Notes From a (very) Small Island¹

Hands in pockets.

At The Market

Autumn might be upon us, but the plethora of palm trees rustling in the chilly breeze along the Esplanade tell a story of mild Jersey winters. It is, however, bordering on being 'hands in pockets' weather.

The people out and about in the pedestrianised centre of St Helier are lunch-break office workers in the main. Black suits, black skirts, black coats, with a colourful scarf here, a garish golf umbrella there, and light brown paper bags from the sandwich shop everywhere. Hands are most definitely in pockets. Except where umbrellas or brown paper bags are being carried.

Umbrellas aren't up, but are at the ready. If the threatening rain moves in to attack, most of St Helier will have an instant defence. Like a battalion of Roman soldiers raising shields against an aerial onslaught of arrows, us pedestrians are ready raise and unfurl our assortment of umbrellas against an onslaught of water droplets from the sky.

The town centre has an anticipatory festive feel. Only just December, so yes, the lights are up, but no, they're not on. And yes, fur trees line the pavement, but no, they're not decorated in any way. The lights are simple and understated. About 20 strings (difficult to count while looking up and walking) of white fairy lights that run the entire length of the pedestrianised area. The lights give the impression of a canopy above. An 'impression' of a canopy won't be much use against the rain though.

Turning off onto a side street, the indoor market is ahead. For 80 yards (or so) there are no shop windows. Instead, stone columns support stone arches, between which red painted iron railings are bolted firm, upon which gold pointy fleur-de-lis shaped finials sit. You're either out or you're in with this market - there is no wandering past having a look. In then, through one of the smaller red painted iron gates at one end.

Immediately inside, pale yellow painted wooden framed 'shops' run around the perimeter, creating a passageway between themselves and the outer columns and railings. The permanence of these internal buildings implies that the traders are here for the long haul. Again, then, you're either out or you're in with this market - there is no playing around with a stall for a few weeks to see how it goes.

Starting from this (north east) corner of the market, the only way around the perimeter passageway is anti-clockwise. This is totally at odds with the first shop - a clock shop - where everything runs clockwise. All sorts of shapes and sizes of timepieces sit on shelves or hang on walls behind the glass. Cars and guitars, pewter champagne pails, silver watering cans, a bag of coffee beans, a tyre. All with clock faces embedded in them, sometimes subtly, sometimes not. A shelf full of shiny seventies triangular retro alarm clocks look like they might go off at any moment, frightening us off around the next corner of the outer perimeter.

A stall-like chocolate shop. Look but don't touch. Smell but don't taste. Trays of truffles dispensed delicately in quarter pound measures by a smiley lady wearing white cotton gloves. On the back shelves, a row of milk chocolate santas stands ready to dive into milk chocolate chimney pots. Beside them, white chocolate snowmen huddle together to keep warm, with white chocolate snow-hands in their white chocolate pockets.

At the jeweller's, elegant silvery bracelets and necklaces adorn shelves lined with thick silvery tinsel. The electrical store has nothing but Christmas lights for sale in one window - out of the box and plugged in, but still bundled up. A clump of green wire and blue LEDs flickers away - proof that the product works, but giving no idea of how it should look. The smell of leather and nylon wafts from around the corner where cases and bags of all shapes and sizes - and smells - hang from racks or stand in rows along the passageway. Leather and nylon now merges with baguette and roll. An old guy sits at a smart metal table under the wall heaters, rubbing his hands and cupping them over his steaming mug of tea.

Outside the antique shop, slightly shoddy secondhand books sit on bashed and beaten bookshelves. In front, the best of the books are laid out on tables to entice browsers into becoming thumbing-throughers. Inside, behind small square French window style grubby panes of glass, two shabby suited men sit at an antique table on antique chairs, surrounded by sterling silver tableware, crystal decanters and glasses, faux Ming vases and Toby jugs.

Past the market post office, around another corner and onto the inner perimeter. Mainly butchers and grocers here. Butchers in whites, grocers in blues/greens. One butcher in particular gives off that unnerving confident and cheery air, as if at any moment he might say something slightly rude to an unsuspecting middle-aged female customer. Then more baguettes, with wicker chairs and tables. Then more baguettes still. Here the patrons stand at chest height teak veneer round tables; too cool to sit.

In the centre now, where the sound of the fountain centrepiece complements the market hubbub and hum. Here there is one smell: cut flowers. At the tables of a number of stalls, flowers are boxed or wrapped by rosy-cheeked ladies with fingerless knitted gloves and bits of sticky tape stuck to the backs of their hands.

We've been drawn round and round into the centre, and now find that the way back out is a clear straight run to the outer gates.

Outside in the cold again. The threatening rain finally comes, but cleverly attacks in spits and spots. Umbrellas go up here and there, but not regimented Roman manoeuvres after all, rather, disorganised Saxon shambles.

Hurrying back before the rain really gets going. Feeling for keys in pockets with slightly numb fingers. Definitely 'hands in pockets' weather.