THE JUMBLE SALE

The entry fee for the jumble sale at the homeless mission costs 20 pence or a pair of men’s jeans. I don’t have a pair of jeans with me would you believe. My quiet piece of silver plinks into the plastic bucket, and I reflect what you can’t get for 20 pence these days. Jesus watches in approval from his cross above the fire extinguisher because blessed are the proles on a bargain hunt for cheaps. Jumble sales of my childhood, I’m not sure if Jesus was present all those times in the 1980s scout hut stewarded by flinty-eyed women knowing their own sly tricks, snaffling the best stuff before the doors open.

Slummy in margarine tubs, fingers stinking of copper coins, they refused to haggle, stood strong in their unique brand of sisterhood, charging people based on whether they liked them or not. Wielded a benign authority, tutting down noses at sharp elbows embracing the vulgar. They thought everyone was there to steal. Maybe they were right.  Rolled eyes at the queue outside lengthened, thickened by kids like me holding a place for John Wayne of the jumble sale to stride in first like he’s boss of everything. Everybody. Our fathers and uncles smelled of sweat and oil and confrontation, toxic masculinity before it had a name. Mine bare knuckled outside, blotted his bloodied nose with a blouse hung up for sale and tossed the floral chiffon back down, marking True Grit territory.  That day, the women were nice to him for once. All quiet like.

Yesterday is years ago but no time at all. Goes past in a blink. Today a table by the door is piled with stuffed toys. There’s a danger the jumble will tumble and kill me. Only it won’t and don’t. A cheery fellow sells hand cream and socks and is that Sanctuary SP Covent Garden Illuminating Moisture Lotion? SPF 15? Is it going for 50p? Yes, it is! He tells me his wife doesn’t understand him. His fondness for jumble and car boots that is. She just don’t get it. He sees I’m a kindred soul, gives me the skinny on next week. ‘20p a book, love’.

I float from stall to stall in this nothing’s over a quid heaven. Where one woman sees trash another finds beautiful treasure. No one’s kicking off, churchy folks smilin’. One asks if I go to church and I say no but I’ve been thinking about things lately. It makes her so happy it switches on a light. She floats with me, carries a Tupperware of cupcakes slathered in cracked icing, glace cherry on top. I grab one when offered, bite the wonky shiny sweet nipple right off. My tongue dips into an unexpected cream middle. Sugar rushes my brain. I go with it.

Words here are flavoured by PG Tips, and well-thumbed Bibles of soft loved leather. I breathe in this good place. Take a snapshot with grown up eyes. Keep it still. A precious painting, the kind you fall for in a gallery or a book you want to live inside and you think to yourself, this is peace.

Cath Holland is a writer living in Birkenhead, Wirral covering themes of grief, class and feminism. She is published by Mslexia Magazine, Dead Ink Books, Arachne Press, National Flash Fiction Day, Fictive Dream, Indie Novella. Cath Holland Cath Holland (@caththewriter)