A lot of the houses near us have a front garden, ringed by a stone wall that reaches no higher than your hip.
This is the perfect height for children to set up a shop stall. It became a tradition at certain points of the year, like Easter or Halloween. You had a bigger kid leading the venture, a handful of little ones by the side. A hand drawn cardboard sign declared what is available for purchase. Conkers. Packets of sweets. A selection of broken or sun faded toys. All within a price bracket of five to twenty pence. The definition of a wholesome Sunday afternoon.
I always bought something when these stalls appeared. Burning some shrapnel on a conker was more than worth it to make their day. The kids got to know me a bit. Enough to give me a smile when I bought something. Enough for me to say thanks again rather than thank you.
On the walk back from a milk and bread run some children flagged me over to their latest pop up. Their happy faces were beamed even more than usual under mops of chestnut curly hair. Amongst the bric a brac was a pink tupperware box, open to the elements. A dozen small lumps sat within, similar in size to conkers.
‘What are these?' I said. 'More conkers?'
'Possibly.' One of the girls said. 'We save them for our favourite customers.'
The air smelt of barbecues and house fires. I peered closer. All the lumps were dark grey, and wisps of smoke twisted from each one. Despite this, the plastic remained intact, still perfect for a lunchbox.
'Where did you get these?’ I asked, my forehead crinkling through instinct.
'In the garden,' she said. 'As we say, only for the best customers.'
They pointed to a hedge near where the path met the front door. A pair of red eyes glared at me from between the leaves.
‘Help yourself.’
The words were blunt. Insistent. I did not want to be rude. My fingers reached for a smoldering lump, giving off enough heat to warm a living room on a snowy day.
Line: The air smelt of barbecues and house fires.
