Auntie from the Market
Martin was the last one out of the café. After downing a small glass of gin in the cold, he didnt even flinch, just buttoned up his battered black overcoat and ambled home from the market.
He never went to the café simply for a drinkit was more about being around other people. The quietness at home was suffocating, so every Saturday became his little tradition. First for a bag of veg, then the corner greasy spoon, which doubled as a local pub by the afternoon. This time, he had no luckno one to talk to.
Martin had buried his wife three years ago, the daughter had settled up north and rarely rang. So he lived the life of a bachelor.
He flogged most of his things to neighbours for a song right after the funeral. What good are hens and a veg patch to one bloke when theres a market at the end of the road? Still, hed while away hours tinkering away at woodworking in his shed. Winters kept him indoors with a mug of tea and a creaky backold bones and all that.
He only gave away what he made, rarely sold anything. It was just something to keep his hands busy.
Now, on his way back from the café, Martin noticed a good, sturdy crate by the hedges, made from thick new planks. He looked aroundobviously just chucked out. There were crates everywhere at the market. He grabbed it and carried on.
Oi! You, what dyou think youre doing? Bring that back!
Martin bristled at that. He spun round to see a thickset, scruffy woman hobbling over, a grubby grey apron over her puffer jacket, head wrapped in a chunky scarf, and big wellies with galoshes. She popped out from a metal kiosk set back from the road.
Deaf, are you? I said bring the crate back, you old goat! Stop gawping!
Normally, Martin avoided confrontation and never responded to rudeness with more of the same. But maybe that nip of gin made him bolder. He didnt hand the crate back but tossed it at her feet.
There, have it then!
The crate landed corner-first. She grabbed it, grumbling and cursing, but Martind already tuned her out. Market women like that always rubbed him the wrong wayall brass and no filter, always acting like they ran the show. A year back, one of them had tried to latch onto him, showing up at his door with cheap wine. Shed started off just chatting, moaning about life, but soon enough she started pushing her way into his business.
What is it you want, then, June?
What do you think?shed given him those beady eyesWere not old yet. Why keep rattling round on our own?
I get your drift. But…
Theres one condition, she cut him off, You move in with menot going to cost you, dont worry. My house is far better than yours. Bigger, too. I love to cook, you wont miss a meal. Well sell yours, though. Need the money to set things up.
Sell?
Of course. No reason to keep it. Youll have it easywarm, with pies and roasts…
And you werent going to ask my opinion?
Im asking now. Its the only way that makes sense, dont overthink it. Ive got a concrete cellar, youve just got
She was already going on about how shed sorted their future life together. Martin let her talk, but it left a sour taste. In the end, he sent her packing. Never said hello again.
On his own, he got used to his quiet little world, missing his wifetheir life was peaceful, no drama. Even her passing was peaceful, in a hospital bed hed barely left. He was holding her hand when she slipped away, and when he woke, her hand was cold.
All these memories came as he walked.
But hed barely made it a few paces when a sharp crack and a yelp made him spin round. The market woman was flat on her back, flailing, surrounded by planksthe crate smashed beneath her. Shed sat down on it and it gave way. She kept waving her arm for help, trying to get up, but the bulk, the snowy path, and thick clothes had her stuck.
Martin hurried back. You cant just leave someone like that. He offered a hand. She looked furious but suddenly lost, wounded, groaning but grabbed his hand anyhow. He had to haul her up by the arms.
Once she was up, she stopped with the groans, wiped away her helplessness and just started hollering. Apparently, her fall was his fault.
Oh, you wretch! How does the earth put up with you! Youve done my crate in, you drunken sod! May you
She carried on, nursing her hip, cursing how that crate had always been solid, and now look what hed done. Limped away to her kiosk, dragging the remains, swearing and muttering.
Martin watched her broad back, annoyed but… felt a bit sorry for her, too.
Next morning, Martin stepped out onto the front step and squinted at the sky, like he always did to figure out what kind of Monday he was in for. He was usually a better judge than the forecasters.
Just an hour later, he was down in his shed, in an old sheepskin gilet, planing a metre-long plank with care. He admired the wood, smooth as antler and just as sturdy. The bench would have double-thick legs, solid as anything.
After a couple of days, he had a bright, sturdy, lightweight bench all varnished up and headed to the market.
The kiosk where the market woman worked was tiny. She sold greasy pasties, bottled water, fags, birdseedjust tat, really. There was an awful sign above the hatch: Weve Got Everything!
He eyed the goods, took out a few pound coins.
Ill have that chocolate bar, please.
She took the coinsfingers poking through grey woollen glovesand then suddenly noticed him, shoved the money back at him.
Not for sale!
What dyou mean, not for sale? Its right there in the window.
I dont sell to goats, she pouted, looking past him.
He chuckled, having got quite attached to his handiwork and forgot how sharp-tongued she was. Now it stung again. Well, goats dont eat chocolate, do they? Id have left it for you.
As if! The crate was just sitting there, bothering no one! No, you had to go and ruin it! Nothing but swine!
Whore you calling swine? Its just me.
