Market Forces - 1. Chapter 1

Market Forces: Part 1

Youknow that feeling; when you wish the earth would swallow you up? But today, the earth’s icy cold and hard; and there’s no chance of me getting swallowed. So I turn, awkwardly, face away from the street, and look blankly at the tarpaulin that shrouds our market stall.

A few seconds later, and I can breathe again; the girls have passed by!

Then three elderly women approach. One has the words,

‘Has this quince and lime conserve been sourced locally?’

My mother puts on that face of hers,

‘Of course! This is a farmer’s market. The whole purpose is to provide customers with items that have been responsibly sourced and produced’

She rounds this off with a dramatic gesture, pointing to our sign,

Candida Rowntree of Richborough - fine chutneys and conserves.

‘And how much is it?’ demands the crone,

‘£3.95’

There’s a unified gasp, like truck air brakes, as the toothless trio totter away. The words ‘so rude’ can be heard, along with ‘it’s the first I knew limes grew in England’.

Mother’s a tough act, and not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s time for me to be supportive of her.

‘Don’t worry mum, the coaches of old folk come in first, followed by last night’s drunks, then the snotty SUV brigade. They’re the ones you need to target’

What I mean to say is that they are the only ones stupid and pretentious enough to pay nearly four quid for a jar of my mother’s rancid jam, all profits to the restoration of St Lambert’s church roof. But I say nothing. This isn’t the way I want to spend the last Saturday before Christmas. I’m freezing cold and just want to shelter in Starbucks. Melodramatically, I blow into my hands to warm them. And, just like she’s reading my thoughts, mother unpacks a Thermos the size of Gibraltar and begins to decant a steaming, noxious, brown liquid. I recognise the signs, escape is now vital,

‘Mum, I’m just gonna check out the other stalls before it gets busy’

She’s busy thinking up reasons for me not to go. Meanwhile the tent is gagging under a pseudo-beefy steam. I come up with a solution,

‘Listen, while I’m out there I’ll see if any other stalls are selling jam, check out the opposition, okay?’

I escape; the shrill tones of mother reminding me it’s not ‘jam’ but conserve. God, this is going to be the longest day of my life. I mean, my mother’s plan to make jam and sell it on a market stall, well, what’s the point? It’s only her stuffy friends who’ll buy it; they’ll smile, chat, hand over the cash then sling the stuff when they get home. Why not just make a donation to the church in the first place? And what’s that all about anyway; fixing the roof of some ancient building nobody ever visits?

The street is waking up. The night time ice melts under rising sun and the tread of feet. Traders set out their stalls; some are business people, some hawkers. Some mean to make money, others care less. Some have come from near, some from far. And, to my amazement, some have even made it through the Channel Tunnel to get here; waffles from Belgium, chorizos from Spain, and cheeses from France. The prices are eye watering, but the smug denizens of our town would rather die that admit they couldn’t pay up.

And all this commerce is spiced up with a colourful mix of street theatre, all hoping to shake the loose change out of locals’ pockets. Best of luck to them! There’s this sad old guy playing electric guitar, fingers too arthritic, and brain too atrophied to sound above his backing tracks. The street fountain has frozen during the night, but standing on the steps is a ghostly angel, star in hand. I watch, fascinated by the frosty apparition to see if she moves; kitsch is everywhere and reality is officially dead. Then, without warning, those girls appear once more, this time violins in hand. Uh oh; time to get back to the stall!

Mother’s glad to see me; busy wrapping up her first sale, she gushes at some foreigner assuring him that it’s not all true what they say about rhubarb. But he’s German, and too polite to contradict her. She turns to me, the smile evaporating instantly,

‘Michael, it’s getting busy now so I really need you to be here. I hope you’ve visited the loo. Did you?’

I ignore that, glancing anxiously up the street. The four girls have followed me and are now taking their place about twenty yards away. Why there, of all places? With all the confidence and assurance girls of seventeen have, they un-case violins, music stands, and get ready to play. Mother studies it all carefully,

‘That’s Sarah Bradbury, isn’t it?’

I shrug, she knows who it is.

‘Who are the others?’

