First taste of spring

She slowly follows the rows of the weekly market, stroking delicate skins and breathing in the April-breeze cooled flavours from the fruit and vegetable stalls. The columns of cauliflowers, shiny, polished aubergines and dark red peppers are punctuated by cardboard trays of new-season radishes. She lifts up small bunches with her tea-coloured hands, turning and twisting them in her fingers, inspecting their leaves for yellow marks and dark, papery patches.

Her grey head finally nods approval at the trader’s choice.

She places them in her soft straw basket, on top of the yellow-skinned potatoes and the sweet-fleshed Vendee apples, then she carries her treasure to a bench beneath the chestnut trees.

A neat fingernail rubs away the grit from the radishes’ firm skins. She takes a violet-edged handkerchief from her pocket and lays it across her lap, placing the small, knobbly bundle on top.

Chubby little fingers of dull scarlet and milky white; rough, round emerald leaves against the marine blue of her skirt and wool cardigan.

She waits for a while, blinks into the sunlight, stretching her legs in her market day white sandals.

She watches the traders unload their tomato crates with just a little more effort; tensing strong, dark-haired russet arms, flashing brown-eyed smiles at the young mothers who walk by.

She remembers similar moments and similar brown eyes.

Then she selects a radish from the bunch, gently twists it from its stem, nips off its coarse little tail, and slowly bites into its middle.

She closes her eyes; it is water crisp and sweet-bitter and it warms her tongue as the sun warms her fragile hands and face.

She smiles. It is her first taste of another spring.