The Posy Ring Episode 25

The usually cheerful and friendly Glaswegians seemed surly and uncommunicative. And when the men – it was always scruffy, middleaged men – crowded around her as she was struggling to unpack her bits and pieces, they felt stifling, faintly menacing and she was aware that her heart was racing.

“Get a bloody move on, hen!” one of them muttered, grabbing a newspaperwrapped package before she could stop him. It contained a teapot in the shape of a white rabbit. “We huvnae got all day! I’ll gie ye 50p for this!”

She recognised him as another stallholder. She still sees him in the salerooms she frequents: a big man with a face like a ham, fingers like sausages, his belly protruding, even under his winter jacket.

He seldom pays much for anything, but he likes to stand at the back and talk loudly about the “business” and about the bargains he has found. He also likes to slag off his customers, whom he appears to loathe.

She snatched the pot back from him, almost dropping it. “Leave that alone!” “Keep your hair on, hen!”

That was when a man who had been standing at the back of the crowd trying to see what she had already put out edged his way to the front of the group and turned to face his fellow dealers, blocking their view of the stall.

“Patience, gentlemen!” he said.

One of them jeered at him. “Get out of the way, pal!”

That was when the newcomer’s voice changed suddenly to pure Glasgow. “Oh aye? Are you planning to make me, pal?”

It should have been daft. He wasn’t exactly a muscle man. Even though he was wearing a winter jacket and was muffled in a scarf, he was whip thin, tall and spare.

All the same, her first thought back then was that he looked dangerous, as though he could handle himself in a fight. Duck and dive like a boxer.

There was a sort of controlled aggression about him in this situation.

She thought that he would make a far better friend than an enemy, which was just as well, since he seemed to have decided to play the gentleman.

“Ach, away back to your ain stall, Jimmy

Johnson,” he said quite lazily and with a little grin.

She was shocked by some of his choicer language, which seemed at odds with his smart jacket, his shiny shoes.

“We all ken fine you like to bully folk into giein ye the stuff for nuthin’! Especially wee lassies!” He looked around. “Is that no’ true?”

Unexpectedly, there were a few nods and murmurs of agreement from the other men. “You got a stall here the day, Jimmy?” he asked, switching from intimidating to friendly in an instant.

“Aye, I have.” Jimmy seemed reluctant to answer but couldn’t help himself.

“And does Big Agnes ken you’re harassing wee lassies?”

There were a few sniggers from the crowd. Big Agnes was Jimmy’s wife. Daisy sees her in the salerooms to this day. She plonks herself down in the front seat and stays there. It’s always Jimmy who does the bidding. Agnes is the keeper of the purse, though. She’s a formidable woman as only west of Scotland women can be.

When she nips out for a fag, she leaves her hat and gloves on the seat and woe betide the unsuspecting punter who moves them.

One of the spectators said: “Christ, your coat’ll be hingin’ on a shoogly peg if she finds out, Jimmy.”

The rest of the men guffawed – that loud, ostentatious laughter that only men seem to indulge in.

The bully spread his hands, backed away. “OK, OK,” he said. “I was just looking for a bargain.”

“Aren’ t we all?” The younger man grinned. “I’ll be along later. Have a wee word with Agnes. See what you’ve got.”

Daisy unwrapped a few more of her items, in a hurry to get it done now while there was a human barrier, however tenuous, between her and the more predatory dealers.

“You?” The bully looked at her saviour with thinly disguised contempt overlying a certain nervousness. There was something about the newcomer that the older man clearly found intimidating.

Daisy could understand it, but couldn’t quite put her finger on why it should be the case.

“I don’t deal in your kind of stuff.”

“Naw. Nae virtuous objects for you, eh, Jimmy?”

Jimmy looked puzzled, as well he might. But Daisy found herself smiling. Objets de vertu. Who on earth was her scathing knight in shining armour? She didn’t entirely approve of him mocking somebody else’s ignorance, but then, Jimmy was asking for it.

Did he belong to one of the city auction houses? Well, he didn’t sound as though he did. Not posh enough.

He sounded as though he belonged to Glasgow, with that hard edge to his voice and his gallus manner – that Glasgow word meaning bold, cheeky, flashy even – although there was something else, something softer and more foreign lurking just below the surface. She was intrigued.

The crowd shuffled off in search of more novelties. Her saviour stuck his hands in his pockets and turned away.

“Thank you,” she said. “It was very kind of you to rescue me.”

“Any time! Though I expect you’d have managed. I just couldn’t resist the chance to piss him off. He’s such an idiot though, isn’t he? All mouth and nae trousers.

“I’d best be on my way, hen. He’s right. All the good stuff goes early. Just that you don’t have to bully folk to get it!”

He gave her a brief wave and headed off into the crowd. That was that. She had thought him attractive and she still does. Briefly, she had even fantasised about him coming back, bringing c o ff e e and doughnuts from one of the stalls that sold supplies to hungry dealers and visitors. But, of course, he hadn’t come back. Why would he, she thought, when she was in shabby winter clothes, her hair scraped back, her skin pallid from the early start and a cold sore just starting on her lip.

She had never seen him again until earlier today, at Auchenblae. Cal Galbraith. Antique dealer and unlikely boot sale hero.

Her first thought back then was that he looked dangerous, as though he could handle himself in a fight. Duck and dive

More tomorrow.

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.