‘Derek, this is Catherine,’ Greta said. ‘She’s minding the stall for me today.’
‘Hi.’ Derek gave her a brief and almost suspicious glance. He looked cold in his old jeans and thin green anorak, his straggly hair escaping from a woolly pom-pom hat.
She returned his greeting, then stood in silence, wondering what to say. He seemed equally ill at ease, and with a terse nod in her direction, shambled off with his rugs.
‘He’s always a bit of a misery,’ Greta whispered. ‘Take no notice. He’s okay really, and his pitch is next to mine, so you can ask him if you need any help.’
Catherine nodded, her attention now diverted to a young girl in her teens, staggering under the weight of a tower of earthenware pots stacked two feet high. She hadn’t realized how much sheer physical labour was involved in setting up, nor how long it took. They’d been at it for an hour and a half and were nowhere near finished yet. She had arrived to find a picture-postcard scene: white seagulls and white snowflakes whirling over the dark water of the canal. The market, though, had looked ghostly, and utterly changed from the bright and cheerful bustle of last weekend. The stalls themselves were nothing but gaunt skeletons: metal frames awaiting their tarpaulins and their wares. She had lurked in a corner, watching shadowy figures loom out of the darkness, lugging heavy suitcases and boxes and all absorbed in what they were doing. It had been a relief to see Greta – a familiar face in this alien world.
Now she followed her across the hall and outdoors once again, bowing her head against the slap of the wind and picking her way through the slush. Fortunately, Greta’s stall was only a few yards away, and at least they had some shelter with the tarpaulin up in place.
‘We need to make a bit of a display,’ Greta said, unpacking the first box of hats and pulling them into shape. ‘I usually group them together – the fur ones go in front here, and these plain felts at the back. Then I pin some to the sides, like this. And by the way, do encourage people to try them on. There’s a mirror at each end – see? And can you keep a record of everything you sell? Write it in this notebook. We’ll run through all the prices in a tick. I’m going to leave you some waistcoats, too. I want to see how they go here and compare it with Portobello. Mind you, in this weather, we’ll be lucky to sell anything, either of us.’
She lifted a suitcase on to the table and opened it to reveal the waistcoats: some in velvet, some in silk.
‘They’re beautiful,’ said Catherine, admiring the dazzling colours.
Greta took out half a dozen and hung them at the side of the stall. ‘Well, the punters may not think so! I’d better warn you, Catherine, some people can be bloody rude. But don’t let it upset you. They’re plain ignorant, that’s all. And you’ve got to watch the stuff like a hawk. Only last week, someone walked off with a hat. Luckily, I saw the bloke nick it and I raced after him and got it back. He tried to tell me he’d bought it from another stall. Bloody nerve! I’d made those hats from an old astrakhan coat of my mother’s, so I’d know them anywhere. Anyway, if you need a pee or a cup of coffee, get Derek to keep an eye on things, then you’ll be okay.’ She stood back to survey the waistcoats, blowing on her mittened hands. ‘Look after Catherine, won’t you, Derek?’ she called to him. ‘She’s new to this, so she might need a bit of a hand.’
He nodded – a man of few words, evidently.
Another man bounced up to them: an eccentric-looking character whose muscly bulk and cheerful grin were in marked contrast to Derek’s scrawny surliness. ‘Derek, do us a favour and give us a rag.’
‘Fuck off and buy your own. I’ve only got two left.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that.’ The man thrust out a hand adorned with silver rings, one on every finger. ‘Come on, mate. It’s worth a half in the Stag’s Head.’
‘I’m not going to the Stag’s Head. I’ve got to be off sharp.’
‘Brad, this is Catherine,’ Greta interrupted. ‘She’s looking after things for me today, so be sure you’re nice to her.’
‘I’m always nice, ain’t I? Pleased to meet you, darlin’.’
He fixed Catherine with his fiercely blue eyes – a startling blue, as if speedwells, sapphires, gentians had been boiled together in a cauldron until their essence was distilled. Yet for all the magnetism of his gaze, she felt distinctly apprehensive. He had taken off his cap to reveal a shaven head, which looked somehow sinister. And that long raised scar running down his cheek – had he got it in some drunken brawl? She couldn’t tell his age, nor whether he was gay or straight. He wore a butch black leather jacket over effeminate cotton trousers in a swirly snakeskin print. In addition to the array of rings on his fingers, he sported both an earring and a nose-ring.
