Read Online Another Night, Another Day by Sarah Rayner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Rayner
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Cure’s Greatest Hits
into the stereo. Ryan
scoffs at his inability to master downloads – ‘If you got an MP3 player, Dad, then you’d only need a lead to put it through the speakers in the car, it’s easy’ –
but Michael still misses vinyl, so the thought of switching from CDs to digital is more than he can bear.
The strains of ‘The Lovecats’ remind him of Chrissie. He can still picture her with her backcombed red hair, sitting in an alcove of the Batcave nightclub, doing a funny little dance
in tandem with her mate while all around them New Romantic types tried to look cool and mysterious. Hands curled like paws held up on either side of their cheeks, heads bobbing to the
plinkety-plonk of the piano. He recalls going up and asking if they were professional dancers – talk about cheesy – and Chrissie leaning into her friend and giggling. She fancies me,
he’d realized. Result! ‘You’re better than the girls in The Human League,’ he’d said, directing his gaze at Chrissie. And that had been the start.
Fingers crossed I’ve still got a bit of that magic, he thinks, glancing at himself in the car mirror to check. In the dim light he can see crinkles round his eyes, the salt-and-pepper of
his hair; even his eyebrows are threaded with thick strands of white. In the old days he only had to look at some women to make them blush. Not that Michael is excessively vain – he goes to a
barber, not a salon, and wouldn’t dream of buying moisturizer for his skin – but nonetheless he enjoys a bit of a flirt.
I hope they don’t respond merely to humour an older fella, he thinks.
Soon he’s in what would be the familiar territory of Croydon, had the entire infrastructure of Purley Way not substantially changed. Watching superstores take over is a transformation
Michael wouldn’t relish anywhere, but the effect on his home town has been catastrophic. One only has to look at the riots of 2011 to see the damage they do, he reckons. That unrest
wasn’t prompted by poor race relations and police brutality like the uprisings in Brixton and Tottenham during my youth; the rioters were thieves looting outlets for wide-screen TVs, phones
and the latest trainers, then torching the properties afterwards. He shudders, recalling the horror of watching his old stomping ground become a war zone of flaming buildings and fleeing families.
It made him want to weep to see so many small businesses suffer.
There’s something wrong about the way megastores generate profit, he thinks, because at the same time that they encourage greed, they reduce customers’ respect for the staff serving.
When I started out, people appreciated floristry skills like mine; now they’d rather buy a cheap bouquet with their supermarket shopping.
The A23 weaves on through Streatham High Street and down Brixton Hill, then it’s into Stockwell and Vauxhall with their mix of tower blocks and Georgian terraces. Finally, a sign welcomes
him to his destination:
New Covent Garden Flower Market.
There’s a queue for the car park, as Michael expected, but tomorrow will be worse. Buying stock for Valentine’s Day is
an art; on the 13th and 14th prices go crazy, yet if he had come here too far in advance, the flowers would be wilted by the day itself.
The bright fluorescent lights and the loud cries of sellers contrast with the dark and quiet of the suburbs so it takes him a moment to get his bearings. Beneath the corrugated roof of a vast
shed are dozens of wholesale traders, each with their own patch. Everything is on a massive scale compared to a regular market; vendors boast trolley after trolley of cut flowers, foliage and
bedding plants, not to mention sheets of cellophane and tissue paper, vases and ribbon in every style and colour, plus wires, floral foam, scissors . . .
Michael scratches his head, trying to work out the best way forward. He’s sure there is everything he needs, but here cash is king. He’s only got fifty
into the stereo. Ryan
scoffs at his inability to master downloads – ‘If you got an MP3 player, Dad, then you’d only need a lead to put it through the speakers in the car, it’s easy’ –
but Michael still misses vinyl, so the thought of switching from CDs to digital is more than he can bear.
The strains of ‘The Lovecats’ remind him of Chrissie. He can still picture her with her backcombed red hair, sitting in an alcove of the Batcave nightclub, doing a funny little dance
in tandem with her mate while all around them New Romantic types tried to look cool and mysterious. Hands curled like paws held up on either side of their cheeks, heads bobbing to the
plinkety-plonk of the piano. He recalls going up and asking if they were professional dancers – talk about cheesy – and Chrissie leaning into her friend and giggling. She fancies me,
he’d realized. Result! ‘You’re better than the girls in The Human League,’ he’d said, directing his gaze at Chrissie. And that had been the start.
Fingers crossed I’ve still got a bit of that magic, he thinks, glancing at himself in the car mirror to check. In the dim light he can see crinkles round his eyes, the salt-and-pepper of
his hair; even his eyebrows are threaded with thick strands of white. In the old days he only had to look at some women to make them blush. Not that Michael is excessively vain – he goes to a
barber, not a salon, and wouldn’t dream of buying moisturizer for his skin – but nonetheless he enjoys a bit of a flirt.
I hope they don’t respond merely to humour an older fella, he thinks.
Soon he’s in what would be the familiar territory of Croydon, had the entire infrastructure of Purley Way not substantially changed. Watching superstores take over is a transformation
Michael wouldn’t relish anywhere, but the effect on his home town has been catastrophic. One only has to look at the riots of 2011 to see the damage they do, he reckons. That unrest
wasn’t prompted by poor race relations and police brutality like the uprisings in Brixton and Tottenham during my youth; the rioters were thieves looting outlets for wide-screen TVs, phones
and the latest trainers, then torching the properties afterwards. He shudders, recalling the horror of watching his old stomping ground become a war zone of flaming buildings and fleeing families.
It made him want to weep to see so many small businesses suffer.
There’s something wrong about the way megastores generate profit, he thinks, because at the same time that they encourage greed, they reduce customers’ respect for the staff serving.
When I started out, people appreciated floristry skills like mine; now they’d rather buy a cheap bouquet with their supermarket shopping.
The A23 weaves on through Streatham High Street and down Brixton Hill, then it’s into Stockwell and Vauxhall with their mix of tower blocks and Georgian terraces. Finally, a sign welcomes
him to his destination:
New Covent Garden Flower Market.
There’s a queue for the car park, as Michael expected, but tomorrow will be worse. Buying stock for Valentine’s Day is
an art; on the 13th and 14th prices go crazy, yet if he had come here too far in advance, the flowers would be wilted by the day itself.
The bright fluorescent lights and the loud cries of sellers contrast with the dark and quiet of the suburbs so it takes him a moment to get his bearings. Beneath the corrugated roof of a vast
shed are dozens of wholesale traders, each with their own patch. Everything is on a massive scale compared to a regular market; vendors boast trolley after trolley of cut flowers, foliage and
bedding plants, not to mention sheets of cellophane and tissue paper, vases and ribbon in every style and colour, plus wires, floral foam, scissors . . .
Michael scratches his head, trying to work out the best way forward. He’s sure there is everything he needs, but here cash is king. He’s only got fifty
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