The Market

WE in London are beginning, at last, to speak of ‘the hard times’ with that note of faint pride in miseries shared in common which I remember in talk about air raids during the war, and which was heard in Irish voices when they spoke of ‘the troubles.’ Certainly I am grateful to these hard times for considerable heart-warming entertainment and much pleasant food. For they, added to affectionate memories of housekeeping in America, France, and Italy, have driven me to buying food from the open stalls and barrows of a street market in a foreign quarter near my home.

My market sprawls all along one side of a narrow street and round a corner into another. It has been allowed to establish itself, taking advantage of English laissez faire, in a particularly unsuitable spot — a car or lorry can just wedge itself in and crawl along between the backs of the stalls and the opposite curb. I am always expecting to see a slice taken off the enormous man who sells fish which he erroneously describes, at the top of a voice as enormous as his figure, as ‘All alive-O!’

They are a pretty sight, these fruit and flower stalls, with their pyramids of color glowing in the sunlight and seeming to store a little of it even on a rainy day or when the acetylene flares burn and blow and cast strange shadows as darkness falls. Though the purchasers are mostly foreigners, there are only a few stalls which are not served by the purest cockneys. I wonder if their English conservatism allows them to eat the unusual things they sell? I often think uncomfortably that my economies and pleasures are gained at the expense of a hard life for the sellers. What is the incidence of rheumatism, I wonder, for these people whose meagre canvas roofs offer a very inadequate shelter from sun and rain, and none at all from frost and wind? Yet they seem a cheery lot, on the whole, calling out jests to each other even at the end of a long, inclement day. Perhaps most of them are hardened to it from childhood — even, perhaps, from babyhood.

One stall-holder, a jolly unshaven little rough-coated terrier of a man, told me what I think must be the great romance of the B Street Market. Things were quiet and we both had a few minutes to spare. I told him how good a melon was that he had sold me. ‘Well, I likes to please a good customer,’ he replied, ‘but do you know, there was a lidy comes ’ere in a great Chrysler car and leaves it just in the street there. You know what a Chrysler car costs!’ I made noises to show that I was suitably impressed. ‘Well, hup she comes and she says, “’Ow much are them lemons?” “Two a penny,” I says. “’Ow quaint!” says she. “Put two in a bag and deliver them to my car!” “Beggin’ your pardon, lidy,” says I, “but slavery went out in England in 1850 and you can tike ’em yourself.” “ You are very impertinent, my man,” says she, “an’ I shall report you to an officer.” Sure enough, back she comes with a copper. “This lidy says you was rude to ’er,” says ’e. “What ’ave you got ter s’y?” “Well,” says I, “I didn’t mean ter be rude, but she harsks me to deliver two lemons for a penny to ’er car and I says she can tike ’em ’erself.” The copper, ’e just jerked ’is thumb over ’is shoulder and says, “’Ere, you tike your car out o’ this street or I’ll ‘ave you hup for hobstruction.” ’

Thus, I felt as I listened, were folk tales created; here was the triumph of poverty over riches, of industry over idleness.

Last autumn it was proved to me that I had been judged and had found my level in the market. Toward the end of September I was buying one of the deliciously sweet, dark green honeydew melons from my rough-coated terrier. As he dropped it into my basket he remarked regretfully, ‘The real toffs, once hoysters is hin, they won’t look at a melon!’ I could n’t resist repeating this remark to my luncheon guests, though it reflected little honor on me or my meal.

But, though he regrets my lack of genuine toffhood, I feel that my cockney terrier is not without a certain admiration and affection for me, for ‘’Ere you are, my little cock sparrow!’ he cried the other day, as he tipped costard apples into my basket. This description of my middle-aged, none too slender, and very obviously female self convulsed the young friend who was with me, but I have added it to my valued store of pleasant if incongruous compliments. It was, however, a better description of the speaker. Poor, plucky little London cock sparrow, may he never lack for crumbs!