Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

She heard the market before she saw it, the noise coming in staccato bursts. At first it sounded like a foreign language, then, as they grew nearer, the words resolved themselves into English, bawled in a Cockney singsong patter. “Nice buncha daisies a five-a. Get yer tulips now, three bunches a tenn-a.”

Turning a corner, she passed by the pocket park and plunged into the bottom end of Columbia Road Flower Market. Every Sunday morning at the break of dawn, the flower vendors set up their stalls here, hawking everything from flats of bedding flowers to small trees. It was only as an adult that Sandra had come to know the market from an outsider’s viewpoint, as she had worked her way through school and art college here, helping Roy Blakely at his stall.

Sandra hugged Charlotte closer and pushed through the crowd, ducking away from the tendrils of a stall’s climbing roses that threatened to catch in her hair. Roy stood beneath his green-and-white-striped awning, tucking a folded note into the purse he wore at his waist. When he saw Sandra and Charlotte, he winked. “Come for the best of the lot, have we?”

The vendors would sell everything before they knocked down, and Roy would let Sandra pay only a pittance for the leavings on the stall. Her loft was full of potted plants, her small garden riotous, and most weeks she took home bunches of cut flowers for the house, but not today.

“Cupcakes,” said Charlotte seriously, eyeing Treacle, the shop near Roy’s stall. “Lemon.”

“Not just yet.” Sandra let her slide to the ground. “Roy, can I ask a favor? I’ve something-I’ve an errand. Would you mind watching Charlotte for just a bit? It won’t be long-we’re supposed to meet Naz at two.” She glanced at her watch, feeling the pressure of time.

Charlotte jumped over a flat of pansies and wrapped herself around Roy’s knees. “Can I sell flowers, Uncle Roy?”

“That you can, love.” Roy stooped to give her a hug. “Go on, then,” he added to Sandra. “I can manage, now the punters have thinned.”

Sandra hesitated just for a moment, tempted by the comforting familiarity of the market. It would be easy to slip on an apron and give Roy a hand. But she’d made up her mind, and now she must see it through.

Bending, she gave Charlotte a kiss. “Right. Thanks, Roy. I’ll owe you.”

Sandra glanced at her watch. It was five minutes past one. Waving to Charlotte, she turned away. When she reached the corner, a sudden impulse made her glance back, but the crowd had obscured her daughter as seamlessly as a closing zipper.

Sadly, I have recently come to accept what I refused to accept for so long: that the house may be only ephemeral.

– Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street: The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

The streets were greasy with moisture. The air inside the bus felt thick, almost solid, and in the damp August heat the personal-hygiene deficiencies of some of the passengers were all too apparent.

Gemma James stood near the center doors as the number 49 lumbered south over the Battersea Bridge, gripping the stanchion, trying not to breathe through her nose. The man in the seat beside her stank of more than unwashed body-alcohol fumes came off him in waves, and when the bus lurched he swayed against her.

Why had she thought taking the bus a good idea? And on a Saturday. She’d had a few errands to run in Kensington and hadn’t wanted to bother with parking-that had been her excuse, at least. The truth was that she’d craved the mindlessness of it, had wanted to sit and watch London going about its business without any assistance on her part. She hadn’t planned on having to protect her personal space quite so diligently.

When the bus ground to a halt just past the bridge, she was tempted to get off and walk, but her map told her there was still a good way to go, and a few sluggish raindrops splattered against the already-dirty windows. To her left she could see the rise of Battersea Park, an impressionistic gray-green blur through the smeared glass. The doors opened and closed with a pneumatic swish. The drunk man stayed resolutely put.

Gemma didn’t know this part of London well, and as the bus turned from the fairly posh environs of Battersea Road into Falcon Road, the neighborhood quickly lost its gloss.

Surely, Hazel didn’t mean to live here rather than in Islington? Thrift shops, video rentals, halal butchers, down-at-the-heels nameless cafés-and now ahead she could see the converging railway lines of Clapham Junction. Had she missed her stop? She jammed her finger against the red request button, and when the bus doors opened at the next stop, she almost leapt out.

Her feeling of relief was short-lived, however, as she stood on the pavement and looked round. She consulted her A to Zed, double-checking, but there was no doubt this was the street. It was, she saw, not even a cul-de-sac, but simply a short dead end. A square concrete building that announced itself in both English and Bengali as a mosque stood on the corner, and in the street itself a few young men in skullcaps and salwar kameez idly kicked a football.

Gemma moved slowly forward, searching for the number Hazel had given her. A rubbish skip stood on the pavement to her left, overflowing with what looked like the complete interior of the terraced Victorian house behind it. That was a good sign, surely, she thought, the area on the upswing. But aside from the short terrace, there were only council flats at the end of the street, and a high wall to her right.

The young men stopped kicking the ball and looked at her. She gave them a neutral nod, then straightened her back, surveying her surroundings with deliberate purpose. Police work had long ago taught her that it was not a good idea to wander about looking like a lost sheep-it marked you out as a victim.

She’d worn a sundress, in deference to the sticky weather, and although the persimmon-colored cotton skirt ended demurely enough at the knee, she felt suddenly uncomfortably exposed.

A bungalow, Hazel had said, with a charming garden and patio. Gemma had found the thought of a bungalow in London odd enough, but it seemed unimaginable here, and she began to wonder if she had somehow got it all wrong.

She had begun to contemplate asking the now obviously interested young men for directions when she saw the number, half hidden by the creeper trailing over the high wall. Beneath the number was an arched wooden door, its paint faded to a dull blue-gray.

Checking the address against the scrap of paper in her bag, she saw that it was definitely a match. But where was the bungalow? Well, no point in standing gawping all day, she thought, walking up to the door and pressing the bell beside it. Her stomach suddenly tensed.

She hadn’t seen her best friend in more than a year, and so much had altered for both of them. E-mails and phone calls had kept them up-to-date, but Hazel had seemed distant these last few months, and had said little about the reasons for her unexpected return to London. Gemma had begun to fear that their close relationship had changed, and then Hazel had asked that she visit without the children, a very unusual request.

Toby had been clamoring to see Holly and had thrown a tantrum at being left behind, and Kit had gone silent, a sure sign that he was worried or unhappy.

As Gemma was about to press the bell again, the small door swung open and Hazel stood framed in the opening, her face lit with a smile. She gathered Gemma into a fierce hug.

“I’m so glad to see you.” Hazel stepped back and examined her, then tugged her through the door and closed it behind them. “And you look fabulous,” she said. “Engagement must agree with you.”