Mumbling something, I feel awkward and embarrassed. She maintains her steadfast gaze,

‘And that’s Susan Sharpe, but I don’t know the other two’

I refuse to fill in the gaps in her information. I’m too busy checking the progress of the quartet and hoping they haven’t spotted me. But it’s useless. A high pitched squeal, followed by frantic waving confirms my fears. The girls are here to play carols, and I’m just relieved that none of them bothers checking out the jam stall. Moments later, they launch into ‘Away in a manger’. The whole performance will be immaculate, effortless, and confident. I just know it, but I can’t bear to look as my mind wanders back over recent weeks.

The school heating had broken down and we were all sent home at lunch time. The next move was a no brainer; call by the Earl Grey for a few drinks. The pub was cold and empty, and I remembered feeling weird at the way the girls acted pissed, even before they’d started drinking. What’s that all about? Why do they do that? Then it kicked in. It was like I was sitting with people who talked another language and I was an initiate. But Paul and Jeff were fluent. They were hammering the booze and were busy sorting out who’d go first. Reluctantly, I finished off my cider and followed the group to Susan’s house. Why, oh why did I do that?

I don’t like to think of the rest. At some point I staggered to the bathroom and pretended to be sick, but no-one was buying it. There was a lot of giggling and shouting below, then thumps on the stairs as my replacement was selected and installed. Eventually I got out, certain in the knowledge that my future at school was changed forever. Michael Rowntree’s a fag.

My mother senses something, but as usual she’s way off beam,

‘Do you want to go over and say hello?’

I shrivel inwardly and outwardly. Mother smiles weakly and shrugs.

‘Well, let’s just hope we have a busy day. But it will be nice to listen to the girls playing carols and Christmas music, won’t it?’

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I don’t see him arrive. The street’s now busy and our stall is attracting a lot of attention. Customers are either fascinated by mother’s weird jam but put off by her prices, or don’t mind the prices but gag at the thought of what she’s put in those jars! Either way, it’s quite some time before a lull in business allows his music to drift my way. I’m curious,

‘What’s that instrument, you know, what he’s playing?’

Mother rolls her eyes, with one of those, ‘after all the money we’ve paid for your education, how come you don’t you know that?’ looks,

‘It’s a piano accordion, Michael. Though I think it’s selfish of him to sit so close to the girls, the two types of music don’t go well together’

I occupy myself re-stocking the stall. The music continues, bizarre, inappropriate, unlike any I’ve ever heard. But when I next look up I notice that mother’s swaying gently from side to side. And what’s really wild, the boy’s looking across at her, smiling. I stand up, by her side and watch the performance. Mother has already made up her mind,

‘He’s Romanian; a gypsy, probably’

She turns, all confidential, and whispers,

‘He’s probably an asylum seeker!’

Then she drops the subject, abandoning it in that way I’ve grown used to. But I can’t stop looking. The boy’s about my age, but smaller. He’s sitting at the corner of the street, rug outspread, and cap upturned for contributions. His clothes are grey, crumpled and shabby. A tight waistcoat funnels a scarf, bunched at his throat, and his shoes are scuffed and battered.

He plays on. I can’t understand how his fingers aren’t frozen as they travel up and down the keys of the instrument. Every so often he looks up and smiles; at me? I’m not sure. Mother darts about, here and there, selling and re-stocking. Is he looking at me?

When his head is lowered I check him out. He has olive skin and brown eyes. His centre parted hair is long but neat, and every so often he frees one hand from squeezing and sweeps the tresses from his eyes. Few passers-by are throwing coins his way, but those who do he thanks with a tilt of the head and a broad wink.

I’ve no idea how long I watch him. I begin to hope he’ll not leave, but then why should he stay when his takings seem so poor? Without warning he puts down his instrument and stands up. He stretches, and walks over to our stall. I panic, and bend down to fiddle about with boxes of jam. He comes right up and speaks with mother. His English is virtually non-existent, but his voice is deep and warm, so incredibly warm. I stand up. He smiles as his eyes meet mine. Then he turns and points towards where he’s left his accordion. He holds out some cash in his hand, and holds a finger to his mouth.

