Page 11 of Big Nick Energy
I should be petrified as I’m one of ‘these people’. One of the four this man picked, because I’m the sort who has one of those happy, gullible faces and always stands in the wrong place. Either way, instead of exuding fear, and because Davinia and I had cocktails and wine, I howl loudly at this joke to the bemusement of the tourists next to me who really have no idea what’s going on. They look at me as though I’ve lost my mind.He’s going to parkour over our asses.I’m not sure if it’s too late to Google Translate that so they know what’s coming.
Have some fun, that’s what Davinia said. Follow the magic. You’re in London. It’s December and you’re in glorious, light-filled Covent Garden. It’s where Christmas goes to be a little bit extra, where every sense is assaulted by the festive season. In the metal frame of the iconic market building, every inch of space between the little cafés and boutique shops is filled with fairy lights, dazzling giant bells and winding red velvet ribbons.Inside the piazza, I hear the echo of brass instruments playing Christmas carols and the place is awash with people in bobble hats and big coats carrying large shopping bags. The place glows, as if it’s been waiting all year to unleash its Christmas onto people. It’s a good a place as any to infuse myself with that Christmas spirit, to feel some cinematic version of the season deep within my soul. I mean, a man dressed as an elf in Nike Air Max might flatten me in the next thirty seconds but at least I got to smell the chestnuts roasting around the corner. I got to die inside Christmas.
‘Right, let’s all get clapping…’ the street performer continues.
I clap along. The tourist beside me (Jurgen from Austria) stares me down, as if he thinks we should try and keep as still as possible to survive this. He may have a point.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to London. My name’s Jack and if you like what you see, remember don’t run away, do think about giving me a little something. I want to upgrade and get my mum something from John Lewis for Christmas. And 5-4-3-2…’
Jack does a strange lunging move. The crowd still clap but their voices are deathly silent. He runs along the cobbles at great pace and leaps into the air – a Christmas ninja. I close my eyes. The crowd roar above the buzz of the market building, and the shoppers follow him as he spins through the air and lands perfectly where he said he would. Everyone explodes with noise, I whoop loudly with my arms in the air and hug Jurgen. I hope he doesn’t think I’m stealing his phone. Jack takes a bow. Little children run up to him. It really is a marvellous thing. I go into my handbag and find my wallet, walking over to him so I can add to his festive bucket adorned with tinsel. A woman drops in ten pence and I scowl at her. Were you not entertained?
‘God bless you, kind lady,’ he says as I drop in a fiver. ‘Thank you so much for taking part.’ He pulls out a candy cane and puts it in my hand.
‘You are very welcome. Thank you, that was awesome.’
‘I am available for birthdays, parties, bar mitzvahs, weddings… Or later, if you fancy a Christmas drink,’ he says, winking.
I pause, biting my lip. Hold up. Is that what Davinia meant? ‘That’s very kind but…’ I think this might be an act. He’s also in very stretchy pants and I can see the outline of his yule log. I part with a few extra coins. ‘I have a… date…’
Jack holds his hands up to his mock broken heart and I grin. ‘Well then I hope you both have a very merry Christmas…’
‘You too,’ I say, turning around to walk away.
‘Ladies, ladies… we’re looking very festive. Where are we all meeting later?’ I hear him say behind me. I look over my shoulder. A bullet dodged maybe, but can you imagine Nana’s face? He could somersault through her nursing home, juggle some satsumas – she’d love him. It’d be a meet-cute for the ages. We met on the streets at Christmas. He jumped over my head. He’d be all banter, boundless energy, that wouldn’t necessarily be awful… No, Kay, keep the stretchy pants at the forefront of your mind. It pains me that when I think about my dating life, I really am scouting out all the available options. Why don’t I go and chat up the statue man who’s spray-painted himself silver?
Davinia is right. Having taken the day off work, I may as well take advantage of all this festivity, so I keep strolling to see what other magic I can find in Covent Garden. I could check out more of the big decorations, grab a festive drink, sit on the stone steps and watch tourists order massive jacket potatoes, thinking that’s what we Brits are famous for. But inspiration suddenly strikes; with a bit more shopping to do, this is the ideal place to scope out special and unique gifts in the antique markets. I make my way through the piazza, past misted windows filled with patisseries and jewellery boutiques. Nothing will make Nana happier than a bit of used china that looks as though it has a story. It would adda homely, stately touch to her very normal room. I stop though. Nothing will makemehappier than a Ben’s cookie. No queue? White chocolate and cranberry? Fresh out of the oven? Yes. Very much, yes.
