Free The Bazaar and Other Stories by Elizabeth Bowen Page A

universally
conceded to be the best grocer’s; except for things like veal and
cauliflowers, and, of course, bread. To Markham’s, therefore, Sibella,
half an hour later, made an awed approach.
     
On her left arm, carefully crooked, she carried Aunt Marjory’s
stamped suede satchel; she would have preferred, secretly, the nasty
basket. Into her right glove were slipped Aunt Marjory’s card and a
list of requisites dictated between the groans of Elizabeth. She did
not ever remember having bought much at a shop except sweets,
stamps, postcards, diaries – and hair-ribbon in the days when one
had hair; she stood for some time in the mosaic entrance-porch, feet
sunk deep in a resilient mat. China’s self must have laboured to
perfect those dragoned crocks of ginger, white and blue, of which a
pyramid on her left tottered up to singleness. In glittering films of
crystal the citrons, oranges of Italy and Spain were staked as for a
banquet, triumphant from their syrupy ordeal. There was a
something of triumph, too, in the repose of that whole side of a split
pig, reclined voluptuously on a bank of moss; a stuffed Oriental
bowed above a lacquer bowl of tea.
     
Sibella placed one finger on the plate-glass door; the door
receded cavernously, drawing Sibella after it by the finger. She
advanced quite soundlessly as after death over the soft cork floor;
one must be silent here though one might stamp and stamp. The
shop was full; at once Sibella felt herself a magnet to all eyes –
sensation not uncommon to Sibella. “So young a girl” – perhaps they
thought – “entering so large a shop with such complete assurance!”
or “What a capable-looking girl; what lovely hair!” Or did they
perhaps think she was married; married very, very young? Sibella
drew the list out of her glove to study it, all eyebrows, as she had
seen them study hands at bridge. Then she crossed the shop
diagonally to the furthest counter, leant her stomach against it,
propped the satchel upon a chair, and looked to left and right,
drawing a long breath. A white young man in an apron looked at her
through an archway of potted meat, crackled towards her, arranged
the tips of his fingers on the counter, and bowed across it.
     
“Madam?” She still saw the crown of his head, and it smelt
delicious. The air smelt also of apricots, rind and sugar. He had an
austere male beauty; the shop rose over them, very high and pure:
marble. “ What may we – ?” he began.
     
“Small packet curry powder one two and threepenny bottled
anchovies quarter of a pound almonds best quality large packet
Quaker oats quarter of a pound coffee fresh roasted half a dozen
matches usual make – ” Sibella herself was surprised at all this; the
young man’s pencil flew.
     
She resumed: “Large size galantine chicken Poulton and Noels or
other good make small pot Yarmouth bloater pound and a half two
and threepenny bacon – ”
     
The young man, pencil arrested, looked up in reproach. “That
would be at the Cheese and Bacon, Madam. If I might direct you?”
He looked inspiringly into the eyes of Sibella; she looked back at
him trustfully. He let himself out by lifting a kind of portcullis, and
she followed him across the shop.
     
The young men at the Cheese and Bacon were very, very deft.
They set whirling great steel wheels; knives rushed and rashers
curled away from the knives as delicately as petals. They bowled
great cheeses along the marble, and tossed them to one another in
titan frolic. They went effortlessly through great waxen slabs with a
taut wire. Ladies, apparently fascinated, thronged before the
counter; Sibella had to stand on tip-toe to see what was going on.
There was a hum of conversation; the young men were prepared to
talk to you – disengagedly – and the ladies seemed to like talking;
they lingered, comparing the streaks on different bits of bacon,
while anxious others murmured and surged behind them.
     
It did not take long to choose