All of you! You wouldnt believe the state of half the blokes I see. Cant even have a rest in peace. Id strangle you if I could!
He craned his neck to peek inside her kiosk. There was a battered old stool with a hole in the seat. Not much space in therejust room for her and the stool among the shelves.
What are you looking at? Off you go! Im telling you, Im not selling you anything.
Wont be necessary! he snapped, Heretake your bench.
Eh?
The bench! He walked round behind, tugged the door, but it was locked.
Ill have security here in a second! she called, but not quite as fiercely this time.
He went back to the hatch and hoisted the bench up.
If you wont take it, Ill bust it up, I swear! It even surprised him how cross he soundedhe nearly meant it.
Whats that for? For me?
For you! Shed called him you, so he did the same.
She disappeared a sec, then reappeared round the corner.
She stared at the bench, shaking her head, blown away. She hurriedly tucked a stray strand of hair under her scarf, suddenly flustered like a teenage girl.
But why for me? Its quite nice. Dont you need it more?
If I need another, Ill knock one up, he muttered, setting the bench in front of her, then turned and walked away.
So you made it yourself, then… Hang on! she called, Want that chocolate after all? she asked in an oddly soft, lost voice.
Suit yourself! he called over his shoulder, striding off.
He cursed himself, her, the whole situation. Blasted stubborn woman! But as he walked, he remembered her embarrassed look, the awkward way she fixed her hair. Not even properly old, just round. Wonder if shes married? He guessed notwomen married and happy rarely act like that. And stuck working in a cold shack all dayshe must be on a pension by now. If she had a husband, shed have packed that in.
Next morning, he started on a chair. A special one with a lift-up seat. Hed never made one before, so he needed fixings, which meant scavenging round the market again.
He avoided her kiosk, taking a different pathcouldnt say why. Maybe because bench-giving was enough for now, maybe just nerves about giving another present. He kept busy, working through meals, and even skipped the Saturday pubtoo busy with his new project.
But one day, he passed the kiosk again and heard her sparring fiercely with a customer. He left without saying a word.
***
It was two weeks before Martin finished the chair and mustered the nerve to bring it over. He steeled himself for scornwhat was he trying to do? The bench had been tit-for-tat for the crate, but a chair seemed over the top.
He rehearsed what hed say. Maybe hed say the chair had been sitting in his shed for ages, getting in the way, or that someone had ordered it and backed out. He sifted through excuses.
But as hed made it, hed thoughtwas it really about the chair? Or about the market woman herself? Not that she was easy on the eyerough and unkemptbut that wasnt everything. Face isnt what keeps you warm; neither of them were young anymore. Maybe it was her spirit, as difficult as it was. Did he really want someone hollering at him round the house? Course not. So why then?
He didnt have an answer. He just remembered how helpless shed looked after her fall, and later, how shed taken the bench. Maybe she just wasnt used to getting presents.
He snuck up to the kiosk from the side, hoping she wouldnt notice. But then he heardit was a new voice, with a sharp accent. He peeked in and saw a different woman behind the hatcha round face, faintly Asian features, middle-aged.
What can I get you? Pasties are fresh today.
Um, two, thanks Martin didnt even eat pastiescouldnt stomach thembut he blurted it out.
Have a few morestill warm.
No, thats enough Er, the lady who worked here before. Bit older?
Thats Tanya. Why, did she owe you anything? Youll have to wait for her.
No, nothing Martin didnt know what to do. Should he hand the chair over now? But really, hed wanted to see if the thing worked properly, whether shed like it, whether it would fit. But for some reason, he only wanted to give it to Tanya herself.
Whens she back, do you know?
Monday week. We swap every fortnight. Got a message?
The bakers assistant popped her head in from next door.
Dilara, whens Tanya back?
On the 22nd. Why dyou ask?
I need to repay her. She helped me out when my Shura needed an operation. I was at my wits end, and Tanya just stepped up with some cash for the train. Shes a blessing.
Shes helped me plenty too. Shes got a good heart, deep down.
Just unhappy, thats all Well, Ill catch her next time.
All that week Martin started tidying up again at home. He could mop and do a bit of washing, didnt fear hard graft. But real womens jobs, like scrubbing windows, that daunted him. Every plant on his windowsills had long since dried up, the pots just gathering dust till he shuffled them out to the shed. He wiped round after, feeling done.
Hed always lived with womenmother-in-law, wife, daughter. Theyd kept the place sorted; he did the repairs. But suddenly, it was just him. Daughter moved off, mother-in-law and wife passed just eighteen months apart.
He and his wife worked back in the old textile mill. He was a fitter, she was at the machines. She even sewed all their curtains herself. Theyd done all right. He never expected to end up alone.
Now his mind pulled back to old memories, and that whole life felt like a blur of workdays, all running together. Hed lie awake at night, scratching at his thinning hair, trying to revive a past that seemed to have belonged to someone else.
Would it all just end like this, quietly fading away? Was that why hed started bothering with the kiosk womanwas he after a final dash of drama?
He told himself no. But the answer wasnt clear.
