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The market turns
Mid-June 1900 – the next day
In the cold, early morning light, Gwenna scurried down Grey Street towards the huge central marketplace filling the interior of an entire block at the bottom of the hill. She was running late. Her watch said it was already six minutes past seven, and the market would be well under way before she got there. While Mr Turner still maintained his greengrocery shop in Karangahape Road, he had recently begun holding auctions three days a week at the central market. He’d invited Gwenna to meet him.
Rushing through the south entrance from Cook Street, past the hay and corn hall, she came to a standstill. The cross-shaped timber building with its lean-to extensions on either side had been badly built many years ago, and was quite unsanitary thanks to the Wai Horotiu swamp, often called the Liger creek. Although the ground had been well drained since those earlier days, the area was still unpleasant and often stank. She shivered in the cold air.
The place was bursting at the seams with stalls of every kind set out in aisles and crammed into every nook and corner. Voices were raised as Chinese market gardeners offering fruit and vegetables vied with European growers for space and customers. Alongside were the flower sellers, the butchers and poulterers, and other food suppliers, but she hadn’t expected to find fancy goods, second-hand goods and furniture dealers among them. Gwenna sneezed at the varied and strange aromas confusing her nose, and her ears rang. Adding to the noise, hucksters peddled and entertainers performed before passing the hat around.
How would she ever find him in this crowd? The place was chaotic.
She wandered up the southern aisle and watched groups of people gathered round one auctioneer, bidding for the crate of cauliflower at his feet. The next caller, with a change of pitch and tone, captured her attention and her eyes followed her ears to where he stood, selling boxes of carrots. Behind her, another auctioneer raised his voice offering a fresh sack of kumara, those amazing sweet potatoes, so creamy and tasty, that she loved. As she moved around, she discovered a sense of order among the cacophony.
The bidders knew what they wanted, and the sellers knew how to get them to buy. A nod here, a finger there, and the deal was done. Although how this all related to her, she had no idea.
“Mrs Price ... Mrs Price.” Someone called her name. “Over here, Mrs Price.”
She scanned the space around her, unable to place where the voice had come from until she saw an arm waving. Having reached the central section where the east–west halls crossed with the north–south halls, she saw just how large the market was, and how busy. From her vantage point, she could see the separate but connected buildings on each of the outside four corners.
“Mr Turner. Thank goodness I’ve found you. What did you want of me?”
“No time to talk now. Just stand here and watch. I’ll explain later.”
Two hours passed in a flash. Auctioneers kept up the call, and the men behind the tables shifted the sold boxes and heaved fresh stock into place. After a while, she began to recognise certain voices and patterns. Although how they spoke so fast and how the buyers heard anything intelligible was beyond her comprehension. The timing of the end of each sale and the start of the next was finely tuned to the second. Buyers paid for their goods, barrows came and went, creating more disorder, but somehow the system worked. At long last, Mr Turner was free.
“The boys’ll take over now. I do the calling, but they can handle the paperwork and delivery. Come, Mrs Price, join me in a cup of tea.”
Edward Turner led her to the café area. Gwenna could see many work-weary faces and dirty hands taking a well-earned break, eating a late breakfast of bacon and eggs and fried potatoes.
“We start early – often around four o’clock. The auctions have to be quick so people can get the goods back to their shops and on the shelves while they are fresh. By this time of the day, we’re starving. Would you like something to eat?”
They joined the queue; Edward ordered two teas, a full English breakfast for himself and a boiled egg for Gwenna with a slice of fresh bread. Finding a table proved as difficult as finding Mr Turner in the first place, but people were willing to move for Edward Turner, and he soon found somewhere for them to talk. He spooned two large teaspoons of sugar into his milky tea and stirred while he spoke. “This is the way of the future, Mrs Price.”
“I don’t see how it helps me, though, Mr Turner.”
Between mouthfuls of food, with his fork pointing this way and that, he outlined his plans. How she envied his foresight, and the way his four elder sons, although still young – and he had younger ones still at home out west in Huia, he said – were already involved and planning their collective future.
“Mark my words, Mrs Price. The Turner name will become synonymous with auctions for wholesale fruit and vegetable at markets like these.” He patted the side of his nose and chuckled. “Although as many deals are done over a cup of tea as on the floor – but that’s good for business, too.” His eyes sparkled with devilment.
Around her, voices competed with each other above the sounds of tea cups rattling in their saucers, the squeaky clatter of cutlery on plates and chairs scraping the floor. She asked a few questions, hoping they were pertinent, but Edward didn’t seem to mind what she said. He kept talking.
