New life

Wrong number

Zenga Longmore

Saturday afternoon brings so many interesting scenes to Brixton market that only the most determined shopper can think of actually buying anything. Take last Saturday, for instance. At about four o'clock, I was edging my way through the crowds of shoppers, wheeling Omalara, all set to exercise my meagre purchasing power. When I reached the heart of the market, my attention was caught by a large blackboard proclaiming the chalky rhyme:

Well I never did!

Pick the right number and win seven quid!

Beneath the sign stood a trestle table covered . with about 20 numbered envelopes, and presiding over all was a wiry young man. I don't recall he wore any tat- toos, but he looked the type whose torso would be liberally sprinkled with such quaint maxims as 'What is life without a mother?' A red pirate-style scarf adorned his head and a thick gold bracelet his wrist. In almost unintelligible cockney, he enter-

tamed an excited throng of West Indian women, encouraging them to purchase the contents of his numbered envelopes. `How much a try?' I asked — not that I'm the gambling kind, but this sort of thing has been known to amuse Omalara, who was eyeing the event with keen interest.

'One pound a pull, darlin'. What's your lucky number? C'mon, they won't bite ya, one pound might win ya seven!'

I paid a pound and chose an envelope with a bright green number five scribbled on the side. It contained a scrap of newspa- per.

'Ali! Never mind, heart-string,' soothed the huckster, placing the envelope back on the table. 'Try again and who knows?'

Ignoring his request, I pushed my way through the market, trying in vain to put . the whole unsavoury incident out of my mind.

When we reached the yam stall, I noticed a child sobbing amongst the rotting leaves and shopping bags. To my surprise, the lit- tle weeper turned out to be Clawhammer Jones Bingo's son, a ten-year-old who answers to the name of Stickleback. In between sniffs, he finally 'revealed that he had lost the ten pounds his father had given him to buy chopped goat's meat.

`One of them travelling gamblers had a whole heap of envelopes and he said he had seven pounds in one of 'em. I stood by, didn't I, and watched the numbers what everyone else picked up. Then I paid a pound each for the numbers what hadn't yet been chose and ... and... . What am I going to do-oo-oo?'

`Fear not,' I said, and marched boldly forward, using my pushchair very success- fully as a battering ram. A wide-eyed Stickleback trotted in my wake.

`This young fellow', I cried when I reached the trickster's stall, 'says you have no money in any of these envelopes!'

As I spoke, a sleepy-looking policeman clomped his way through the mob. Deft as a wink, the cockney moistened one finger and removed the first exclamation mark from the blackboard.

`You just read it wrong, madarme, that's all. See, it says, "Well 1 never did pick the right number and win seven quid", and I don't expect you will neither, 'cause there ain't no seven quid to be won! You was warned fair and square. And now, ladeez and gents,' he continued, folding up his table and blackboard, 'make way for a wronged man. Oh, afternoon, officer!'

With that, the huckster skilfully disap- peared, leaving a gaping policeman pon- dering the spot where once he had been.

I turned to Stickleback, who, to my sur- prise, was smiling.

`Wicked! Look! He dropped a pound, right? I know an amusement arcade where I can win back the other nine in no time! Yee-ow!' And he too vanished.

All the market traders were packing up. As usual, I had not had time to do any shopping.