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  Copyright 2010 Dave McGee.

  You know 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 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. ‘So how much is it?’ demands the crone, ‘£3.95’ replies mother. 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 that limes grew in England’.

  Mother’s a tough act, and not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s time for me to support 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 ditch 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 a rising sun and the tread of feet. Traders set out their stalls; some are business people, some hawkers. Some intend to make money, others care less. They’ve come from near and far, 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 glance anxiously up the street, ignoring the question: 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 hanging 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 ruined 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?’ 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 the instrument, you know, that 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 playing and sweeps the tresses from his eyes. Only a 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 remain 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