The case looked very cheap and cracked and was stuffed to the brim. It amazed her to see how much they could cram into their cases and how neat and tidy they were.
‘Fine day, missus,’ he said, looking up and flashing his white teeth.
‘Would you like a glass of milk?’ she asked.
‘Thank you very much, missus.’ He pronounced his consonants in a very strange manner: of course, they didn’t know English well, goodness knew where they came from. She handed him a tall cold tumbler of milk and watched as he took it delicately in his dark hand, the blackness contrasting very strongly with the white of the milk. He drank it very quickly and handed it back to her, then began to put stuff on the floor.
‘Silk scarf. Blue,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’ He held it up against the light in which the silk looked cold.
‘It is very nice,’ she said in her precise English.
He stopped.
‘You no from here?’ – as if he had heard some tone of strangeness in her voice.
‘No. No from here,’ she half-imitated him.
‘I am from Pakistan,’ he said, bending down again so that she could only see the bluish turban. ‘I am a student,’ he added.
She could hardly make out what he was saying, he spoke in such a guttural way.
‘Are you a student?’ she said at last.
‘Student in law,’ he said as if that made everything plain. He took out a yellow pullover and left it on the floor for her to look at. She shook her head: it was very nice wool, she thought, picking it up and letting her hands caress it, but she had no use for it. She supposed that Pakistan must be very warm and yet he appeared hot as if the weather didn’t agree with him. What must it be like for him in the winter?
‘Where you come from then?’ he asked, looking up and smiling with his warm, quick, dark eyes.
‘I come from the north,’ she said slowly.
‘North?’
‘From the Highlands,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ he said, as if he did not fully understand.
‘Do you like here?’ he asked innocently.
‘Do you like here yourself?’ she countered.
He stopped with a scarf in his hand.
‘Not,’ he said and nodded his head. ‘Not. Too cold.’ His eyes brightened. ‘Going back to Pakistan after law. Parents got shop. Big shop in big town.’ He made a motion with his hands which she presumed indicated the size of the shop.
‘Do you come here often?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’ Nor tinkers. She never saw any tinkers. Up in the Highlands the tinkers would come to the door quite often, but not here. Drummond their name was, it was a family name.
‘Not often. I’m on vacation, see? Sometimes Saturdays I come. I work in shop in Glasgow to make money for law. For education. This vacation with me.’
She nodded, half understanding, looking down at the clothes. She wondered what the women wore in Pakistan, what they did. She had seen some women with long dresses and pigtails. But was that India or China?
The stuff he was selling was pretty cheap. ‘Men’s handkerchiefs.’ He held up a bundle of them. She shook her head. ‘Men’s ties,’ he said, holding up a bundle of them, garish and painted. He looked quickly round the living room, noting the glass, the flowers . . .
‘You live alone, missus?’ he said. She said yes without thinking, wondering why he had asked. Perhaps he would come back later and rob her: you couldn’t tell with anyone these days.
‘Ah,’ he said, again mopping his brow.
‘City no good,’ he said. ‘Too hot. Too great traffic.’ He smiled warmly, studying her and showing his white teeth. ‘Parents go to mountains in summer in Pakistan.’
He placed a nightgown on top of the pile: it had a blue ground with small pink flowers woven into it.
‘Nice nightgown,’ he said, holding it up. ‘Cheap. Very cheap. Bargain. For you, missus.’
She held it in her hands and studied it. ‘Too small,’ she said finally. She had one nightgown already she had received from her sister in Canada; it had frills as well, but she never wore it.
‘Dressing gown then,’ he pursued. ‘Two pound. Good bargain. Nice quality.’ It was far too expensive.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said at last.
‘No today, missus. Perhaps next time if I come.’
If he came! That meant he might not come again. Of course if he didn’t sell much he wouldn’t come, why should he? And it didn’t look as if he had sold much, what with the case crammed to the top, the children’s stuff still there, panties, jerseys, little twin sets. They were all intact. The young wives had been avoiding him, that was clear. But they would buy sweets and cakes all right though they wouldn’t buy clothes for their children. It was scandalous.
‘Knickers,’ he said. ‘Silk knickers.’ He held them, very cool, very silky, letting them run through his fingers, his black fingers.
There was hardly anything else there that she could buy, except for the ladies’ handkerchiefs but she had plenty of these already, some even from the best Irish linen. One always gathered handkerchiefs, though one hardly ever used them, not these delicate ones anyway.
‘Do you ever go home to Pakistan?’ she asked.
‘Not to Pakistan since I came to this place two years ago. No money.’ He smiled winningly, preparing to return everything to the case. ‘Some day, perhaps. Two year from this time.’ He held up two fingers. ‘When law finished.’
She watched his black hands busy against the whites and reds and greens. She noticed for the first time that his own clothes were quite