He started wishing shed call round for tea, of all the people in the world. Go figure. Were there really no better women out there?
But she was all he thought about.
***
On Monday, Martin got up early, cleaned his boots, lathered up a shave, and headed to the market with the chair. She was there, counting out her stock.
Give me a minute, she said, not looking up. Then, glancing, Yes?
Morning, he said, grinning involuntarily, You open?
Yes, yes! Whatll it be? Busy day.
Well He shouldered the part-assembled chair.
Whats that? she frowned.
Chair,hed spent so long with it the words came out as if it was obvious.
What chair?
For you. Instead of that old stool, he nodded insideand saw shed swapped it for a light bentwood chair, with a cushion. Oh, the stools gone?
She saw him looking, clocked what he meant.
Whats so interesting about a stool?
Nothing, just Never mind.
Buying anything or not? she asked sharply.
No, he sighed. Those pasties had played up his stomach last time anyway, or maybe it was just all the dry bread and old cheese hed lived on recently.
She turned away, counting her receipts. Didnt care anymore.
Martin realised what a fool hed beenno one needed anything from him. He loitered a bit, wondered where to go. The pub, maybe, or give the chair to someoneanyone.
But it was empty at the café, just bright-eyed girls bustling about. He sat a while, but nothing tempted him. He wasnt thirsty, and home didnt pull him either. Eventually, he bundled up his chair, jammed his cap on, and tramped off home. Slush squeaked underfoot as he kept his gaze down, lost in his own thoughts, when he heard someone call behind him.
Oi!
He looked up. There she was, propped on his bench, snow boots poking outsat where hed found that crate, just behind the hedges. He shuffled over.
So, whatd you come for then? You really made that chair? she asked, sounding tired but at peace.
Yeah, he nodded, quickly showing her how the seat height worked, and sat beside her, balancing on his own creation.
Well I never! Got hands of gold, you have. Bet your family appreciated it.
Not really. The kitchen cupboards could do with a fix I always meant to, but theres just no-one to bother for anymore. Wifes gone, daughter lives far off, never visits.
All alone, then?
All on my own, he sighed.
He didnt expect anything now. The hope had gone; he felt daft for trying. Just sat, letting himself rest. Shed probably walk off soon, anyway.
I work here for the same reason. Gets me out of the house. Otherwise, youd rot at home, she started, suddenly confiding. Lifes a climb, then its a slide. My husband died young, left me with a lad. Lord knows, I tried to be a good mum. His dad said I spoilt him, but who wouldnt? It was hard times, just wanted him not to go short. We had a big house, three rooms. But I suppose something wasnt quite right with my Alfie.
She told her story, eyes on the middle distance.
From age twelve, her son started fires, got into trouble, made off with bits and bobs. Police got involved. Later, after army service, he nicked a carsaid he was just borrowing it, but no one believed him, and the bribes she scraped together did no good. Ended up inside. Afterwards, joined some rough lads at a market protection racket, quick with his fists. Their house became a den for all sorts. Eventually, the house was goneshe lived on Market Street back then, not far from where they sat, but it didnt belong to her now.
Then, I had a stroke. In hospital, I thought: whats left? Let the house go to the lot of them. Learned to swear like a navvy then, chased drunks out, stopped being scared. They were vile. I missed my home, she sighed, glancing up the road, Once, my son knocked me about. Left me on the kitchen floor, spitting blood, broke my nose. Told the hospital Id fallen myselfhe was my son
Thats when she sold her house, moved to a poky flat on the ground floortwenty feet squareand handed her boy the rest of the cash. Even there, he made her life hell.
Then he ended up back inside, and she ran parcels for him, posted what she could. Ten years ago, the warder sent wordher Alfie died behind bars, pneumonia.
Well, time I was off. My breaks long done, she heaved herself up with his help, Whats this chair for, exactly?
For your kiosk, he mumbled. Thought the stool was no good.
I can see what it is. Mind if I have it?
Of course. Made it for you, he blurted, look away, cheeks burning. She looked a bit surprised.
All right, then. Ill try it out with Dilara. You been out of pocket?
No, dont mention it, he waved her off.
Thanks, I suppose, she said, still wary and oddly sheepish.
No one had given her a present in ages.
What time do you finish up? He tried to ask lightly.
They headed back towards the kiosk and he eyed her galoshes.
Six, why?
I live just nearby. Thought we might have a cuppa, if you fancy.
She shot him a look of astonishment.
Maybe. If theres nothing better to do, she said, but darkened, and began stowing her things.
By half five, Martin was near the kiosk, but stayed out of sight, waiting. The moment she emerged, locking up, he sidled close.
Want a hand? he gestured at her heavy-looking bag, but she wouldnt give it over.
Oh, its you. No, dont come round. Im knackered. Headed straight home. And you can have your chair back if you wantbit awkward, that.
She tottered off towards the bus stopnot in wellies now, but some strange felt boots. Same heavy coat, same scarf, same plodding gait.
Martin watched her shuffle away until she vanished round the corner.
And she never once looked back.
