some filleting. She would come to my grandmother first, with the pick of the catch, knowing that she would be relieved of a large portion of her burden.