Daily lines -extracts from draft writing by Lynne M. Collis

She’d heard of the Paris flea markets, and went up to Porte de Clignancourt on Saturday for a look round. North of the metro stop, at the end of line 4, there were lots of expensive-looking stalls for tourists. Jewellery was everywhere but with no age or quality. There was an edgy feel to the street, with gaggles of young men lurking in corners, watching the passers by for any carelessly exposed wallets. Ellyn crossed her bag over her chest and buttoned her jacket over it. Everywhere, stall holders thrust goods at her, trying to catch her attention. She’d read up that the true Marché aux Puces didn’t start until after the road bridge for the Péripherique ring road, so she kept her head down and kept going.  Beyond the overpass there were signs to the various markets, so she struck off down the rue des Rosiers. The vintage clothes stalls had more tourists than she’d see grandmothers at an English jumble sale, and the elbows looked as sharp.  She turned into the Marché Vernaison...

The grumpy stallholder turned Ellyn away and she walked off, dejected. Was this ever going to work? An old man waved to her from the other side of the aisle.  “Never mind Alain, he had his cashbox stolen last week,”he said. “it makes him wary.”Ellyn had discounted asking this man if she could pitch her stall in the gap next to his, despite his kind eyes, as he was laying out display cases of jewellery. “What is it you sell, petite?”   “Bracelets I made.” She held one up to show him. “Silver Byzantine bracelets.”  He looked closely at it. “May I?” She held it out. He scrutinised the jump rings which made it up. The joints were smooth, barely visible.  “Silver?” he asked? “Yes, recycled.”   “They’re really well made.” He cupped it in his hand. “At that weight they really should be hallmarked.” “I have no resource for hallmarking, Monsieur. Where I’ve re-used a silver clasp it’s hallmarked.” “Never mind, so you’re looking for a corner to set up a stall, is tha...

  The Man Who Couldn’t Mend Himself           A short story entered in the annual HG Wells Short Story Competition   Old Josef Kubitt lived next door, over his shop. He had always kept odd hours, so I wasn’t surprised to see his shop lights on in the evening as I came home from my legal practice. People would bring things for him to repair, and he would spend hours fixing them, making them look just right. The shop was rather dowdy, shelves ranged with boxes of items awaiting repair, brown, curling labels identifying each client. A big workstation at the back was well lit, but the corners were dim and dusty. He used to mend clocks a long time back, teasing them back to a tick tock regularity after people had overstretched the mainsprings, or making them chime sweetly again. People tend not to have mechanical clocks anymore, though, so he moved onto other things, repairing toys and heirlooms. He had a way of gluing porcelain back together that...

  #EllyninEngland #Herfather'sAntique shop #favourite scene “That man is shooting at a cupboard,” shrieked Joe.  “What’s he doing? Here, let me have a look!” The boys were squinting through a hole in the fence behind the antique shop. Danny elbowed Joe out of the way. Joe was shorter but the hole in the fence wasn’t very high.    “That doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s shooting at rats or something.”  “No, he’s definitely shooting at the cupboard. Maybe there’s someone hiding in there, a criminal or somebody. Maybe there will be a gunfight.” “There’s only one man with a shotgun.” “It’s an old cupboard. Maybe it’s a ghost.” “Don’t be silly,” said Danny. “A shotgun wouldn’t work on a ghost.” As the older brother,  Danny very occasionally felt the need to be sensible and superior, although the two of them were small, scruffy and inevitably dirty.  “Who is he, anyway? That’s Mr. Boswell’s shop. He’s not Mr. Boswell, he’s got blond hair. Maybe Mr. Boswell is i...

  #EllyninParis “ Again!” Ellyn shut her eyes, while Anne scooped up a mixture of brass and tin chains, costume jewellery and cheap odds and ends into the box. She added a small silver ring and a gold bracelet and stirred them all together. Ellyn kept her eyes shut and felt into the box.    She pulled out the silver ring straightaway, hesitated, and then drew out a tarnished chain before reclaiming the gold bracelet. “What’s that?” asked Anne, “I thought it was cheap gilt”.  Ellyn looked closely at the chain, and scratched at it. “I think it’s vermeil,” she said, “Gold plate over sterling.” She laughed “That can just mean red in French; glad you clarified! How do you do it?”  “I’m not sure.  It sort of chimes against my hand. Gold chimes differently, plate faintly and base metals not at all. My grandmother said it was a gift of the storm born." I’ve always been able to do it. I used to play in my father’s antique shop and would pull out the silver. After a ...