Castle Market.
It’s been two weeks now since Samuel returned to us after his beating at the markets. He’ll barely admit that it happened, despite still needing to favour his left arm. He also refuses to speculate on their motives, citing nothing beyond thuggery. Angela’s theory is a reunion of demonologists recognised him and decided to put a good shoe in. After another day of high winds and the same rooms again, I went down there myself. If nothing else, this may force Samuel to tell the whole story.
I’m going to assume you’ve never been to Castle Market, since I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Sheffield. It’s housed in a five storey Sixties block of concrete, with the bottom three levels given over to the stalls. Walking in at street level from one corner, I went up a half flight of stairs to find a makeshift café, leading to a row of stalls selling hot drinks and sugary cakes, skirting at the edge of the vast food market. As I walked through, there were chords of scents – first bread, then chips, then apples and greens from the four veg. stalls in a row, and then the blood of the butchers’ stalls, then the fishmongers and then they cross over, and they blend. I’ve never smelt the blood like that before. There were fish I’d never heard of laid out whole on stained ice, or cut into portions of layered flesh. Whole, skinned rabbits lay in rows, while next to an ice cream tub full of coleslaw was a tray of tripe and the jelly from a cow’s hoofs. Bones for dogs stood up in buckets, and I saw a whole pig cut right down the middle – I looked into the inside of its head.
On the far side of the food hall, stairs split up and down to the other levels that are on above the other. The foundations of the old castle are underneath the food market. Upstairs, although I almost took a wrong turn into the Ladies via another route up, I found another bakers, old fashioned sweet shops - still selling by the quarter from big jars, a nut and raisin man, a battered looking new age stall called Enchanted Garden and an opticians – empty except for a woman in her coat, sat in front of a sign that read free eye tests for all. Throughout the whole market, but most obviously here, there’s no modern finish or fashion: it’s all right-angled edges, chipped on the corners; it’s speckled Formica and Blue Tac-ed signs.
On the upper levels are a half-crowd of old folks in coats and red faced parents pulling kids about. Down on the ground floor there are even less people, and it suddenly struck me that the place was dying. In the centre, rolls of carpet tower above the other stalls; there are fabric stalls and a hardware store like shed that’s bubbling over. Two book stalls sell nothing but water-colour covered romances. The electrical stand is piled into walls of blister packed alarms and parts, while a row of antique hoovers block the aisle; when I told Norman, he joked that maybe they were Ilford Dysons.
Despite the rock t-shirt emporium in the basement, the market is for an older generation. Even the younger people look out of date, as if money really is time. I kept expecting to see prices in shillings and pence, or marked up to the ha’penny. No wonder Samuel got so turned around he came out of the wrong exit – the place is a labyrinth: there’s a clothes shop on its own, half way up the stairs between the top and bottom floors; tucked into a corner is a carribean food stall, stacked up with yams and hair products; and I think I found where Samuel was attacked. Out of the far corner of the food market leads to a white spiral path around the drive up for deliveries, like a toy town.
I’m going to assume you’ve never been to Castle Market, since I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Sheffield. It’s housed in a five storey Sixties block of concrete, with the bottom three levels given over to the stalls. Walking in at street level from one corner, I went up a half flight of stairs to find a makeshift café, leading to a row of stalls selling hot drinks and sugary cakes, skirting at the edge of the vast food market. As I walked through, there were chords of scents – first bread, then chips, then apples and greens from the four veg. stalls in a row, and then the blood of the butchers’ stalls, then the fishmongers and then they cross over, and they blend. I’ve never smelt the blood like that before. There were fish I’d never heard of laid out whole on stained ice, or cut into portions of layered flesh. Whole, skinned rabbits lay in rows, while next to an ice cream tub full of coleslaw was a tray of tripe and the jelly from a cow’s hoofs. Bones for dogs stood up in buckets, and I saw a whole pig cut right down the middle – I looked into the inside of its head.
On the far side of the food hall, stairs split up and down to the other levels that are on above the other. The foundations of the old castle are underneath the food market. Upstairs, although I almost took a wrong turn into the Ladies via another route up, I found another bakers, old fashioned sweet shops - still selling by the quarter from big jars, a nut and raisin man, a battered looking new age stall called Enchanted Garden and an opticians – empty except for a woman in her coat, sat in front of a sign that read free eye tests for all. Throughout the whole market, but most obviously here, there’s no modern finish or fashion: it’s all right-angled edges, chipped on the corners; it’s speckled Formica and Blue Tac-ed signs.
On the upper levels are a half-crowd of old folks in coats and red faced parents pulling kids about. Down on the ground floor there are even less people, and it suddenly struck me that the place was dying. In the centre, rolls of carpet tower above the other stalls; there are fabric stalls and a hardware store like shed that’s bubbling over. Two book stalls sell nothing but water-colour covered romances. The electrical stand is piled into walls of blister packed alarms and parts, while a row of antique hoovers block the aisle; when I told Norman, he joked that maybe they were Ilford Dysons.
Despite the rock t-shirt emporium in the basement, the market is for an older generation. Even the younger people look out of date, as if money really is time. I kept expecting to see prices in shillings and pence, or marked up to the ha’penny. No wonder Samuel got so turned around he came out of the wrong exit – the place is a labyrinth: there’s a clothes shop on its own, half way up the stairs between the top and bottom floors; tucked into a corner is a carribean food stall, stacked up with yams and hair products; and I think I found where Samuel was attacked. Out of the far corner of the food market leads to a white spiral path around the drive up for deliveries, like a toy town.
There was no one there looking obviously like a magician. I don’t know what I expected to see really, but as Angela said later on – they won’t be walking round in long robes and pointy hats. I suppose I imagined they’d be serious looking: booky and specs. Certainly I imagined men with more money than the people I saw, although again Angela corrected me: most magicians compress every penny into the pursuit of their art, and they don’t always take care of themselves. In truth, the men I’m looking for are often as neglected as the regulars in the market. Samuel insists they will have all moved on to their next false hope, but I’m going back again. I want to see them before they go.
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 11:50 pm
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