Pass The Parcel

I was late on that Tuesday morning. The tube was delayed again so I was still setting out my stall as the first customers started strolling through. Even before I finished putting out the final pieces of stock, I had a steady stream of people fingering through the gift bags - you know how they do - some interested in buying, some nodding more or less politely as their eyes skip over to the next stall.

After the first rush, it died down a little and it was only then that I had the leisure to look around me. It was him that I noticed first.

His stall was stacked high with rustic wreaths. Nicely done they were - made of willow and woven through with ribbons and evergreens. But he didn't seem to fit. He was tall with silver hair and a face full of crags and creases. His long limbs seemed to fly about out of his control. Any time someone slowed in front of his stall he would lurch out at them with a grin fixed to his face in a way that he must have thought welcoming but ended up scaring off all but the most determined customer.

By mid-morning I was feeling pretty sorry for him - he'd only made one sale while my own petty cash box was looking much healthier. In a lull I was about to offer him a bit of sales advice when there was a kerfuffle opposite. The table on the jewellery stall was leaning at a most precarious angle with the stall holder - a lady in her sixties - clinging onto it, desperate to stop all her stock from sliding onto the floor.

The man next to me leapt across the aisle to her aid, steadying it with a mutter of 'There now. Easy does it!' He stooped down to fiddle with the struts under the table and clicked something back into place and then stood up again, brushing his hands together briskly. She fussed around, patting her wares back into place and keeping up a constant stream of thank yous, not even noticing that he had sidled back to his own stall. I have to admit I was intrigued by him. He was obviously a man used to action and practical tasks rather than sales. In amongst all the festive shoppers and Christmas jumpers, his clothes and weathered features marked him out as someone closer to nature - a farmer, I guessed.

The lady opposite bustled over at that point. 'Thank you so much,' she told him. 'All those little earrings take so much time to set out, I'd have been scrambling around the floor for ages to pick them all up again, if you hadn't come to my rescue. I'll be sure to do the same for you if you need me, not that you'll need me, because I'm sure it won't happen to you. And even if it did, you'd be more than capable of dealing with it yourself, wouldn't you! Of course you would, a practical man like yourself.'

He seemed a bit bemused by her flow of gratitude, only harrumphing a gruff answer when she paused for breath. She went on to praise his stall, talk about the venue, tell him about how she made her jewellery and so on while I hid an amused smile behind my hand. I thought when she was interrupted by someone peering at her stock that he would be relieved. But for the next hour I noticed him sneaking glances over at her.

I began to wonder if this could be my chance to Pass the Parcel. Every Christmas my husband and I play this game. Instead of buying each other an expensive present we would pass it onto someone else - all year we would look out for the perfect recipient and surprise them with something nice. Then on Christmas Eve when the kids are in bed, we sit with a glass of wine and tell our stories. It's become one of my favourite parts of the year.

Over the next two days, I became more and more certain that my plan could work. Every so often she would look up from her stall and give him a little smile and a wave. He would nod back then quickly look away, but I could see him watching her from under those shaggy brows whenever he could.

It was easy to find out her background - lonely spinster - as she never stopped talking given the chance. He was a bit more challenging, but I did establish that the wreaths had previously been made and sold by his late wife, but that his daughter now produced them.

I started telling him about a lovely evening meal I had won for that night and established that he had no plans himself. Then in the last half hour it all came together.

My exclamation of disappointment was very well faked - 'He can't make it tonight!'

'Why don't you take that lady. I think she likes you!'

He fell for it, and my parcel was complete. A quick phonecall to the restaurant i