The Sunflower and the Sparrow by Fred Simpson

Author:Fred Simpson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Indelible Ink

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Eleanor was standing to leave, when Henry added, “I’ve been offered two corporate tickets for the Chiefs’ next big one, against the Sharks – the South African outfit – you game?”

“No, thank you, Henry. Another time. Can we pay here?”

“Sure. Fifty-fifty okay with you?”

“Of course.”

His parting kiss lingered longer and landed closer to her lips than the greeting had, and it imparted a smudge of chicken fat on her cheek.

Every Saturday morning and throughout the year, regardless of wind or wild rain, mobile stalls are corralled into laager formation on the Cambridge village green. Arranged within the ring are plastic chairs and tables where patrons (after replenishing their weekly stocks of cured meats, smoked fish, fruit, preserves, and fresh seasonal vegetables) can sit sipping coffee, sample home-made pasties and pies, look skywards at the nibs of redwoods drawing clouds, or toss their coins into caps as buskers sing and strum. In winter offerings are meagre, but in late summer the barrows brim with sun-peaked produce at reasonable prices; and it was at this time, late in February, that Eleanor, her mother and Harry walked down from Hall Street to see what was to be had at the Cambridge Farmers’ Market.

Marion, being the age she was, knew to make sauce when the sun shone, and, armed with a handful of five-dollar notes, wondered from stall to stall picking out overripe heritage, beefsteak and cherry tomatoes, multi-coloured capsicums, bird’s eye and habanero chillies, as well as aubergine and fresh garlic. Eleanor trailed after her with a large cloth bag and more cash, while Harry, licking at an ice cream, was left listening to a blues duet. But on the greater green and beyond the rim of stalls something caught his eye – cricketers were gathering to inspect their pitch. Harry had the habit of playing with anything that bounced (at home he used the back of the garage wall as his playmate if his mother was away or busy), and he always had a selection of balls at the ready.

He had one now, an imitation cricket ball, in his hand, as he walked past the stalls to the white rope boundary to watch. His mother’s radar, meanwhile, normally locked onto his coordinates, had been momentarily deflected. In sandals, hat, and jean shorts, lost in thought and happy, she was about to scan back to the blues players when she noticed a man with a young girl. He seemed taller and slimmer than she remembered from six weeks prior – he had no Elastoplast on his forehead – but he was, unmistakably, Quince. Her first response was to retreat beneath the canopy of a stall and shade her eyes with her hat. Eleanor noticed that he was trailing after a young girl and tickling her neck with a carrot tip but pretending that he wasn’t, and, when the girl turned, laughing, and wagged her finger at him, he feigned outrage and surprise. They were having fun, and it was fun to watch.

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