EUROPE, ASIA AND ANTIPODES —AND FRUIT

New Zealand Listener, Volume 8, Issue 196, 26 March 1943, Page 8

EUROPE, ASIA AND ANTIPODES —AND FRUIT

cold tang in the air reminiscent of spring, but indicative of autumn, that made a trip to the market seem attractive on this particular morning. Perhaps it was the prospect of filling those empty preserving jars and jam jars. "Bring me back a nice fat pig," my youngest called out, "and mind you come back jiggity jig." "Mum’s going to get fruit, silly, and I hope she gets peaches that we can have lots of, not one at a time out of a bag." | it was the sunshine, the

Well, here I was. Cases and cases and cases of them. Peaches, apples, pears, grapes — how the family mouths would water to see the purple bunches as they were lifted from their cases-and tons of tomatoes, round, ripe or "coloured," peeping through the slats. And everywhere invigorating bustle, barrows pushing here and there, Chinese shouldering their cases or dragging sacks, and all away with them to a background of cheerful auctioneering. I came up to one little group of people standing round a pile of cases. "Gilly-gilly-gilly-gilly-gilly-gotse, gilly-gilly-gilly-gotz, gilly-gilly-gilly-gilly-gotz, gilly-guff, gilly-guff; gilly-guff, gobblegobble gobble gobble gotz. GOTZ," shouted the auctioneer, from the top ‘of the steps on which he was sitting. One of the market hands quietly chalked numbers on the sides of the cases every time the auctioneer paused for breath. The clustered group of fruiterers, Chinese, Indian, Italian, and New Zealand, stood around as though they had no interest in the world or in what was going on. Yet somehow out of this incomprehensible noise came all the stocking up of our fruit and vegetable shops. A case was prised open. It was full of fairly ripe golden peaches. Half a dozen hands, white, brown, and yellow, reached for a sample. "Hi, there, easy on!" called out the auctioneer. "You haven’t bought them yet. They’re tip-top! Best Golden Eagle.

B grade, BF-no, not what you think!" Then his eye lost its human look, and glazed over, and he began in that bewildering crescendo, ‘"Ate-I-got-ate-I-got-ate-I-got an-tee-an-tee-an-tee-an-tee an-a-half-an-a-a-half-an-a-half, nine-it-is-nine it-is-nine-it-is-nine-it-is-nine-it-is-and so on until he paused for breath and the man with the chalk began drawing hieroglyphics on the*cases again. A comfortable looking housewife was standing near watching proceedings with as little apparent interest as every one else. But she looked more approachable

than my fruiterer from down the road, who, though prepared to welcome me as his nearest and dearest in his shop, was looking at me with cold displeasure. "Could you tell me what they are wanting for these cases of peaches?" I asked, in the voice of a humble novice. "Ten and six, and cheap at that," she said. "But they all snap them up before you can take them." I looked round at the good-natured and bored faces and wondered just where the snapping up came in. "Can’t you out-bid or something?" I asked. "I always thought in an auction you could get what you wanted if you bid for it." "Bless you, I never bid when I come to the market. I might get let in for a whole shop full of fruit if I were to make the mistake of letting the ‘auctioneer catch my eye. That’s why we are careful to look the other way. I only want a bit of fruit to set the family up in jam and preserves. I’ve six, and all working, so we need jam in plenty." "How do you get your fruit if you don’t bid?" I asked, feeling rather foolish. "That’s O.K., dearie, I'll show you. You just wait until there is a lot auctionéd at one price and the bidder doesn’t take the whole lot, and then*you put in for one or as many cases as you like of the ones that are left. Look, this looks hopeful -26 in one lot. You're not likely to get all those bought, and Golden Queens. They’re the best you can buy for bottling."

"Two to go, two to go, two to go," shouted the auctioneer. "T’'ll have one," I called out, excitedly. "What name?" What did one say? How could one shout out something so private and personal as one’s own name, across that sea of faces. "All right then. ‘R.S.V.P.’" said the auctioneer, with a grin. "We haven’t got all day to wait while you remember it." My friend of a moment before came to the rescue. "That’s all right. You just go along to the office and ask for R.S.V.P. and they’ll give you the bill, and when you have paid it, you can collect your fruit and take it home. There are some good tomatoes "over there. You come along and have a look at them." And so from one market to another. Here in a corner were immense sacks of pumpkins with great shining red globes bulging from the top, and seated on one munching a large slice of pink melon, was a _ solemn-looking little Chinese boy, his eyes watching father while his mouth worked on at the melon. Some young housewives were looking at cases of lettuces, fresh and crisp, picked and packed overnight. I’d like a case of those," said one. "We (Continued on next page)

(Continued from previous page) can’t grow them like that, but we couldn’t ~eat a whole case." Another mother | was pushing a pram while oe couple of small children held or to her _ skirts, "You ‘come along now, Bill. We're going to get a whole big case of apples," she turned to me. "It’s awkward coming with children, but I’ve done it for years now. I’ve got three more at school, and it’s the only way for things like potatoes and carrots and onions and apples. My husband has a truck, and he can fetth the stuff if I buy it. I’ve just about got ‘all I want now, thank goodness. It’s no fun trailing round like this." "Well, it’s something to have the truck, .anyway," I murmured. "Good luck." The market is a pleasant place, I re- ® flected. There is no quarrelling, no ill

feeling. People can out-bid each other, can snap each other’s profits out of each other’s mouths, so to speak, without anyone getting angry or ill-tempered. There can be few places in our New Zealand cities where Europe and Asia and the Antipodes meet on such good terms. But the market must also’ be an honest place, I thought, as I collected my case of peaches. There, was no one to check up to see that I got the right case, or that I. didn’t take too many. Every one took it for granted that what you had bought you paid for, and that what you paid for you took away. As I was making my way out, my nose and eyes were caught by the flower market. The piles of flowers and the scent of mixed flowers and fruit brought a nostalgic lump to my throat. For a moment the great high roof of Covent Garden stretched over me, and I was buying carnations and gypsophila by the armful at 5 a.m. from an old market woman who had been up all night bringing in her produce to that greedy heart of England. There were more women buyers here, though many a _ seasoned old tough carried out his bouquet with loving care. "Most of these are buying for shops," my next-door neighbour informed me. "I want to get something really nice. My daughter’s getting married to-morrow, and the missus sent me out to see what I could get. I’d like her to have a really good show of flowers. See those pink gladioli? Those are the ones I’ve got my eye on.’ I wished him: luck. but did not wait

to .see His success,

S.

S.