‘Catherine, you don’t smoke, do you, babe?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Shit! ‘I’ll have to go and buy some bleedin’ fags. Want anythin’, you lot?’
‘Yeah, a coffee,’ Derek mumbled. ‘Two sugars.’
‘Do you want a coffee, Catherine?’ Greta asked. ‘It’ll warm you up.’
‘Yes, that would be nice.’ Catherine was aware how prissily middle-class she must sound, compared with Brad’s brash Cockney and Derek’s flat South Londonese. They’d probably regard her as a snob. She fought a temptation to bolt, to turn on her heel and vanish into the gloom. The lowering sky made it feel more like night than daytime, as if morning was suffering from a hangover and was reluctant to get out of bed.
‘I must be off soon,’ Greta said, stowing the empty cases under the stall. ‘We’ll just run over the prices before I go. And here’s a money-bag for you. Tie it round your waist, under your coat. That’s it! Sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ said Catherine with more conviction than she felt. Appalling weather, rude pigs and thieves as customers (or no customers at all), and two intimidating men to ‘help’ her. What in God’s name was she doing here?
‘Well, I can let you have it for ten, but …’
‘Nine.’
‘No, sorry, ten’s my limit,’ Catherine said firmly. ‘It’s still a bargain. Those zebra hats cost more than that to make.’ Already she had learned the art of creative exaggeration.
‘Nine-fifty.’
‘No, honestly. I can’t go any lower.’ Greta had told her to haggle only with obstinate cusses, and even then to fix a limit.
The woman studied herself in the mirror from various angles. A fraction more encouragement might do the trick, Catherine felt. ‘It really does look good on you,’ she said with her most persuasive smile.
‘You think so?’
‘Mm. It sets off your hair so well.’
The woman thrust a crumpled £10 note into her hand. ‘Okay, I’ll take it.’
Catherine held the note up to the light: Greta had warned her to look out for fakes. But so far no one had tried to cheat her, or insult her, or nick the stock, or any of the other hazards she’d been dreading. In fact, she was doing surprisingly well. Those years she had spent being nice to Gerry’s customers were paying dividends. And of course the change in the weather had helped enormously. In place of driving snow, a wan winter sun had broken through and was continuing to shine heroically, banishing the murky gloom.
Derek wandered over again. He had kept his promise to Greta and come up every so often to see how she was getting on. ‘You’re doing bloody well,’ he said, watching the woman walk off with her purchase. ‘I’ve hardly shifted a thing all day.’
‘Gosh, I’m sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘Some days are like that. And January’s a lousy month. It’s always bloody slow.’
Slow? She watched the crowds jostling between the rows of stalls. The sun had brought them out – the invigorating air and almost tangible excitement at the first snow of the winter. It must be something like a ski resort, she imagined: the exhilaration, the glittery light of sun on snow, the brightly coloured clothing and holiday atmosphere. Or perhaps not so much a ski resort as a street carnival, since many pe
ople looked as if they were wearing fancy dress. A man strolled past in baggy crimson harem trousers and a huge wool poncho in psychedelic stripes. His girlfriend had green hair, sticking up in long greased spikes, and a highly impractical full-length satin skirt in matching emerald green. Both were eating slabs of pitta bread stuffed with beans and salad – a late lunch, presumably, although she had lost all track of time and meals. She suddenly thought of Antonia, cooking for another formal dinner party tonight. And Andrew, the well-trained husband, helping with the preparations: laying the table, hoovering the immaculate house.
Talking to them on the phone last night, she had felt a sense of dislocation – cut adrift from their ordered sphere, but without a proper role of her own. Here in Camden people had such different priorities, and seemed quite happy to ignore the chores and troop out in search of diversion. Yet she was very much a novice in this foreign world of the market: a whole complex society with its own rules and values, maybe its own enmities and feuds. She was seeing only the surface, learning a few names and mere scraps of people’s histories, without understanding what made them tick. Brad was the only one who had opened up, describing his traumatic childhood in Hackney as one of seven children, always in trouble with the police and not sure who his own father was. Surprisingly, he was only twenty-nine. He seemed far older somehow and had endured so many knocks in life, he made her feel naive and over-privileged.
