‘Er, no, it’s rhubarb and ginger,’ she ignored the old lady’s disappointed twist of her lips, ‘which is a very traditional flavour combination. All home-made.’ She held the jar with a hand on the top and the bottom and smiled.
‘Hmm.’ The woman shuffled closer and read the label. ‘It’s not damson though, is it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ she had to concede.
‘Oh, well. Bye now.’ It took her another three minutes to move past the stall.
Her day didn’t get any better. Regan was stacking the last jars into a box and wondering how the hell she was going to get them back to the car when another stallholder appeared and introduced himself as Ken.
‘Oh, you’re the honey man,’ she said. His face brightened. ‘If you’re worried about me killing your business then I wouldn’t. I’ve had another crap day and I probably won’t be back.’ It was petulant, but it was how she felt – and if he was going to moan at her it would be the thing that would tip her over the edge.
Ken laughed like he had a front-row seat for comedy night. ‘You’ll hear “killing my business!” a lot. Along with “guess what management have done” and “watch out Romans, Boadicea’s on the rampage again”.’ His good humour made her smile. ‘It’s a hard life on the market. One day up, another down. If you are serious about making it successful, you’ – he pointed at her – ‘have to be resilient.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I am. I’ve put hours into this already.’ If she was honest she’d thought the hard bit was doing all the setupand learning how to make jam, but she was fast realising that wasn’t the case.
‘Good. Want some advice?’ She nodded eagerly. ‘Get to know the other stallholders. Lots of people come and go, so make it known you plan to stick around. Improve your signage.’ They both stared at her A4 page bulldog-clipped to the table – he had a point. ‘“Sticky Situations” is funny and it will intrigue people, but only if they can see the sign from a distance, so it needs to be much bigger. Do you have any jam samples?’
‘I can’t afford to give any away.’
‘Come here a sec,’ he said, and she followed him back to his stall.
A large rustic table had three tiers of neat jars of honey – probably about fifty jars in all, each one clearly labelled. Ken picked up a pot of what looked like wooden coffee stirrers. ‘Here. Try some.’
She took a stick and perused the many jars. So many different flavours of honey; she had no idea. She’d thought honey was honey. A jar labelledwildflower meadowcaught her eye. She dipped her stick in, picked up a tiny dribble of honey and popped it in her mouth. It tasted divine. Ken took the used stick off her. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ he asked, and she nodded eagerly. ‘That one is a more delicate flavour. Would you like a small jar of that, or do you want to try something more intense? Or perhaps something a bit more exotic, like honey with cardamom, or chocolate and vanilla?’
She blinked a couple of times. ‘Umm, well … ah …’ Bloody hell, she’d lost money today – she couldn’t go buying anything.
Ken dissolved into hysterics. ‘I’m kidding with you. But that’s how you get people to buy your stuff. I’m trying toshow you the difference.’ He pointed at his stall and then back at the sad sight of hers. The contrast was huge.
‘That was really clever.’ If she’d had the cash she would have bought a jar. The layout of his stall was enticing, and the big labels helped you find what you wanted. But tasting it was the clincher.
He nodded proudly. ‘Years of practice.’ He dropped the used stick in a bin. ‘And one more thing. Listen to your customers: they might just give you an idea.’
Regan went back to her stall feeling like the day had no longer been a total waste of time. Mostly, but not totally. Maybe today wasn’t the day she’d give up.
‘Here you go,’ said Jag, plonking down a large crate of red peppers. ‘All yours if you want them.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any damsons, have you?’ she asked, the tiniest ray of optimism permeating the gloom.
As Regan was leaving the market she was pulled up short as, for the most fleeting of moments, she thought she saw Kevin. Malcolm came to join her where she was standing fixed to the pavement.
‘Bernice will be on the warpath if she spots those shelters,’ said Malcolm, pointing to where a couple of homeless people had set up tents on The Level. ‘When they put them up near the market last year she rang the council every hour until someone came and took them away.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Regan, unable to drag her gaze away from the person she could now clearly see didn’t look much like Kevin at all. ‘People need shelter. They need proper housing, but at least a tent keeps the worst of the weather off.’
‘I agree, but Bernice worries it gives the wrong impression to people visiting Brighton.’
‘Some people don’t get that being homeless isn’t a lifestyle choice,’ replied Regan, at last pulling her eyes away.
‘No car?’ asked Malcolm.
‘Yes, but it’s parked a marathon away.’
‘I can run you over,’ he suggested.
‘What?’ asked Regan, her head snapping round at his turn of phrase.
He looked horrified at his own words. ‘I’m so sorry. No. I didn’t mean run you over. I meant drive you to wherever you left your car.’ He looked mortified.