“Add-ons are what you need in this world. Haven’t you noticed how every shopkeeper has something that doesn’t quite fit? I know nothing about flowers, but I always have some in my shop. A little extra for the little lady to take home, or the man walking past who needs to apologise.”
Put that way, Gwenna could see his point. Canned foods appeared amongst the fresh food. Ready-made fizzy drinks lined the counter to entice customers to buy, and sweets could be found at the tobacconists and the pharmacy.
“When you came to me the other day, I thought to myself, this girl’s got pluck. Nobody else ever asked me if I’d stock sweets. And since Smeeton seems to prefer another source, I thought, why not. But then I thought, I can do better.”
Gwenna’s heart leapt and her eyes teared up, but she batted them away. She hadn’t realised how tense she’d felt until this moment and forced her clenched hands to relax. She had taken a wild chance, but she would be no worse off for asking. Now it seems she would be better off. “Do I take it you are prepared to offer my sweets in your store?”
“In time. I haven’t quite decided how it would work for me yet.”
Gwenna’s spirits fell as rapidly as they had risen. She took a sip of tea to conceal her disappointment and swallowed hard, forcing back the tightening sensation in her throat and the tingle in her jaw. She must not cry.
“But I’ve a better idea. It’s not been done before – and it may not work – but it’s worth a shot.”
Gwenna’s emotions see-sawed so fast she couldn’t decide how she felt. Maybe she would just cry later, whichever way it went. Happy. Sad. Tears came regardless, these days. Bethan said it was because of breastfeeding. With that thought in mind, she felt her breasts fill, and she would need to hurry away soon to feed Georgie.
“Mr Turner. Please? What are you talking about?”
“The auctions, Mrs Price. I could auction your sweets for you, then you wouldn’t have to worry about the marketing and delivery. It all gets done here.”
He raised both hands in the air to encompass the building, the open-air space, the market area and the people. “Deal?” he asked, extending his hand.
* * *
“I couldn’t shake his hand fast enough or hard enough,” Gwenna said as soon as she’d finished her story.
A satiated Georgie lay sleeping in his cot.
Bethan, as usual, fussed around doing chores and making herself indispensable. “I don’t understand it all, of course,” she said, as Gwenna explained the benefits of what Mr Turner offered, “but it sounds like a great chance.”
“Oh, it is, Mam. It is that.”
Gwenna would have to recalculate the costs of making and packaging to meet Edward Turner’s fees, but it was a small price to pay. In exchange, she wouldn’t need to employ someone to deliver the goods or take time away from what she did best, to persuade someone to buy them. Not that she could do much selling while she was in mourning. The buyers would be tolerant up to a point, and she was still to see how a woman in charge, and a young one at that, affected her regular customers.
“We’ll have to work hard to build the stock up and make sure there’s enough available each week. Mr Turner said he would auction them once a week during the Thursday session. He’ll even give them a special name. I don’t know what it is yet. He said he’d think on it.”
Energised by the possibilities, Gwenna scribbled in the notebook she kept, recording what type and quantities she made, and when. Her estimates were pleasing. “This will open the market right up. I could be selling to anyone, rather than a select few. The expansion options are huge. Mr Turner gets buyers coming in from all points south, he says.”
“But isn’t it risky? Didn’t you say no one had sold sweets this way before?” Bethan nervously wiped her hands on her apron.
“I can’t see any risk. I’ve nothing to lose. If they don’t sell, they come back here and I can still sell them the old way. But if they do sell, then I’m a step closer to my goal. I will open a shop like Pa wanted. I just don’t know when, or where, yet.”
Gwenna reached out for her stepmother’s hand, inviting her to sit beside her at the table. Against her warm, strong hand, Bethan’s hand was cool and dry, and surprisingly thin and lightweight given the work they did.
Some days, the weight of responsibility weighed heavier on Gwenna than others. She, Tillie and Charlie were all that remained of Bethan’s family. Sam had disappeared from her life. The odd letter was her only connection with him. Her relationship with Louisa had not improved. And where Louisa went, Janetta followed. Bethan still felt like a stranger – more like a faithful old servant who was tolerated, she’d said – than their mother. Their husbands were no more or less polite than they would be to any person of their acquaintance. “And I’m sure the children have no idea I’m their grandmother,” Bethan had complained.
And now Elias had gone.
“Don’t fret, Mam. Everything will work out fine, you’ll see.”
