The wind was constant the autumn that Theo met the woman. Brisk and forceful, far different from years past. He was no stranger to being pushed around by the climate, he’d lived in Derry his entire life. 

Theo entered the takeaway shop after his usual long day of work. His fingers throbbing from the blistering cold, he fumbled with his gloves and hat before stepping to the front counter. 

“Your chips were four quid last week,” said Theo, glancing at the posted menu. 

“Well it’s four fifty today,” responded the woman at the counter. 

“Christ, two portions of chips then. That’ll be all.”

“Anything else there?” 

“No, no thanks,” Theo began to leave the counter, then held back. He pointed to the framed photo on the partition wall to the left of the woman. “You sent your boys to St. Joseph’s for post-primary? That’s their rugby photos there, yah? ” 

“Sent my boys Henry and Jack there, ‘bout ten years past now.”

“A good Catholic education,” Theo conceded, “teaches them how to fight.”

For a second the woman held her tongue, her body still turned toward the photo. She rarely engaged in conversations with customers, afraid of the judgements that could be made before hearing a full story. 

And yet she spoke, turning back toward Theo, “I’m not from Derry you know, moved on up here from the country down a ways. I raised my boys to be fighters, and to be believers, and to be generous but, I didn’t raise ‘em Catholic, or Protestant for that matter. They’re from Derry, born and raised. That’s enough these days.” 

Theo waited for the woman to begin speaking again. The woman waited for Theo to argue as had many men before, spitting as he raged about the damn disgrace of it all. 

But neither said a word, letting their silence speak instead.

Theo stepped out of the queue and waited on the side for his chips. He hadn’t heard of such a thing. Children from Derry, neither Catholic nor Protestant. 

The woman was no stranger to being pushed around by Derry either, her reality was that of a Protestant who moved to the North after marrying her Catholic husband. Her first years in Derry were blackened with fear, walking with her husband, heart racing as she passed rows of armed British soldiers. Their fingers perilous, rested on loaded rifles. Over time she grew used to their unrelenting presence, accepting the lump that rested in chest without cease. 

Theo turned before exiting, “And what’s your name then?” he asked.   

The woman hesitated. She thought back to the friends she’d lost after they found out about her extended Protestant family. Protestantism of any kind was not an option in Derry. She thought about the husband she almost lost, when he was shot by British soldiers while fighting for sovereignty in the early resistance. The sons she worried about on their walks to school past military tanks and sniffing shepherds. Stuck between a conflict not of her making, her identity was that of loss on both sides. Just like the threatening weather, losing a customer was nothing in comparison to all else the people of Derry had lost. Sanctity, freedom, security, all words of a past time, a history she learned but did not remember. 

 “Amelia,” she finally returned.

“Theo,” he stared back, “Well, nice to meet you again.”

“I’ll see you again then?” She asked, worried he’d been scared off by her identity, her frankness.

“Son’s favorite,” he said pointing to the takeaway bag of chips, “so most definitely.”