would attempt to share a cigarette with me, forgetting as usual I don’t smoke. And we’d watch the violent images swim across the screen for the umpteenth time and I would not want to spoil it. Because there, at Mike’s, in his attic bedroom with the tiny window and posters of Star Wars and Bruce Lee, I could pretend I was lovable, that Mike and I were meant to be together and life could be normal. But I couldn’t pretend today. Not about this.
“Meet me at Teddy’s.” I said.
I felt, rather than heard, Mike’s displeasure. The Teddy Bear’s Picnic was a twee little tourist trap in Winby, with gingham tablecloths and toadstool salt and pepper pots, not to mention a giant mural of toys all enjoying themselves. It was hardly the place someone like Mike would want to be seen. But The Foc’s’le pub down on the seafront would not be open yet; besides, his friends could well be there playing pool and I needed to be able to talk to Mike alone, with no potential interruptions.
“Just come here.” He whinged. Even though it was well past midday, Mike probably wasn’t even up yet, but lounging around his attic bedroom in his boxers.
“I’m serious, Mike.” I felt something snap inside me. I had already travelled the best part of an hour on a bus, the least he could do is throw on some clothes and walk five minutes down the road to the damn tearooms.
“Fine.” He sighed, as if I had just asked a gargantuan task of him. With that, he hung up. Suddenly, a car horn blasted at me and I realised I was still standing in the middle of the rapidly filling car park, in one of the remaining spaces next to the clock tower. A huge beast of a car with a heavily coiffured and manicured lady behind the wheel waited impatiently. There was a pink car seat in the back, a PRINCESS ON BOARD sign in the rear window. I wondered if the sign related to the driver or the little girl in the car seat. Normally I would have skulked out the way shamefully, my cheeks red, but today I was beyond caring. I moved on, but not before I gave the driver The Finger, delighting for a moment in the perfect “o” of her surprised, over-glossed, fuchsia pink lips.
Walking through town, I saw why the market place had been empty: there was a demonstration on. Led by market people and market-goers, banners proclaimed against a supermarket chain’s imminent arrival in Winby and called for market towns’ continued survival by traditional means only. I dodged demonstrators and their whistles and drums: there was a seemingly endless throng of people with signs, plus men and women with toddlers in pushchairs and on their shoulders. Policemen and women in neon yellow jackets presided over the demonstration without malice, merely filtering people through the agreed routes and directing those who were lost or had been separated from friends and colleagues. A local news crew had set up their cameras ahead of the procession and were filming, the cameraman slack-jawed and bored, chewing gum as he waited for the crowd to pass.
Though peaceful in nature, the noise was horrendous. A tall woman with a megaphone kept yelling, over and over again the same slogan: “No ifs! No buts! We will not let our market shut!” I wondered where they had all come from; I could not remember seeing such a show of solidarity before. Then just as suddenly, I was out the other side of the crowd and into the side street Teddy’s was situated on. As I had predicted, the place was dead: a bored girl in a black and dark red uniform lolled behind the counter. She barely looked up as I entered and skulked towards a table, alone. I stared at the mural of the teddy bears opposite and noticed for the first time how faded it was. Chairs had hit the wall as they’d been scraped back, again and again, by their previous occupants. A rag doll on the left was missing half her face.
“Yes, what can I get you.” The girl materialised by my table as if by magic, her face utterly
“Meet me at Teddy’s.” I said.
I felt, rather than heard, Mike’s displeasure. The Teddy Bear’s Picnic was a twee little tourist trap in Winby, with gingham tablecloths and toadstool salt and pepper pots, not to mention a giant mural of toys all enjoying themselves. It was hardly the place someone like Mike would want to be seen. But The Foc’s’le pub down on the seafront would not be open yet; besides, his friends could well be there playing pool and I needed to be able to talk to Mike alone, with no potential interruptions.
“Just come here.” He whinged. Even though it was well past midday, Mike probably wasn’t even up yet, but lounging around his attic bedroom in his boxers.
“I’m serious, Mike.” I felt something snap inside me. I had already travelled the best part of an hour on a bus, the least he could do is throw on some clothes and walk five minutes down the road to the damn tearooms.
“Fine.” He sighed, as if I had just asked a gargantuan task of him. With that, he hung up. Suddenly, a car horn blasted at me and I realised I was still standing in the middle of the rapidly filling car park, in one of the remaining spaces next to the clock tower. A huge beast of a car with a heavily coiffured and manicured lady behind the wheel waited impatiently. There was a pink car seat in the back, a PRINCESS ON BOARD sign in the rear window. I wondered if the sign related to the driver or the little girl in the car seat. Normally I would have skulked out the way shamefully, my cheeks red, but today I was beyond caring. I moved on, but not before I gave the driver The Finger, delighting for a moment in the perfect “o” of her surprised, over-glossed, fuchsia pink lips.
Walking through town, I saw why the market place had been empty: there was a demonstration on. Led by market people and market-goers, banners proclaimed against a supermarket chain’s imminent arrival in Winby and called for market towns’ continued survival by traditional means only. I dodged demonstrators and their whistles and drums: there was a seemingly endless throng of people with signs, plus men and women with toddlers in pushchairs and on their shoulders. Policemen and women in neon yellow jackets presided over the demonstration without malice, merely filtering people through the agreed routes and directing those who were lost or had been separated from friends and colleagues. A local news crew had set up their cameras ahead of the procession and were filming, the cameraman slack-jawed and bored, chewing gum as he waited for the crowd to pass.
Though peaceful in nature, the noise was horrendous. A tall woman with a megaphone kept yelling, over and over again the same slogan: “No ifs! No buts! We will not let our market shut!” I wondered where they had all come from; I could not remember seeing such a show of solidarity before. Then just as suddenly, I was out the other side of the crowd and into the side street Teddy’s was situated on. As I had predicted, the place was dead: a bored girl in a black and dark red uniform lolled behind the counter. She barely looked up as I entered and skulked towards a table, alone. I stared at the mural of the teddy bears opposite and noticed for the first time how faded it was. Chairs had hit the wall as they’d been scraped back, again and again, by their previous occupants. A rag doll on the left was missing half her face.
“Yes, what can I get you.” The girl materialised by my table as if by magic, her face utterly
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