A Sunday Market Seller
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A SUNDAY MARKET SELLER
(A Sample Short Story from the collection)
MY OTHER SHORTS & FORMAL TALES
John Muir
COPYRIGHT John Robert Muir 2009. John Robert Muir asserts the legal and moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent and permission of the publisher.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT. The cover artwork is used with the permission of Walter Kupa, Foxton, New Zealand.
DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction. The names and characters are from the imagination of the author and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. If you think the author has written about you, your ego is greater than your imagination or common sense.
Published in EBooks 2013
EBooks ISBN:
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A SUNDAY MARKET SELLER
Sunday Morning Rural Markets
The buntings and flags barely moved. The temperature was perfect, and most of the early arrivals appeared relaxed and comfortable wearing short-sleeve shirts as they started to set up their stalls.
Though only a smallish country market on a main road, nearly a hundred multi-coloured tents, awnings and umbrellas would soon be spread around the small park running adjacent to the State Highway. Some were simply an open car-boot stacked full with goods seeking a buyer. It was impossible for passing motorists not to notice the activity. Locals had been running stalls every Sunday for years.
Home-made jams and scones, pot plants and bundles of flowers, musty smelling aged second-hand books, vegetables and fruits, well used CD’s, DVD’s, video and audio tapes, even old 78’s, 45’s and LP records. Add to that, so many nicks as well as knacks, it was a hoarders’ paradise.
Some early arriving stall-holders, who had skipped breakfast, satisfied their grumbling stomachs at the tent covered barbeque, which supplied steaming hot barbequed sausages with copious fried onions, and a selection of sauces.
Most vendors were regulars, occupying the same spots for many years. A half-dozen or so casuals; and a few once only sellers made up the balance of the Sunday morning market community. Buyers, like the sellers, were not just locals; some travelled dozens of miles. Passing highway traffic provided a huge source of seekers of a freakish bargain. Many early visitors stopped off on their way to a morning beach outing before the sun hit its peak early-afternoon muggy heat.
Today though was a little different. The same dozen stall-holders, always the early arrivals, were busily erecting their stalls between chatting among established friends. They watched as an aged Holden station-wagon, with deeply tinted windows, slowly made its way to the highway curb. Then, with motor roaring, and the scratching sound of low bodywork, it leapt the curb and charged into an empty space between partly erected stalls. Nearby vendors rushed panicking to protect their merchandise. The driver, eventually getting the car under control, stopped just as the front bumper touched the wooden fence separating the markets from the rail line. Stall-holders rushed to the driver’s door to check on the well-being of the driver. They quickly stood back as the car door opened.
A heavy wooden walking cane thrashed wildly through the air before it settled on the ground outside the car door. Slowly, a totally grey head of hair emerged and, after a few back and forth movements, the whole body appeared shakily on two legs, steadying itself against the door.
“Vot? You don’t fink I can drive? I haf been driving longer than any of you haf been alive. I can drive anythink. Tanks, trucks, you just name it, I haf done them all.”
The spectators looked amazed and amused at the tiny old lady with the strong East-European accent. She straightened beer-bottle thick glasses back on her nose. They too were tinted. Some pondered how she could possibly see through the tinting of both glasses and car windows.
The market manager had rushed to check there was no damage.
“I’m the manager here, Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right. Can’t you see? I suppose you are da one I haf to pay for to sell my precious things? Tak? I mean Ya”
“Yes, but of course. But I’ll have to allocate you a site.”
“I’ll take dis vun, where I am.”
“Well, that’s been allocated to someone else.”
“So? You vant me to drive my car somewhere else in this market?”
Several stall-holders in unison interrupted. “No, no you’re fine. She’ll be all right.” They looked at the manager appealingly. She quickly guessed at the reason for their concern.
“Yes. That’ll be fine. Just set yourself up here. The fee is $15 for the site.”
The sighs of relief were audible, and the spectators made their way back to their own sites. The manager was somewhat amazed at the large wad of $5 notes the old lady extracted from her small suitcase-sized handbag.
Other market-sellers were rapidly filling the empty spaces and setting up. Old friends were chatting, many about the near-miss Holden, or about other ‘newbies’ who had set up. But most simply watched the slim-framed, frail-looking old lady shuffling back and forth, methodically setting up her four over-size tables under an awning tied through the car back door struts. Poles tied to the front legs of the tables provided anchor points for the front of the awning. There was amazement that so much stuff could have come out of the car. Everyone had long finished setting–up before the old lady finally sat on the station-wagon tail-board and poured herself a drink from a large pink thermos, her thick-stocking covered legs barely touching the ground. Her check-patterned, woolen, three-quarter length dress was probably too warm for the time of year.
A few early customers were picking over the early bargains for the day, despite knowing many prices would drop dramatically by days end. Several un-patronised vendors wandered to the old lady’s stall to inspect her wares. Atop one of the poles, holding up the awnings front, a national flag drooped loosely. None of them recognized the red flag with the squiggly white border sporting a crowned eagle with spread wings in the centre. While they inspected the tables, many were trying to guess at the old ladies age; certainly more than 80, maybe 90, and wondered how she could still get a driver’s licence at that age?
One table covered in war medals, made of some unidentifiable metal, were complete with ribbons and a small card explaining the purpose of the award. They were all clearly noted “Replica Polish War Medals,” and priced from $20 - $25, or two for $30. Three small glass-fronted wooden cases with lids held down by little hooks, were beneath a sign reading ‘Authentic Polish War Medals’. Their prices were $500 - $750. Another table contained bags of ‘home made Polish sweets,’ $5 a bag, and ‘home made Polish cookies’ $6 a pack. The other two tables contained a mix of aged books, audio tapes, and home-knitted apparel.
As each of the other vendors approached, the old lady rummaged into another bag by her side, extracted a hand wrapped sweet, and gave it to the curious examiner. Alternatively, she would gift a whole crunchy Polish cookie.
“Ello. I’m Dora. Try this and you vill be butten for life.”
The vendors replied with self-introductions, many trying the sweets immediately and others returning to their own stalls before tasting.
When parents with accompanying children passed, Dora would hand the child a sweet. Within minutes, strong-willed children tugged their parents back to Dora’s stall, demanding Mum or Dad buy a bag or two. Dora would shuffle to the front of the tables and give the children a little hug. Most parents obliged with a purchase, especially after trying a free sample. She thanked
the purchaser for supporting an old lady and gave many of the adults a hug as well. It seemed nobody could resist the old lady. Transaction complete, she would shuffle back to her tail-board seat. Stall-holders too, quickly returned to buy more sweets or cookies before the supply ran out; but Dora’s supply seemed endless, replacing purchased bags and packets from boxes within the station-wagon.
The morning passed and the afternoon began. Dora’s site was the most visited. Her supply of sweets and cookies was beginning to show that there was a finite supply, with gaps appearing on the table. Many replica medals and other nick-knacks were selling. The authentic medals had been examined in their cases many times, but none had sold. Her supply of cuddles to young and old alike seemed endless.
Other stall-holders, in-between their own customers, drifted over to chat with the new darling of the market. To anyone prepared to listen, and