‘Mum, he wants to go and buy something to eat. He’s just asking us to keep an eye on his accordion’

Mother eyes me coldly,

‘We can’t do that! He’ll have to keep the instrument with him or do without’

I’m not surprised my mother can be so mean, but what happened to all that Christmas spirit? And right now I can’t believe what I’m saying to her,

‘I’m just going to take him to the pasty stall. I’ll get served faster than him. Just watch his music box thing for a few minutes’

I crawl out from under the stall to the accompaniment of howls of protest, then, turning to the musician,

‘Just come with me, and we’ll get something to eat’

I reach out my hand to him, gesturing rather than inviting, but he takes it. I shiver. This is the first time in my life my hand has been held by another man my age. I hesitate for a second, awaiting release, but it doesn’t come. Turning, we forge through the crowded street towards the food truck. I’m conscious of shoppers staring at those hands but I don’t care, I feel good,

‘What’s your name?’

He smiles, but says nothing. I relish the feel of his strong hand and give it a slight squeeze. I instantly regret the action, but he repays it with a much stronger grip. I feel giddy with a kind of childish joy.

The pasty stall is busy. I direct my friend towards what’s on offer, vainly describing the items in a language he doesn’t have. Occasionally he turns and smiles. As we are served I offer to pay but he resists, and, fishing a pile of coins from his pocket he holds out cupped hands to the assistant, paying for us both.

Stepping away from the stall, he points to himself,

‘Marek’

‘Michael’

He repeats my name haltingly; then devours his pasty.

We don’t hold hands on the way back but he remains very close to me, and I feel comfortable; no, more like elated. Then, as we reach the street corner Marek screams out in anguish, the words mean nothing to me but the cause is clear. Together we stare helplessly at the rug he’s so recently occupied, and the space where the accordion was. I look over to my mother, busy with customers.

‘Mum, where’s the accordion, I thought you were keeping an eye on it?’

‘Michael, don’t be so rude, not while I’m serving’

I’m pissed at my mother’s unhelpfulness. Marek’s circling his pitch like a mother bird that returns to find her chicks missing. He’s looking about vacantly and I feel useless. He glances at me with wide brown eyes, filling with tears; there’s a look of dread on his face I can’t understand. Steering him over to mother’s stall I appeal again to her hard heart,

‘You must have seen something!’

‘Don’t take that tone with me, Michael. He shouldn’t have left his pitch unattended’

Marek can’t understand a word she says; just as well. I find myself putting my arm around his shoulder and drawing him close, but the shaking persists. He turns, looking into my eyes. Mother drones on,

‘Michael, for goodness sake come behind the stall. There’s nothing you can do, he’s probably an illegal. You’ll get us all into trouble’

I blot out her wittering and hold Marek’s hand. His eyes have never left me, and I’m just seconds away from a unique life experience. Nobody has ever needed me; that’s about to change. In fact, everything’s about to change. He squeezes my hand,

‘Please...., please help me’

Market Forces: Part II

The sun is full now, but the air is still frosty and it catches my throat; mother’s fussing about, selling jam to people who neither need nor want it, so that she can feel good about restoring a crumbling old church for people who neither need nor want it. See a pattern here?

But Marek’s frozen to the spot. I take his hand and almost drag him into the street café. I’m going to sort this out. I lead him to a window seat and watch as he crumples into the leather sofa. I make a show of confidence as I order coffees, realising I have no idea what to do next. Marek nods a silent thank you as I set down the steaming mug, but he does not touch it. I mime playing his accordion, then wince as I see the terror return to his eyes,

‘We’ll get it back, don’t worry’

I can’t get my head around this; it’s only an accordion. I want so much to help, desperately hoping the caring in my voice will convey what the words don’t. Fortunately, Marek’s grasp of my language is 100% better than my knowledge of his,

‘I much trouble. Bad thing happen me. Where my music?’

I reckon he’s trying to tell me the accordion’s not his, and move in closer. He doesn’t reject my nearness but I sense I’m not really helping. And as I gaze abstractedly out of the window I can see Sarah Bradbury talking to mother. It doesn’t make me feel good; but worse follows, she stops and comes directly over to where we’re sitting. I feel like an idiot, and the ice queen is looking impossibly cool as she sits down opposite,

‘You both look like you could use some good news’

My jaw drops open. Marek looks intense, eyes darting from me to her. Then she puts us out of our misery,

‘The market inspector picked up the accordion. He probably did that because your friend doesn’t have a busker’s permit, or maybe just ‘cos it’s a hazard, left unattended’

I gawp at Sarah; how come she knows everything about everything and looks amazing at the same time. I’m fishing for words that don’t make me look even stupider,

‘Where is the inspector?’

