Lonely Teardrops (2008) (11 page)

It had become apparent that several people who lived at the top of the street and owned their own houses had already been offered a great deal of money to sell their property, and their pitch. The proposal had come via a firm of solicitors who represented the development company.

Winnie Holmes had received such an offer for her old house, now rented out to Dena Dobson, and Barry, Winnie’s new husband, had a similar one for his. Both Clara Higginson and Big Molly Poulson were also under pressure to sell. This meeting was an attempt to discover how far the problem had spread.

There were one or two notable absentees. One was Alex Hall, who hadn’t been seen around the market since Stan’s funeral in late July, and whose music shop was now being run by his son Terry. Rumour had it that he’d returned to Korea. Judy Beckett, who usually ran a little stall to sell her own art work was hiding away somewhere, a fact which nobody quite liked to mention since her husband Sam, the cause of her flight, was present at the meeting.

The committee, plus a number of long established stallholders co-opted for this extra-ordinary general meeting, were gathered round the market superintendent’s desk, a position still occupied by Belle Garside, and she had asked for a show of hands.

‘From what I can ascertain, that makes ten or twelve offers for property so far, would you agree with my figures?’ She glanced briefly at the assembled company but continued without waiting for an answer. ‘So, the question is, what are we going to do about it?’

Rose had agreed to do her bit in this fight to save the market. She sat on the back row, a neat trim figure in a startlingly red and yellow flowered linen dress, circa nineteen-thirties, complete with matching dangly ear-rings, listening quietly as folk began to put forward suggestions, some of which were not even legal.

She listened as Papa Bertalone likened the developers to the Gestapo; smiled as Big Molly nudged her husband Ozzy in the ribs, and, having failed to bully him into speaking, shouted out that her son Robert depended on Champion Street being around for some time to come if he was to take over the pie business.

‘We should march on the council offices and demand their full support,’ Jimmy Ramsay insisted, shaking a powerful fist more used to slicing up meat carcasses. ‘Let them know we refuse to be bullied.’

‘Aye, that’s right. No one is going to walk all over us,’ cried one stallholder.

‘And we’ll punch anyone who tries,’ yelled another.

There was a noisy chorus of agreement, and several other suggestions about what folk would like to do to any councillors who refused to stand by them. Clara Higginson cleared her throat to quietly point out that these kind of threats weren’t getting them anywhere, and gradually the grumbles subsided as they listened to her sound common sense.

‘From what I understand, this generous offer will stand for only a limited period and then will be reduced. There may be some people present who would be willing to accept it, so should we perhaps take a vote before we proceed any further?’

 
A small silence ensued while people digested this uncomfortable truth. Glances flicked all around as everyone attempted to assess which of those present might be seduced by such blackmail.

‘Who would admit to it?’ Sam Beckett scoffed. ‘Although I’m sure some of us may well be considering retirement, or a possible move anyway, we’re hardly likely to risk damaging our business by saying so.’

Everyone looked at him, and wondered.

Belle, in her usual forthright way, said, ‘Well, let’s find out. Is there anyone here willing to accept this undoubtedly generous offer, bearing in mind, as Clara points out, that it has a limited life-span?’

No one volunteered a reply to this question although whether that was because they had no intention of ever accepting, or were keeping their intentions close to their chest, as Sam suggested, wasn’t clear.

Chris George said, ‘We should also remember that not everyone on Champion Street owns their own property. Many houses are rented so it will be the landlord who decides, over whom we have no control. My own father owns our baker’s shop, for instance.’

This was a sobering thought.

‘Can’t we persuade them to draw up a new agreement to spare those houses in good condition, and allow the market to stay, even if they do demolish the older ones?’ Barry Holmes wanted to know.

‘We’ve tried, so far with little success,’ Belle told him.

‘Would they agree to meet us on site, to come and view our properties and discuss the matter more fully? Do we know what kind of flats they intend to build, and when they hope to start? Do you have the answer to any of those questions, Belle?’

Belle didn’t.

Rose, who had other plans for her day besides being cooped up in a stuffy meeting room, finally made up her mind to speak. ‘Seems to me, what we need is someone to investigate the matter further. We need to gather more information, to find out exactly who this company is and what they intend to do with Champion Street, if and when they’ve bought up everyone’s property.’

‘By heck, she’s right,’ Jimmy Ramsay agreed, slapping one huge thigh with the flat of his hand. ‘We need to form a special committee to investigate the matter. And if they should discover that this development company mean to destroy everything, the market and all
the houses in Champion Street, then our task must be to start a campaign to save it.’

This proposal was put to the meeting and voted upon almost unanimously. A group of stalwarts was quickly selected for the task, Rose included. She did notice, however, that Sam Beckett, and the Georges, abstained, which she found rather interesting.

The sprawl of the market was spreading. The number of barrows in the surrounding area from Tonman Street to Deansgate, as well as all along Champion Street itself, was steadily increasing, adding to the liveliness and popularity of the place. One side of the market hall now had an extension, hygienically enclosing the new meat and fish market beneath a glass roof.
 

Irma Southworth, tilting her biscuit tins at just the right angle for her customers to make a selection as she did every morning, felt compelled, much against her better judgement, to admit that this was one improvement at least that Belle Garside had achieved. It was something her own husband Joe had failed to do when he was market superintendent. It grieved her to have to concede this fact as Belle had at one time enjoyed what she termed ‘a little fling’ with Irma’s husband. And despite her having known Belle for years, Irma could still barely speak a civil word to the woman.

Nevertheless, as a consequence of the recent improvements she’d made, people now came from far and wide to explore the market to taste Bertalones’ ice cream, buy Lizzie Pringle’s chocolate mints and whirligig lollies, savour Big Molly Poulson’s meat and potato pies and Jimmy Ramsay’s pork sausages. They loved to listen to the stallholders’ banter, watch plates being juggled, take part in a mock auction and buy something they never wanted at a knock-down price they simply couldn’t resist.

