Free Tideline by Penny Hancock Page B

locals were left chatting and drinking tea and scraping a meagre living
from the trades they had always plied. Some of them were here today, too, looking as though they were dressed in clothes they’d dragged from the piles of jumble they sold. Many of them, Helen
thought, had probably been here since it started as an antique market, years before, on Sundays in the car park over the road. Their stalls looked more like museum collections, with their shoehorns
and military figurines, bowling sets and old leather-booted ice skates, hogs heads and stuffed things in glass boxes. They were part of local history. It would be a shame to lose them.
    As she gazed she noticed Sonia wrapped in a scarf over on the far side of the market, near the food stalls. Nadia was right. She did look amazing. Slimmer than ever with that grey cashmere
headscarf flung about her hair. More elegant than anyone in the bustling marketplace. She was clearly in a hurry, pointing at food and stuffing it impatiently into a large shopper. Helen remembered
that Greg was worried about her state of mind.
    She drained her cappuccino and got up. She’d go and say hello. Check that Sonia was alright. She adjusted her own scarf, did up the toggles on her wool jacket, and went inside to pay her
bill. The queue was long and slow, the girl at the counter clearly new, fumbling with the cash register. By the time Helen had paid and emerged into the marketplace, Sonia had gone.
    Helen thought of pursuing her, but decided against it. Instead, she sat back down. The shops round the edge of the market were doing brisk business as usual. The one selling T-shirts made her
think of Jez. He and Alicia downloading that picture of . . . who was it? Some seventies musicians? Jeff someone. And Tim? They were father and son, Jez had explained. Helen hadn’t really
been listening. The son had drowned in a river one night with all his clothes on. He was only thirty. Only a couple of years older than his father had been when he had died, too young. Tragic.
    Jez told Helen they were going to shrink one of the images and make badges, and Alicia said she was getting it put onto T-shirts for both of them. After downloading the image, Jez had found a
programme where you could morph a photo of yourself onto the body of an elf doing a jig. He and Alicia had found it hilarious. It had been quite funny, but it was more his infectious laugh that had
made Helen join in too. That was on Thursday evening.
    But what was it that had been niggling away at her about Jez? That had made her feel so irritable when Alicia had gone on about him, and when everyone had fussed so much last night? Something
about the last conversation she’d had with Jez before all this had blown up. She tried to remember it all in detail. It was Friday lunchtime. She had come in, not expecting to find anyone at
home. Jez was playing his guitar loudly (but rather brilliantly she must admit) through an amp. She remembered the cross way she stomped up the stairs, opened his door.
    ‘If you’re planning on living with us when you come to college, you’ll have to be more thoughtful,’ she told him. ‘We have neighbours to consider, you
know.’
    Her irritation was unreasonable, she knew. Her boys always played loud music in their rooms, it had never bothered her. But Jez was so bloody good at everything, as Maria was at pains to remind
her every night, and Helen had a headache. A stonking hangover, truth be told.
    Jez had looked startled by her temper, and had apologized. She’d been taken back by his contrition – Barney and Theo would never have said sorry – they were more likely to tell
her to bugger off. She’d left the room without saying any more, and was now ashamed by her lack of graciousness.
    Surely Jez hadn’t taken her words to heart, gone off feeling he wasn’t wanted? Something daft like that? Mick’s anxiety combined with her sister’s hysteria had forced
Helen to remain calm last night.