‘He has a trailer in the car park. He’ll be there till about five’

Marek looks at me with spaniel eyes, not one of his gestures missed by the serene Sarah. I smile back at him giving the thumbs up. In an instant he puts two and two together and thanks our benefactor. Smiling broadly at her he mimics playing a violin, humming the tune ‘Away in a manger’

The ice queen smiles, her blue eyes still sparkling from the cold,

‘I’m impressed. And he’s got the key right too! I think your friend must be a good musician’

I mull over how she calls him ‘your friend’ as I blurt out thank you to her. Is that what he is, my friend? Triumphantly I lead Marek from the coffee shop, down the crowded street and to the town car park where, in a matter of minutes he’ll be reunited with his beloved instrument.

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Mother’s SUV is only yards away, parked by bushes in a snowy corner. Marek follows me, unquestioningly. Even when I reach the back door and open up the van there is no obvious reaction from him. I reach in and move the empty boxes to one side revealing plenty of carpeted floor space. I signal to him to hand me his precious accordion and, climbing in I lay it on the seat. He gets in and I close the door.

I don’t have a plan; I love that I don’t, and that it doesn’t seem to matter. We lie down, safe, warm and out of sight. I look at his face for what seems like ages. His hair springs up from his forehead, not quite centred, not equal, but so beautifully. His cheek bones are high and skin unblemished. The rich brown eyes that so recently were fearful are now calm. I reach around him. To date my experiences have been with girls and it always felt like I was holding a sparrow, a delicate structure that might shatter any moment. This is so different. I know I’m holding a man, my own kind. I thrill at the muscularity under my fingers, the firmness, the strength.

His lips draw me in. And I’m intoxicated by the delicate warmth rising from him. I want to hold him so tight to me that we become one. I realise my efforts are boyish and awkward, but he lets me lead and responds to my every move. He’s so sweet and patient with me as I lunge forward each time to drown in that beautiful mouth. My whole body is reacting in a way I always dreamed it would. There is no more doubt.

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We walk silently back to the market. I am euphoric and steal glances of Marek’s face to see if he feels the same. At the corner we part, he to resume his playing, and I to return to the emporium of jam.

Mother’s doing a roaring trade. She’s cottoned on to the fact that people will flock to a crowded rather than an empty stall, so she maintains a clutch of old women customers to hand, discussing recipes and the decline of the hedgerow! The whole marketplace now has a buzz, and though I’d never admit it I’m sort of enjoying myself. But nothing lasts, does it? And mother’s mystified when I dart frantically behind the stall, wedging myself between the street wall and the canvas.

Three of my classmates approach. I hear the voice of Paul Richardson, snide and sarcastic as he asks mother about lemon curd. I literally sink to the ground. He’s a foul mouthed yob and something horrible is going to happen; my mother will put up with only so much. There’s coarse laughter from the boys as he makes another remark. I can’t quite hear the reply but I’m praying he’s being told to go. Then I hear my name mentioned. Richardson's voice booms out,

‘We thought we saw Michael just a minute ago’

I feel sick.

A minute, or is it an eternity passes; then things go quiet. The tarpaulin rustles and mother appears,

‘You can come out now’

I wait for her lecture but she says nothing. The minutes pass, nothing. For God’s sake, mother, say something. But she’s silent.

Shortly, we run low on bags and I offer to scoot off to buy some. Without a word she hands me the cash. I’m embarrassed to think what Paul Richardson and his gang said, but I’m smart enough to know that the real problem is not him, or his yob friends. It’s me.

A year from now I’ll have completed my first term at university. Will I still be hiding then, if someone I can’t face turns the corner? I’d better hope there’ll be plenty of curtains to hide behind, and tables to crawl under. Isn’t it time I grew a pair and started to stand up for myself?

Probably; but exactly what am I standing up for?

