Doll by Nicky Singer Page B

reckoned with. As much part of the market as the steel stalls, Big was essential, Big belonged. Big was big, her status clear. The only woman the male traders allowed to play the Football Game. And probably the only one who would have wanted to.
    It was Sir Henry who started it.
    I treadle faster.
    “Reckon we’ve got a centre forward,” Sir Henry’d shout, if he spotted an attractive woman near his stall. Centre forwards were always dark. If it was a blonde (I was eight before I realised this) he’d yell, “Striker.”
    Then all the other men – and Big – would pause, look up and admire the passing goods.
    A bit later he might shout, “Midfielder, what do you think?” The aim of the game was to assemble a full team by the end of the day.
    “Goalkeeper, more like,” Wasp would remark.
    “Nah,” said Inti. “On the bench.”
    “On the transfer list, I’d say,” said Big.
    And they’d all laugh and Sir Henry would go to the off-licence and bring back a bottle of plonk. It would be eleven in the morning and they’d need it by then. That was Sir Henry’s view. It could be cold at the market and, if it rained and the tarpaulins weren’t tight, a gust of wind might gush a freezing roof-pool of water down your neck. Didn’t a person standing alone against the elements deserve some comfort? It was always too rainy, or too cold, or too hot. “So hot, you could die of thirst,” said Sir Henry, bringing the bottle back concealed in a plastic bag. The game with the plonk (for everything was a game at the market) was to guess the country of origin. If you guessed right, you didn’t have to pay your share. If you guessed wrong, you paid for Sir Henry’s.
    Sometimes there were arguments about accuracy. You couldn’t just say “France” – you’d have to name a region: Bordeaux, Rhone. I learnt more about regions in Europe from Sir Henry than I did from school. But Big wasn’t always so patient.
    “Quit haggling,” she’d say. “Just get the cork out.”
    “You’ve got your own nip, haven’t you?” Wasp, who enjoyed the haggling more than the wine, would retort.
    And she had. A little silver flask she kept in her hip pocket. But then so did Sir Henry. And Inti. You couldn’t always leave the stall. They took food and drink, all of them. Even I had a sandwich box and a Dalmatian flask of Ribena. I went so often with her, I was the market kid. They all knew me, looked out for me. Though it was Inti I loved.
    Inti admired my mother’s craftsmanship. He’d examine a new doll (there were always new lines), hold it, run his hands over it, comment on the stitching.
    “Big,” he’d murmur. “But what hands! What skill!”
    Was he in love with her? I don’t know. I stop treadling. I think maybe I was just in love with her, and alert to any mirror that seemed to reflect that love.
    I’m aware of eyes. In the boxes lined up against the wall, the market dolls stare. Two Hallowe’en witches, with black hair and black eyes. Six of Big’s top-selling “My Baby” dolls, with the Velcro strip across their pink breasts, so the customer could attach the name of their choice. If she took a liking to a customer, Big would embroider a name to order, otherwise she’d just say,“No Tiffany? Now there’s a shame.” In a box labelled “Christmas” are some chubby-faced babies in red and white fur hoods. Next to this is the Nursery Rhyme box, with a half-finished Bo Peep and two pairs of Jack and Jill dolls. But it’s into the plastic container marked “Fairy Tales” that I push a tentative hand. In here is a Cinderella, a Tinkerbell and two Prince Charmings. The Prince Charmings never sold very well. But she kept making them. “The triumph of hope over expectation,” she said. I turn over a Rapunzel, and then I feel the velvet skirt of a Red Riding Hood.
    “ Get your grubby fingers off ,” my mother says. “ They’re to sell .”
    But today, I don’t get my fingers off, I slide my hands deeper,