‘The Tupperware’s upstairs,’ she said, pointing over at the long and low factory building. ‘Right at the back.’
Doris was anxious to get going. She had it in her head someone else would beat her to the lid she was after. A lid for her plastic orange bowl. She’d phoned ahead to make sure the stallholder had one. The dear old thing always had to find a valid, to her, rationale behind everything she did. I humoured her. What good neighbour wouldn’t? But I was already regretting asking her along.
‘Just one more photo of the pergola.’ I tried to sound firm.
The gardens were a core feature of the Goodfellow factory. We were standing at the western end, close to the main entrance to the market. The pergola comprised wooden beams painted bright red, sitting atop white Doric-style columns. Benea
