nuns had run a Magdalen laundry, in which the bad girls were employed. Some of them must have seen that wall as a barrier against all hope of escape.
And we were hunting an escapee, or a pair of escapees, so this might be a good place for them.
‘Bunny can’t have hopped a really long way,’ said Daniel, echoing my thought as he often did. ‘And this place has a lot of windows which would open and a lot of niches under the bushes.’
‘You’ve been looking at ways to break in?’
‘Certainly,’ he replied.
One thing to be said about the market was that it had no Christmas carols. A Peruvian band were hooting and thumping in the middle, spruiking their CD. I always listen for the Simon and Garfunkel song ‘El Condor Pasa’ in such music and never hear it. But at least it wasn’t ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’, for which I hope that someone will have to atone. What an evil old misanthropic bitch I am.
Goss slid into the market like a salmon into John West seas—easily, effortlessly. And she took me along with her for ademonstration of Postgraduate Shopping. Daniel shoved both hands in his jeans pockets and mooched along after us, chatting to the stall holders, the picture of a reluctant male attendee.
Clever man. I had no intention of buying anything, anyway. But it was an interesting market, and following Goss was engrossing. She would drift along, talking idly of this and that—wondering, in fact, how Jason would get on with Bunny—and then suddenly stiffen like a pointer, dive into a mass of garments, and drag one forth. And it appeared that I was going to buy things.
‘Boho, that’s the look for you,’ Goss decided. ‘Long skirt, loose blouse, maybe a big belt.’
‘None of it will fit me!’ I protested, veteran of many humiliating attempts to shoehorn my curves into standard garments. Goss shot me a look so loaded with scorn that I suppressed further comment.
‘You’re a perfect size 20,’ she told me. I blinked. ‘Perfect’ had never been a term used with ‘size 20’ in my hearing before. But I continued to protest. Privately. Hell would freeze over—I spared a moment to apologise to any Sisters of the Good Shepherd who might still be around in spectral form—before I bought any of this overpriced tat, Goss or no Goss.
Actually it wasn’t tat. Not all of it. There were some lovely Chinese-influenced shirts with mandarin collars and some very elegant forties’ style Dior and Chanel suits, entirely unsuited to the Chapman figure. But Goss had been very helpful and I decided I could put up with some shopping once in a way. I was sure that she would be diverted into buying something for herself once she found, as she was going to find, that nothing was over size 10. And if I approved of what she was going to buy I would purchase it for her; she deserved a little present. The wind had died down, but it was still unacceptably hot, and the rows of hanging railsand little tents seemed to go on forever. The Peruvians thumped and bubbled. Daniel sidled along, looking bored.
Then I found a seller who sold shaved ice with fruit cordial, which made me feel better. And then a stone cutter. That was more like it. Crystals and polished rocks of all colours sparkled in the sun. I didn’t dare buy a crystal without consulting Meroe, our local witch, but there was a large slice of opalescent shell which attracted my fingers. Goss wandered away as I bought it and hung it around my neck. Lovely.
I was just sucking down the last of my orange ice when both of my companions emerged from the crowd and grabbed an elbow each.
‘I got her first,’ Goss told Daniel.
‘All right, but I get her next,’ he grumbled.
I didn’t seem to be getting a lot of choice, but I was feeling full of icy fruitiness so I went along with Goss, who conducted me into a close, hot tent and started dragging off my garments. Over my head she threw a thin, lacy petticoat and then a floaty skirt in some sort of
And we were hunting an escapee, or a pair of escapees, so this might be a good place for them.
‘Bunny can’t have hopped a really long way,’ said Daniel, echoing my thought as he often did. ‘And this place has a lot of windows which would open and a lot of niches under the bushes.’
‘You’ve been looking at ways to break in?’
‘Certainly,’ he replied.
One thing to be said about the market was that it had no Christmas carols. A Peruvian band were hooting and thumping in the middle, spruiking their CD. I always listen for the Simon and Garfunkel song ‘El Condor Pasa’ in such music and never hear it. But at least it wasn’t ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’, for which I hope that someone will have to atone. What an evil old misanthropic bitch I am.
Goss slid into the market like a salmon into John West seas—easily, effortlessly. And she took me along with her for ademonstration of Postgraduate Shopping. Daniel shoved both hands in his jeans pockets and mooched along after us, chatting to the stall holders, the picture of a reluctant male attendee.
Clever man. I had no intention of buying anything, anyway. But it was an interesting market, and following Goss was engrossing. She would drift along, talking idly of this and that—wondering, in fact, how Jason would get on with Bunny—and then suddenly stiffen like a pointer, dive into a mass of garments, and drag one forth. And it appeared that I was going to buy things.
‘Boho, that’s the look for you,’ Goss decided. ‘Long skirt, loose blouse, maybe a big belt.’
‘None of it will fit me!’ I protested, veteran of many humiliating attempts to shoehorn my curves into standard garments. Goss shot me a look so loaded with scorn that I suppressed further comment.
‘You’re a perfect size 20,’ she told me. I blinked. ‘Perfect’ had never been a term used with ‘size 20’ in my hearing before. But I continued to protest. Privately. Hell would freeze over—I spared a moment to apologise to any Sisters of the Good Shepherd who might still be around in spectral form—before I bought any of this overpriced tat, Goss or no Goss.
Actually it wasn’t tat. Not all of it. There were some lovely Chinese-influenced shirts with mandarin collars and some very elegant forties’ style Dior and Chanel suits, entirely unsuited to the Chapman figure. But Goss had been very helpful and I decided I could put up with some shopping once in a way. I was sure that she would be diverted into buying something for herself once she found, as she was going to find, that nothing was over size 10. And if I approved of what she was going to buy I would purchase it for her; she deserved a little present. The wind had died down, but it was still unacceptably hot, and the rows of hanging railsand little tents seemed to go on forever. The Peruvians thumped and bubbled. Daniel sidled along, looking bored.
Then I found a seller who sold shaved ice with fruit cordial, which made me feel better. And then a stone cutter. That was more like it. Crystals and polished rocks of all colours sparkled in the sun. I didn’t dare buy a crystal without consulting Meroe, our local witch, but there was a large slice of opalescent shell which attracted my fingers. Goss wandered away as I bought it and hung it around my neck. Lovely.
I was just sucking down the last of my orange ice when both of my companions emerged from the crowd and grabbed an elbow each.
‘I got her first,’ Goss told Daniel.
‘All right, but I get her next,’ he grumbled.
I didn’t seem to be getting a lot of choice, but I was feeling full of icy fruitiness so I went along with Goss, who conducted me into a close, hot tent and started dragging off my garments. Over my head she threw a thin, lacy petticoat and then a floaty skirt in some sort of
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