“Well, so long,” said Dick, and he gave a kind of salute and started off down the street. All five men leaning over the railings nodded to him, and Flo felt that they had been staring curiously. She started across to the pots. All the crockery seemed to be piled up, but she found that this was merely an appearance caused by the things in the centre having been placed on boxes of different heights. At one side there was a big wicker clothes basket full of odd cups. Two women kept dipping, examining cups and putting them back. Another younger woman, “just getting married” Flo thought, had an eighteen inches high “Cherry Boy” which she held at arm’s length, tilting her head leftwards while she seriously considered it. There was no one trying to sell any of these things. It looked as though anyone could have walked off with anything. Apparently the stall-holders didn’t come to Moss to try to sell much, but more as a holiday. After five minutes spent by Flo idly looking over three tea-services, the woman with the “Cherry Boy” began to stare round in a business-like way.
“Five an’ six, I think,” said a man in a slouched cap, grey shirt-sleeves, and a long apron striped light and dark blue. He was leaning against a motor van with an open back in which could be seen several not very tempting cuts of beef. “Sal’s over yonder,” nodding towards a cheese stall where two women in black aprons and gum-boots were talking. Flo watched the statuette being rolled unceremoniously in yellow paper. The stall-holder handed it over rather as though it were a pound of tripe, but the young woman at once uprighted it and carried it carefully against her breast. Flo felt envious. She turned away towards a stall that was more busy than any of the others. From the cross-pieces under the awning swung attractive blouses and summer dresses on hangers, and over the rails were neatly folded nightdresses, pyjamas, vests, petticoats and knickers. But the thirteen women clustered round were not interested in these. They were all reaching and picking things up like children dipping in a bran-tub. Flo saw that the stall was really a shallow oblong box, the sides nine inches high. In it was a great tangle of material, of many kinds, many patterns, many colours. Anyone who caught sight of an end or corner that looked interesting, got hold and gave a pull. Flo couldn’t resist. After a few seconds she managed to get to the front. At first she was shy and simply watched. It was funny. Nobody appeared to want what was on top; they all seemed sure that the best bits were underneath, so that the tangle was never left still. Everything in it was nearly continuously on the move, “like a bloody lot of squirming guts” as the butcher by the open van had often thought. At last Flo reached for a piece of sky-blue crepe-de-chine, simply to feel its silkiness, and just as her fingers were about to close it started to ebb away, to disappear beneath a heavy end of red-and-brown tweed. Flo snatched back her hand, as if it had been about to do something wrong. Then a glance across showed her a tall thin woman in gold pince-nez and a feathered straw hat vigorously tugging sky-blue by the yard. Flo couldn’t imagine what she could want crepe-de-chine for. She was tempted to grab and try to tug the material back. But she reached for a piece of deep red velvet instead because it looked so rich. There was only half a yard, but it was thick and even more luxurious to touch than to look at. While she was still enjoying it she was surprised to see the stall-holder straightening the blue crepe-de-chine along her round, scratched yard-stick. Fifteen yards, and after a little arguing the woman with the pince-nez tightened her lips and began to fiddle in her black leather handbag which had a gold clip. Flo forgot the velvet and stared after her. The antique feathered hat showed up above all other hats. It went round the outside of the cluster and Flo turned to see where the woman was going with the precious parcel. In the centre of the market stood a black-and-yellow Rolls Royce, but of antique type, with a grey-haired chauffeur in fir-green livery. The woman gave him the parcel and went on towards the pot heap.
“Bargain hunter,” said a familiar voice close behind Flo. Turning quickly, she found Jack Knight there. He grinned. “Enjoyin’ yourself?”
She took a step back and her place was at once taken by a woman in navy blue serge who pushed unceremoniously against her shoulder.
“Have you paid up?” asked Jack.
Flo was shocked to find the velvet still in her hand. She turned confusedly to put it back, but found the way blocked.
“Dunna bother,” said Jack, grasping the velvet in a far-from-clean hand. Flo let go, and he tossed it in a ball over the head of the woman in serge.
“I don’t know whatever I was doing!” exclaimed Flo. “She’ll think I was trying to steal.”