The antiques market at Covent Garden is opposite the main, glitzier piazza building and consists of a line of stalls and tables, roughly organised, badly lit but all selling curious wares of old china, vinyl, clothes and always one man with a big box of spoons. It’s one of those lovely places where you can spend hours sifting, admiring, thinking about all the stories behind these well-loved objects.
I saunter through, wrapping my black wool coat around me against the cold, glad I opted for thick tights and boots. I reach in my bag and put a dark green beanie over my curls, getting carried along by the shuffle of people.
Vinyl. Yes, please. I flick through dusty album sleeves, some wrapped in plastic to let me know they’re rare and more expensive. Something novelty for Dad that I can send over to Australia for a laugh. I see it:The Golden Voice of Demis Roussos, with Demis on the cover exposing his manly chest rug in a kaftan like a Greek god. It’s as if the Christmas gods are here, blessing me with their gifts. ‘Will you take a tenner?’ I ask the man at the stall.
He looks up at me, smirking. ‘Of course.’ He then breaks into a tuneful version of ‘Forever and Ever’. He has a wonderful tremolo. I hand over my money, putting the vinyl under my arm and keep walking along. It’s the man with the box of spoons! The slightly controversial man with his war memorabilia, a table stacked high with books, not in any discernible order, which makes my little librarian heart sad, but I go over to have a moment, to flick through sepia-coloured pages and run my fingers over creased spines. My favourite thing to do is read dedications, or see if any have been signed and then given away.For Barry. You’ll never read this but you’ll still put it on your bookshelf and tell everyone I wrote it and that’s why I love you.I grin broadly.
I continue walking behind a couple, hand-in-hand. They pass a vintage clothes stall and he puts a hat on her head. She smiles and poses. That’s the magic, isn’t it? Someone who doesn’t mind having a camera roll full of pictures of you in a tartan beret. The neighbouring stall does a good line in dreamcatchers and blankets with giant wolves on them. The next is a table of jewellery. This is the table with the stories. Lost rings, stolen necklaces, artefacts of relationships laid out for people to inherit. I’m drawn to a pair of beautiful jade earrings, but then look at the price tag and move on.
‘Please… you’re most welcome,’ a stallholder says as I approach her array of wooden tables, stacked with antique china, cups, saucers and teapots galore. Bingo. I look up at the stall name.Clementine’s. I smile for no other reason than it’s a Christmassy name and I ate five of them this morning because at this time of year, vitamins. I stop and look over the shelves and brown cardboard tags attached to everything, prices written in lovely calligraphy. ‘Anything you collect or looking out for?’ she asks, as I admire her gorgeous orange scarf and matching fingerless gloves.
‘I’m just browsing. Is that Spode?’ I ask, spotting an immaculate blue and white china teapot nestled in amongst the tin cups. Nana would lose her shit over that. It’d be all purpose to her – Earl Grey in the afternoons and gin as the sun went down.
‘Girl knows her china then.’
‘I got an education from my nana. She believes an afternoon tea should be done right. You’ve got some lovely pieces,’ I say and she beams proudly. I like her ruddy cheeks, the way she’s wearing two coats to keep the cold out. ‘How much for the teapot?’
‘This has got a bit of a chip on the lid so fifty quid alright? Brand new these fetch over one hundred.’
This is when I should haggle but the smile on her face makes me think that would be a little too cheeky. ‘Then you have yourself a deal.’
Another gift done, I’m dead good at this. She reaches for the teapot but another person on the stall suddenly intervenes. I look up. ‘Clemmie, the man down there said he’d take the cups and saucers and the teapot for £150.’ I feel my shoulders go down. I’ve been gazumped over a teapot? Surely I’ve got a better stake in this piece as the actual owner has sold it to me. It’s Christmas. It’s for Nana. The warm Christmas spirit is evaporating off me, something inside telling me I need to put my game face on instead.Bring it, teapot thief.I look down across the tables, noticing the stall extends around the corner. I walk across to negotiate with this mystery punter, my nemesis. But as I do, I stand there and see him staring back at me, confused.
Hold up. How do I know you? Are you in my spin class? Are you a neighbour?
No.You?I haven’t seen him in… since the night in that pub when…
He smiles and it changes the shape of his face, his slate-blue eyes. He waves. It really is him.
Nick. Nick Coles.
