Stories by Anne Knight
Ben Goes Walking and I Go to Church
Craft Fair
Today was a Sunday and after I got up I rang my
son but got no reply. I knew that he had a study paper to put in on
Monday so I went back upstairs. There was a knock on the door.
Thinking it might be my son, I went down again. It was a walking friend
of Ben’s, who was still upstairs. I called: ‘It’s your Scots pal, he
wants to know if you’re having a walk. Put on your dressing gown and
come down. Tell him it’s cancelled.’ After a few minutes discussion the
two of them decided to go walking anyway. Before they went Ben had a
quick breakfast, which he was just finishing when I left for church. On
the bus I met another lady who goes to St Peter’s. On alighting we went
our separate ways, as I worship at St Mary's in the market place.
On my arrival at the market I found there was to be another craft fair.
Gosh, how annoying can that be as all I have with me is my money for the
collection, my bus pass and keys. After the service was over I decided
to have a good look round anyway. After looking at many stalls I passed
between two empty ones and came to a stall that had bells ringing in my
head. It seemed familiar. A small lady with short grey hair and glasses
smiled. I smiled back. Being quizzical, I asked if she had been on the
old Castle Yard Market. ‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘Did you sell lots of
embroidery?’ ‘Oh yes!’ ‘Is your name Joan?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘Do you remember me,’
I asked? My face was remembered by the 80-year-old and we talked of the
silks she used to have and the embroidery patterns too, ready to put on
a piece of linen to make a table cloth.
She told me that she had given it up when she lost her husband seventeen
years ago. She asked me the time and I enquired of a lady but her watch
had stopped. After a long talk over treasured memories it was time to
move on. I went to another stall where they had Czech dolls. The stall
holder claimed they were Polish but when my daughter was young I’d
bought her some and the boxes said ‘Made in Czechoslovakia.’
I asked her the time: ‘Joan would like to know, she’s now eighty.’
‘Eighty,’ was the reply, ‘Gosh that’s wonderful.’ The stallholder
listened as I told her about when Mum and I used to go to the market on
Tuesdays when it was only the Flea Market. This was our day out. Oh what
stories I could tell of the stall holders, each different in their own
individual way. Only two stalls, that I can remember, still stand on the
new Tuesday Market.
It’s not a patch on the old one, which was a community through and
through.