She stood watching him at work, amazed at his sheer energy. He appeared never to be still: stamping his feet in the cold, or jogging on the spot, or sweet-talking the customers with his lively banter and extravagant gestures. He was like one of the battery-operated toys Rosie was selling opposite; programmed to prance around and divert the passers-by until the power-supply ran down – if it ever did. She would never have met a man like Brad in Stoneleigh. Her life there was so narrow, and her few suburban friends (mere acquaintances, in fact) were all middle-aged and middle-class: ‘safe’ and ‘suitable’ people who had barely lived, compared with Brad.
He saw her looking at him and raised his eyebrows comically, then a minute later he was bounding over. ‘Fancy a beer?’ he asked.
‘No thanks, Brad. It’s kind of you, but …’ He had already bought her a mug of tea, and she was afraid of drinking too much and having to keep dashing to the loo. Okay, Derek might watch the stall for her, but he had customers of his own to attend to, and she was alarmed to think that Greta had had a hat pinched when she was actually there. She was determined the day should go well, not just for Greta’s sake, but for Jo’s and even Nicky’s. Nicky had sent a couple of friends along, with instructions to buy hats. They had bought two each (and the most expensive ones), so she felt doubly grateful to Nicky, who would be slaving away at this moment on the hated Orange-O account – tangy, zingy, nervous-breakdown-inducing Orange-O.
Brad was still hovering by her stall. ‘I like your rings,’ she said, in an attempt at conversation. So far he had done most of the talking and she didn’t want to seem stuck-up.
‘Yeah, unusual, aren’t they? I make’ em all myself.’ He took one off and laid it on her palm. The chunky stone was tiger-striped in black and tan, and mounted in an intricate silver setting. She was impressed by the workmanship, especially in view of the bad start he’d had in life. Apparently he had played truant so much from school he could hardly remember his teachers’ names, let alone pass exams.
‘This mate of mine called Gary – ’e taught me all I know. ’E started off with debts up to ’ere’ – he held his hand level with his eyebrows – ‘and now ’e’s rakin’ it in. Oh, sorry, darlin’ – gotta dash!’
He had spotted a customer and dived back to his stall. Admiringly, she watched him go through his repertoire, realizing what a lot she had to learn. Besides his engaging energy, he possessed a genuine warmth and friendliness and seemed able to relate to every type of person. He could make them laugh, break down their defences; above all convince them that his jewellery was the best bargain in the market. If only she could do the same with the waistcoats, which hadn’t sold at all, largely, she suspected, because she was being undercut by a rival – an Indian guy a few yards along, who was selling waistcoats for a mere £9.99. But his were crudely made from cheap fabric, whereas Greta’s were works of art.
She put her gloves back on, wishing she had some fingerless mittens, like Derek’s, and had worn a few more pairs of socks. However, apart from her hands and feet, she was reasonably warm, cocooned in several layers of clothes, with Nicky’s thick-pile coat on top. The main requirements to work in the market seemed to be a capacious bladder, endless patience, a hardy constitution, and no objection to looking like Michelin Man.
‘Do these waistcoats come in different sizes?’
A man had stopped in front of the stall – wild black curly hair, stocky build, grey eyes. His voice, though, was his distinguishing feature – the first pukka accent she had heard all day.
‘Oh, yes.’ She held one up to show him. ‘Small, medium and large. And they’re adjustable here at the back. This is a medium. I should think it’s about right for you.’
He fingered the silky fabric with hands strangely at variance with his voice: a labourer’s rough hands, the nails bitten short and none too clean. ‘They’re new, aren’t they? I bought a hat here for a friend a couple of weeks ago, but I didn’t know Greta made waistcoats too. Where is she, by the way?’
‘At Portobello Road. Selling more waistcoats! Every one’s different, as you see, so you’re getting something unique. And if you prefer a warmer material, there are just a couple left in the velvet. Is it for you, or …?’