I make my purchases and trail unenthusiastically back along the street. Approaching the stall, I find I’m listening out for that wacky gypsy music, so completely out of place in an English street at Christmas. But when I get to the corner it’s deserted and all I detect is the familiar sound of the girls’ scratchy violins.

I’m not sure what I think. Just a short time ago something amazing happened to me, but I seem to have moved on with alarming speed. Right now, the easiest thing to be positive about is selling jam. That’s why I’m here anyway, isn’t it? I conveniently shelve all thoughts that suggest I’m weak and indecisive and opt for the easier course.

Mother stops and takes time out for another cup of that disgusting yeast drink. She’s pleased at the number of folks she conned with her ‘conserves’, assuring me the parishioners of St Lambert will be delighted, and so grateful. Being ‘grateful’ is something mother rates highly. I’m just pleased she’s speaking to me again,

‘You know, I was having such a nice chat with Sarah. She’s going to St Andrews, did you know? I expect she could have made Oxbridge, but I suppose Scotland’s nearer, and of course William went there...’

I zone out mentally. Mother’s moved the agenda firmly back where it belongs, in her hands not mine. I’m still stinging at my stupidity for letting Marek slip away. Maybe he’s pitched elsewhere. Why didn’t I just ask him where he was going next? But as usual, mother guesses what I’m thinking,

‘You know, Michael, you should be more careful who you spend your time with. He was on the phone. A few minutes later a van stopped at the bottom of the street; it was a scruffy, broken down thing, and he jumped in. There were some very unsavoury people in the back, too, I may say. He could be involved with people traffickers, drug dealers, anyone!’

I fall silent. Mother, society, peer pressure; all seem like playground bullies circling and taunting me. And it’s worked; I have nothing to say. The street’s quiet now and the next hour drags. The last stragglers shuffle by with their purchases for the day, weary faces spangled orange-yellow under the festive lights. Have I time to grab one last coffee? I queue, scarcely aware who’s standing right alongside, but the perfume’s familiar. The ice queen smiles,

‘Get everything sorted?’

‘Yes, erm, yeah, thanks for your help’

She places her order in that self assured way, and turns again to me,

‘He’s cute. You could do worse’

What’s she talking about? Every cell in my body readies itself for a violent denial. But she’s several steps ahead, as usual,

‘Just another few months in this shitty town; and we’re free’

I’m on the back foot, but I’m determined not to look as stupid as I feel,

‘Yeah, mum tells me you’ve got into St Andrews’

Sarah smiles,

‘Yeah, to read law, that’ll be right. That’s what they think!’

I’m now a gibbering idiot, official. The ice queen collects her drink and turns one last time,

‘Be lucky Michael. You can be different. Do it. Be different’

Then she leans over and kisses me on the cheek,

‘Happy Christmas!’

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I bring the SUV from the car park and drive it carefully into the market. Mother has everything cleared away in that efficient way of hers, just crates and the stall sign left. I begin loading. Then out of the corner of my eye I’m aware of a van drawing to a stop at the end of the street. The back doors spring wide and a man jumps out. Him! Like some Olympian gymnast he vaults over the traffic barrier and runs towards the stall. I can’t believe it’s me he wants. But he pants to a stop and puts down on the counter a piece of paper and pencil,

‘Please’

He holds his hand to his ear, mimicking cell phone.

I can feel my heart thumping as I write down my name and number. Then he pockets the info and leans over to kiss me. I look at him, then past him, and down the street where I see three or four desperate looking characters leaning out of the van he’s just been in. I can feel mother’s eyes laser into my back as I lean over to kiss Marek.

Nothing can stop me. The moment is ours. I reach for his neck with my hand and hold him close. And we kiss.

Parting, he smiles broadly and says something to me. I think I don’t understand, but I do; for once I have got it right,

‘Happy holiday to you too, Marek’

And he turns and runs back to the van. The doors close and he’s gone.

I know I must turn too, and face mother, but not right this second. I know she loves me, but she’s now going to have to learn to love a new me; to accept what she doesn’t understand, and doesn’t want. In a moment I’ll find the courage to tell her that I’ve just had the best Christmas present ever.

I’ve discovered who I am, and what it is I want.

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