‘Who’s Pete?’

‘Keeps an antique stall. You’d better be careful not to undercut him, he can be touchy. So can Gladys.’

‘Does she have an antique stall too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what on earth am I doing with one?’

Mavis suppressed a grin at the repetition. ‘The more antique stalls the better, stupid. People come every week to look for junk. If it’s any good, it finds its way to London. The dealers come. You’ll get to know them.’

‘Ah.’

‘You will put them in your books. Perhaps you’ve thought of that?’

Laura had; Laura had pointed out his stall would be useful copy. Claud asked, ‘Any stalls selling machinery?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Household machines.’

‘There’s one that sells old fridges and mixers, ancient mangles, that sort of thing. Collectors’ pieces. Why?’

‘Just interested.’

‘When we’ve set up your stall, you can look round, get to know where everybody is. I’ll mind your stall, if you don’t take too long, until I go to work.’

‘Thanks.’ Claud followed Mavis to the kitchen where she gave him tea. As he drank he eyed Mavis, wondering whether there might be a place for her in his novel, but always as he watched her it was Laura who was superimposed, the dark woman blotting her out, the two obliterating the memory of another girl, a girl he did not wish to think about from his recent past.

Claud enjoyed the early bustle of the market, the setting up of stalls, the unloading of vans, the disjointed conversations between people who knew each other well yet had not met for a week. Everybody seemed to know Mavis. ‘Hi, Mavis, how’s the theatre then?’ ‘Got a star part yet?’ ‘Still on the dole?’ ‘Resting?’ ‘Never! Working in the old wine bar? See you later then, after market.’

Mavis showed him how to set up the trestles, found him a place next to Brian and Susie ‘Pure uncontaminated organically grown fruit and veg’. He was glad of their proximity, amused that Mavis, testing the air with a wet finger, chose a place upwind. She had brought a paisley shawl (‘Don’t sell this, it belongs to Mum’) which she spread over the trestle table, then helped him arrange his wares. As predicted Pete came across to view, followed by Gladys. Neither Pete, who was bearded and bespectacled, or Gladys, who had tight white curls and awful lipstick, did more than nod when Mavis introduced Claud. They stared at Claud’s things making rapid, but minute, inventory. Pete picked up a china mug with a floral design: ‘I have one like this. I’ve marked it seventeen pounds.’

‘What have I put on mine?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘I’ll mark it up then.’ (I am cautious, not cowardly.)

‘Good boy,’ said Gladys. The lipstick had spread onto her teeth.

Pete laughed, his face transformed. ‘Mine’s a bit chipped,’ he said. ‘Some wally may buy both.’ He wandered back to his own stall, taking Gladys with him.