An Antique Incident

Michael Granger

My first encounter with antique fair and market trading was not without some hilarity, the last fair at which I stood was a great deal more sinister.

I had arrived one Saturday morning in Mervyn's Yard which sneaked the corner of Church Street and Lisson Grove. Whilst in the process of unpacking an array of items, mostly china that I had collected for some time, a little Jewish lady stepped into the courtyard of stalls and announced in a loud voice "I'm looking for a picture to hang in my back passage." Philip, one of the stallholders retorted that he had nothing sufficiently large. This should have acted as a warning to me. The trade is not made up of pleasant people who love old and beautiful things, nor are the buyers sweet docile old ladies, and respectable middle class professionals.

I have however during the time I dealt met a good many pleasant and worthwhile people several of whom have become and remained good friends with me over the years. The last occasion I took a stand was at Sandown Park, largely a trade fair which operated from mid afternoon into the early evening. It was late on in the day before I had the opportunity to leave the stand to look around at the array of goods that others were offering. Our stand was on the ground floor opposite the stairs which ascended to an upper level with many more stands. I had wandered around the ground floor having progressed to the far side of the room, when a crescendo of crash upon crash, upon crash rent the air. The general buzz of conversation and haggling ceased. An eerie silence hung in the air still interspersed with the noise of breaking china that came from the direction of my table. While the crowd stood frozen, unmoving staring in the direction of the cacophony. I alone sprang to action and raced back to the stand which I was sharing with my friend Cynthia. Our table stood impervious in utter contrast with the decimation of its neighbour who specialised in Wedgwood china.

Behind the table stood the stallholder's boyfriend, ashen faced, his shirt ripped from his body the collar alone still about his neck, his chest bare beneath his jacket.

I sorted through the debris for him rescuing the few pieces that had survived, and anything that might be salvageable. Then on hands and knees I began gathering up all the shards, whilst being trodden upon and kicked, as the crowds of people having come back to life scurried round to see what had transpired, and to gawp at someone else's tragedy. It was far from pleasant being trampled on as the morbid public vied with one another for a closer look. It never ceases to amaze me the fascination people have for disaster.

It was later after the police had removed the perpetrator in handcuffs and leg restraints that I learned the facts. The culprit's wife apparently after years of abuse had left him. Having left she had gone off with the best friend of the guy who was looking after the stand next to ours while his girlfriend hunted for fresh stock. Having been released by police after spray-painting the wife's solicitors office the previous evening, he had come to the fair in order to find out where the couple had gone. On failing to extract the information, had lent over the stall and made a frenzied attacked on the poor fellow.