Yes, ’fraid so. I’ve never worn a waistcoat before, but I’m doing an important gig next week and I thought I ought to look the part.’
He seemed inclined to chat, so she had better show some interest. Greta had said there were three kinds of ‘talkers’: the time-wasters (often lonely and occasionally deranged), the smart-arses (rude, aggressive and unlikely to buy) and the genuinely friendly (to be encouraged).
‘What instrument do you play?’ she asked, glad she’d had the experience of Darren’s gig and so wouldn’t seem a complete ignoramus.
He laughed. ‘Oh, I’m not a musician, only a humble poet. And I usually give readings on my own, or with just another couple of writers – you know, fairly low-key affairs. But a friend of mine’s arranging this big do on the South Bank, and seems to have roped in every performer she knows – actors, poets, jugglers, jazz bands … You name it.’
Catherine had never met a poet in her life, but she certainly hadn’t imagined they would have work-worn hands and a weather-beaten complexion, nor wear faded denims and an ancient donkey jacket. Surely the purple velvet waistcoat he was examining would be more appropriate, though frankly, she couldn’t picture him in it. Still, her job was to sell, not to dispense unbiased advice. ‘It’ll look really good on you,’ she said encouragingly.
‘You don’t think it’s a bit … sissy?’
‘Oh no. Everybody’s wearing them. And the purple suits your dark hair.’ She was astonished at her own boldness. For some time after Greta left she had cowered behind the stall, hardly daring to open her mouth, let alone shower compliments about. But as the day wore on she had become more confident After all, the customers were harmless (even the grouchy or peculiar ones), and since she wasn’t likely to meet any of them again, she could be as brazen as she liked. ‘They’re a bargain price today,’ she went on. ‘Only thirty pounds. Greta says they’ll be thirty-five next week.’
‘Well, in that case …’ He pulled two £20 notes from his wallet and held them out. ‘Wish me luck for Friday. It’ll be the biggest audience I’ve ever had and I must admit I’m nervous.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ she assured him. ‘And you’ll look wonderful in this.’ She could relate to nervous people, who always roused her sympathy. ‘Purple’s a good colour.’ Grinning, she removed her hat to show him her Spiced Plum hair. ‘See? It’s brought
me luck so far.’ Well, except for Simon, she thought, although she had forgotten Simon until now. One of the advantages of running a stall was that you hadn’t time to worry about much else. She put the waistcoat in a stripy bag and gave it to him with his change. ‘Good luck for Friday. I’ll think of you.’
‘Will you?’
She blushed. She was supposed to chat with people, not chat them up.
‘’Bye, then.’
‘’Bye.’
She was almost sad to see him go. There was a certain vulnerability about him which she had to admit she found appealing: the grey eyes anxious, the untidy hair in need of a trim, a button off his coat. It must be satisfying to get to know people’s names and something of their lives, to gradually build up relationships with the regulars. Gerry’s customers had been so much less diverse: businessmen, invariably, and all roughly the same type and class. Today she was meeting the world in microcosm.
Derek mooched over, looking as morose as ever. ‘I’ve just got shot of this real slimeball. He put his filthy mitts all over the rugs, then told me they were crap.’ He lit a cigarette, crooking his fingers protectively round the match-flame. ‘You’ve been coining it in all day, I see.’
‘It … it must be just beginner’s luck,’ she stammered, relieved to see Brad waltzing up again, this time clutching a bottle of scotch and three polystyrene cups.
‘Thought it would keep out the cold,’ he said, sloshing a hefty measure into the first cup and handing it to her.
She hated whisky, but it would be churlish to refuse. ‘Thanks,’ she said, watching him fill the other two cups and praying he wouldn’t spill any on Greta’s precious hats.
‘Cheers!’ he said, knocking it back.
‘Cheers.’ Catherine took a tentative sip. Almost at once she was aware of a warm glow in her veins; her body a hot water bottle slowly filling up. Heartened, she drank a little more, wondering what she could offer in return. Spirits were expensive, but she had seen a man selling hot roast chestnuts. They would be warming, and she could also take the chance to have a pee.
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