It was a tragedy that, if the rumours were true, all of this would soon have to go, swept away in a thorough cleansing of everything that was old and Victorian in the city’s relentless quest for progress.

Irma loved the market. Her family had been involved with markets and fairs for generations. She could remember a time when the stallholders used a language all their own. They’d turn a word upside down so that one became eno, and ten turned into net. She couldn’t remember why. She also recalled the flower gazers that used to cluster along Piccadilly. They’d carry huge baskets hung on a strap round their neck and would have to stand in the gutter to do their selling, not allowed to even set foot on the pavement or they’d be fined.

The flower gazers were all gone now in this rapidly changing, modern world, so it was a real treat to see Betty Hemley setting out her flower buckets, still trying to hang on to the old ways. There wasn’t much Betty missed seated there amongst her flowers. She not only knew the language of flowers, she understood people and what made them tick. Betty liked tradition, for things to stay the way they were, and Irma felt exactly the same.

She rather thought it was because she, like Betty Hemley, was so set in her ways, a bit old fashioned she supposed, that Joe had grown bored with her. Belle Garside had been only one of several women over the years who had fired his blood, encouraging him to grasp at a youth long gone. He had one on the go at the moment. Though Irma had her suspicions, she couldn’t quite make up her mind who it was. It couldn’t be Betty’s daughter Lynda, because she was having an on-off affair with Terry Hall. Besides, she was far too young.

Nor could it be Judy Beckett because she was embroiled in a bitter divorce with her husband, Sam, who ran the ironmongery stall, not to mention a fierce custody battle over their two children. What a mess that marriage was in. It was always worse where children were involved.

As things had turned out, Irma was thankful that she had only the one son. Ian was thirty now, and seemed to be very happily married, thank goodness. She also had two delightful grandchildren who were the light of her life.

There had been a time when Irma had wanted more babies of her own, but none had come along, and then once Ian had left home, and because of her husband’s philandering, she and Joe had moved into separate bedrooms not simply separate beds. After nearly thirty-two years it was a sterile marriage, no sort of a life at all really.

He’d seemed such a harmless sort of chap when she’d wed him, but he’d never been the same since he came back from Italy after the war. Irma knew she should have booted Joe out long since but he was such a wet lettuce she’d felt sorry for him. She was too soft for her own good, that was her trouble, far too easy-going. She probably only let him stay for the sake of appearances. Irma had seen her young romantic dreams fade away one by one, till now the only thing they had in common was the market stall - the biscuit business they’d built up together over the years.

Betty Hemley herself was suffering from an ex-husband having returned to the marital home uninvited, and causing any amount of grief. Word had it he was something of a violent bully. Poor Betty. Irma felt sorry for her old friend. She supposed she should be grateful that although Joe might be a bit useless on the romance front, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He wasn’t a bit of bother to look after, and his high jinks could easily be ignored.
 

A customer interrupted her musings, wanting a pound of mixed biscuits.

‘How about a few Garibaldi?’ Irma suggested, instantly adopting the bright smile she always used with her customers.

Irma Southworth was a large woman, the wrap-over apron she always wore was so Persil white it made you blink and it strained over her ample bosom and hips. Button-bright blue eyes were alert and kind, and her silver-grey hair was shiny and bouncy about a round, smiling face. She was well liked on the market: for her friendly cheerfulness, her helpful manner and the care she took over the cakes she made to suit those special moments in a person’s life. She would certainly never be known for her stunning beauty, her rosy cheeks being somewhat flabby and her chin having long since given up any pretence of being firm.

But, unlike these new-fangled supermarkets they were bringing in with girls who yawned at their cash desks and looked right through you, Irma cared about her customers, and knew most of them by name.

‘Custard creams for you, eh, Mrs Cartwright? Ginger snaps and fig rolls for your two girls? And one or two delicious Bourbons perhaps?’

‘Aye, and put in half a dozen fruit shortcakes. My Phil loves them.’

When the woman had gone, a half pound of broken biscuits at a special discounted price also added to her basket, Irma couldn’t help pondering on how nice it must be to care about a man so much you made a point of picking out his favourite biscuits.

But then not every man was a selfish womaniser like Joe. You’d’ve thought he would have developed a bit of sense now that he was past the fifty mark, but he showed no sign of doing so.

A queue had formed by this time, and Irma concentrated on serving. Highland Shortbread. Homewheat Chocolate Digestive. Syrup and Oat Cookies. Was it any wonder she’d lost her figure, with a straying husband to contend with and surrounded by all these riches. Which came first, she wondered, the fat on her hips or the affairs? She didn’t care to consider, and really did it matter? There were more important things in life than daft husbands who couldn’t keep their trousers buttoned.

He should be here by rights, helping her, but then when had he ever pulled his weight? If he wasn’t warming some woman’s bed he was pontificating his opinions at meetings of the market committee. Even though he was no longer market superintendent, he couldn’t keep his nose out. All summer he’d been fretting about this talk of yet another threat to Champion Street Market, of developers wanting to move in and bulldoze the area clean to build yet more blocks of flats.

The rumour had seriously alarmed Joe. Irma was more philosophical. While considering it a tragic shame, if they lost the biscuit stall she still had her wedding cake business, not to mention her other little side-lines. She made and decorated cakes for all occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, christenings, not simply weddings. Events, very often, that she herself had predicted thanks to her skill with the cards, reading tea leaves or palms, whatever seemed appropriate for the client. She’d never been asked to make a cake to celebrate a divorce, but there was always a first time for everything. Maybe she’d make one for her own.