In fact, the hoped-for legions failed to materialise to such an extent that one quarter of one hour went by when there was not a sound in the place beyond the rain pounding on the roof and gusty sighs from my neighbour's husband. (When I went to the loo, jewellery designer Caro quipped that “she’d hold back the hordes for me”, lol.)
Still, I did better than most. I arrived at Royal Tunbridge Wells with seven boxes of twenty-two books each and returned home with, um, six boxes. (Though, because a couple of tennis buddies popped in and I gave each of them a book out of untrammelled gratitude, it wasn’t all profit, either.) I’d undoubtedly have made more had I brought my cello and busked on the sodden High Street.
So, why was it such a frost?
Opinions on this were pretty unanimous: “Who’d come out in all this?”… “These aren’t punters. This lot ’ave only come in to get out of the rain.” Even Caro’s loyal spouse finally sneaked off to the pub, after supporting her from ten to two. And there were some who came inside only to shake their umbrellas, disdaining to glance as they strode through our ranks. I can’t fault the exhibitors for, though there was rather a lot of jewellery, it was quality stuff, and mostly designed by the seller personally.
A few of the punters were pretty odd, though. One woman was affronted. “Surely it isn’t legal to use Austen’s own characters?” she cried — nor did she seem convinced by the irrefutable evidence that Austen has been dead over 200 years.
Caro spent about twenty minutes with another lady, who “simply adored” her craftsmanship and described her as “a genius”. However, when I later congratulated my new best friend upon what I’d presumed was a dead cert, she snorted, “Sale? What sale? She was only complimenting me in hopes of discovering which oil I use, where I source the stones for the tiaras... honestly!”
The moment of release was worth almost everything. “Of all the artisan craft fairs I ever sold at,” I told myself, “that was one of them. And yet, on a sunny Spring day, who knows how many I might have sold?”
Because hope, like spring itself, always springs eternal… | 
