Halfway through market season Dorcas had fewer book donations in her shopping bag, which was all to the benefit of the courgettes she'd brought to barter with Damocles, or the bread and cheese she'd bought from Greta at the Magic Neap stall. There were other items layered throughout – a beaded necklace for her mum, a bag of tea leaves – and as she breathed in the honeysuckle-scented air, the picture of rural relaxation, she reminded herself not to set down the bag and check that everything was still intact. The jar of honey had been expertly packaged up. The courgettes hadn't slid down, and even if they had, they would survive, and even if they didn't, she had more at the cottage a short walk away.
Focus instead on the people. On the moment. The community that she was here to support in their jam-making and pottery, though she only needed so many bowls. Neighbours, whether or not they were Tinworthians, who she saw every weekend for every summer every year. And a booth full of odd and colourful hats which was new this summer and Dorcas hadn't yet bought anything from. She stopped there now, puzzling over a sequined beret. She liked to spread the bounty of her market purchases among her friends, but she couldn't imagine who she'd buy any of these for.