included. She did notice, however, that Sam Beckett, and the Georges, abstained, which she found rather interesting.
The sprawl of the market was spreading. The number of barrows in the surrounding area from Tonman Street to Deansgate, as well as all along Champion Street itself, was steadily increasing, adding to the liveliness and popularity of the place. One side of the market hall now had an extension, hygienically enclosing the new meat and fish market beneath a glass roof.
Irma Southworth, tilting her biscuit tins at just the right angle for her customers to make a selection as she did every morning, felt compelled, much against her better judgement, to admit that this was one improvement at least that Belle Garside had achieved. It was something her own husband Joe had failed to do when he was market superintendent. It grieved her to have to concede this fact as Belle had at one time enjoyed what she termed ‘a little fling’ with Irma’s husband. And despite her having known Belle for years, Irma could still barely speak a civil word to the woman.
Nevertheless, as a consequence of the recent improvements she’d made, people now came from far and wide to explore the market to taste Bertalones’ ice cream, buy Lizzie Pringle’s chocolate mints and whirligig lollies, savour Big Molly Poulson’s meat and potato pies and Jimmy Ramsay’s pork sausages. They loved to listen to the stallholders’ banter, watch plates being juggled, take part in a mock auction and buy something they never wanted at a knock-down price they simply couldn’t resist.
It was a tragedy that, if the rumours were true, all of this would soon have to go, swept away in a thorough cleansing of everything that was old and Victorian in the city’s relentless quest for progress.
Irma loved the market. Her family had been involved with markets and fairs for generations. She could remember a time when the stallholders used a language all their own. They’d turn a word upside down so that one became eno, and ten turned into net. She couldn’t remember why. She also recalled the flower gazers that used to cluster along Piccadilly. They’d carry huge baskets hung on a strap round their neck and would have to stand in the gutter to do their selling, not allowed to even set foot on the pavement or they’d be fined.
The flower gazers were all gone now in this rapidly changing, modern world, so it was a real treat to see Betty Hemley setting out her flower buckets, still trying to hang on to the old ways. There wasn’t much Betty missed seated there amongst her flowers. She not only knew the language of flowers, she understood people and what made them tick. Betty liked tradition, for things to stay the way they were, and Irma felt exactly the same.
She rather thought it was because she, like Betty Hemley, was so set in her ways, a bit old fashioned she supposed, that Joe had grown bored with her. Belle Garside had been only one of several women over the years who had fired his blood, encouraging him to grasp at a youth long gone. He had one on the go at the moment. Though Irma had her suspicions, she couldn’t quite make up her mind who it was. It couldn’t be Betty’s daughter Lynda, because she was having an on-off affair with Terry Hall. Besides, she was far too young.
Nor could it be Judy Beckett because she was embroiled in a bitter divorce with her husband, Sam, who ran the ironmongery stall, not to mention a fierce custody battle over their two children. What a mess that marriage was in. It was always worse where children were involved.
As things had turned out, Irma was thankful that she had only the one son. Ian was thirty now, and seemed to be very happily married, thank goodness. She also had two delightful grandchildren who were the light of her life.
There had been a time when Irma had wanted more babies of her own, but none had come along, and then once Ian had left home, and because of her husband’s philandering,
The sprawl of the market was spreading. The number of barrows in the surrounding area from Tonman Street to Deansgate, as well as all along Champion Street itself, was steadily increasing, adding to the liveliness and popularity of the place. One side of the market hall now had an extension, hygienically enclosing the new meat and fish market beneath a glass roof.
Irma Southworth, tilting her biscuit tins at just the right angle for her customers to make a selection as she did every morning, felt compelled, much against her better judgement, to admit that this was one improvement at least that Belle Garside had achieved. It was something her own husband Joe had failed to do when he was market superintendent. It grieved her to have to concede this fact as Belle had at one time enjoyed what she termed ‘a little fling’ with Irma’s husband. And despite her having known Belle for years, Irma could still barely speak a civil word to the woman.
Nevertheless, as a consequence of the recent improvements she’d made, people now came from far and wide to explore the market to taste Bertalones’ ice cream, buy Lizzie Pringle’s chocolate mints and whirligig lollies, savour Big Molly Poulson’s meat and potato pies and Jimmy Ramsay’s pork sausages. They loved to listen to the stallholders’ banter, watch plates being juggled, take part in a mock auction and buy something they never wanted at a knock-down price they simply couldn’t resist.
It was a tragedy that, if the rumours were true, all of this would soon have to go, swept away in a thorough cleansing of everything that was old and Victorian in the city’s relentless quest for progress.
Irma loved the market. Her family had been involved with markets and fairs for generations. She could remember a time when the stallholders used a language all their own. They’d turn a word upside down so that one became eno, and ten turned into net. She couldn’t remember why. She also recalled the flower gazers that used to cluster along Piccadilly. They’d carry huge baskets hung on a strap round their neck and would have to stand in the gutter to do their selling, not allowed to even set foot on the pavement or they’d be fined.
The flower gazers were all gone now in this rapidly changing, modern world, so it was a real treat to see Betty Hemley setting out her flower buckets, still trying to hang on to the old ways. There wasn’t much Betty missed seated there amongst her flowers. She not only knew the language of flowers, she understood people and what made them tick. Betty liked tradition, for things to stay the way they were, and Irma felt exactly the same.
She rather thought it was because she, like Betty Hemley, was so set in her ways, a bit old fashioned she supposed, that Joe had grown bored with her. Belle Garside had been only one of several women over the years who had fired his blood, encouraging him to grasp at a youth long gone. He had one on the go at the moment. Though Irma had her suspicions, she couldn’t quite make up her mind who it was. It couldn’t be Betty’s daughter Lynda, because she was having an on-off affair with Terry Hall. Besides, she was far too young.
Nor could it be Judy Beckett because she was embroiled in a bitter divorce with her husband, Sam, who ran the ironmongery stall, not to mention a fierce custody battle over their two children. What a mess that marriage was in. It was always worse where children were involved.
As things had turned out, Irma was thankful that she had only the one son. Ian was thirty now, and seemed to be very happily married, thank goodness. She also had two delightful grandchildren who were the light of her life.
There had been a time when Irma had wanted more babies of her own, but none had come along, and then once Ian had left home, and because of her husband’s philandering,
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