“On that excessively happy note,” Simon put in, “I’m off.” He kissed Deborah on the forehead and began to turn.
She grabbed his arm, saying, “Be a proper husband, please.”
He kissed her mouth, saying, “You taste of chocolate.”
“Dad’s already been to the bakery. Pain au chocolat. You know I must have it once a week. Will kill for it if necessary.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t ever come to that.”
He kissed her again and headed for the doorway to the garden steps as Cotter called out, “Turbot for dinner?” and Deborah added, “We can eat in the garden, under the tree.”
Simon said, “Peach will doubtless be wildly in favour of that.”
He left them, then, and they heard him climb the steps. He would cross the garden and go through the gate to access the garage on Lordship Place. Inside, the true love of his life sat parked: an antique MG TD, altered to accommodate his need for a hand-operated clutch.
Cotter said, “Wish he’d get rid of that motor, I do.”
“Whyever?” Deborah said, looking again at the portraits she’d taken.
“Safety features,” was Cotter’s reply. “He doesn’t need a second car crash. The first was bad enough. An’ I don’t like it when he skips his sessions on the leg.”
Deborah said, “Hmmm. Well, if that’s the biggest of your worries, I expect you’re actually quite a happy man.”
“An’ what about you, girl?”
Deborah tilted her head to consider the idea. “I expect I’m as happy as I make myself be.”
Her father put eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her. Alerted, Peach decamped from her basket and approached, tail wagging enthusiastically. Cotter said, “I know what’ll make this one happy, I do.”
“Don’t you dare,” Deborah said.
RIDLEY ROAD MARKET
DALSTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
It was midday when Monifa turned into Ridley Road. She could feel the pavement through the soles of her sandals, so blazingly hot it was. There’d been former potholes filled with tarmac along her route from Mayville Estate, and in the searing sun the tarmac was going soft. There was no breeze and, in the sky, not a cloud to be seen. In the market, a few electric fans were whirring, extensions on their flexes running into nearby shops. But they provided relief only to those who stood directly before them, having sweated through their clothing.
As if impervious to the temperature, the stalls and barrows were colourful as always: the peppers red, the plantains green, the bananas yellow. There were pyramids of ripe tomatoes, Puma yams lined up like removed appendages, aubergines so shiny that they looked artificial, strawberries, blueberries, and leafy greens. The air was awash with battling scents: turmeric and garlic, clove and parsley, incense and offal. Here was palm oil, there was boxed fufu: flour, plantain, cassava, and cocoyam. Meat was on offer from butcher shops like Abeo’s and from stalls: every kind of meat someone would ever want. Cows’ legs? Right. Goat’s head? Yes. Tripe, heart, liver, kidney? They were available. Just point out what you want and someone will wrap it for you for tonight’s dinner.
There were also takeaway food stalls selling crab claws, rice, and chicken. All with chips and each one for a fiver.
And then the music. It blared at such a volume that anyone wishing to have a conversation had to shout or duck inside one of the shops and close the door. These lined the street on both sides, directly behind the stalls: Ghana Food Store, Boboto from the Congo, Into Africa Groceries Etc., Rose Ebeneezer Afro Hairstylist. There were establishments where one could have eyebrow threading done, places for waxing any part of the body one might wish to wax, shops selling fashions, bakeries selling naan, both shops and stalls selling meats and fish.
Simisola’s destination was normally Cake Decorating by Masha, a bakery that extended the length and breadth of the upper storey of The Party Shop. She earned money there to contribute to the family pot: setting up for classes and cleaning everything afterwards. But a stop there had told Monifa that there were no cake decorating classes today, so she headed to Talatu’s Fashions for the Head, which was situated dead in the middle of the market. Simi also earned money from Talatu, supplying her with ready-made head wraps in various styles, and Monifa had learned that her everyday turbans had been popular for the entire season. Indeed, several customers had placed specific requests, Talatu informed her: two more ready-made turbans using the lion pattern and three more of the material featuring lilies.