Scavenging on the Scrag Market
Simon Collinson
Come down, come down
come take a look
come with me
seeking on a Saturday
step lively mind
see what we can find
hidden within troves
left behind and maybe
unearth hidden treasure.
You never know what you might discover.
Timing is everything. Too early, and the usual market is still in full swing and everything has a price. Too late, and it's all been taken away.
But time it right, and you’ve got a short while to unearth some gems— and it's all free.
As I briskly crossed the road, I could see heaps of discarded items lying on the ground;those things that are left unsold and unwanted as the regular market winds down.
In the background the harsh shriek of a car wash valeter’s spray played a dirge.
“It's all for nothing, help yourselves,” a trader yelled out. A small crowd rapidly huddled around to examine a fresh pile of unwanted items.
“Take it away, it's all for free,” came another insistent shout, turning heads.
From somewhere further up, you hear a voice harshly crow, “It’s all gotta gow!”
At this time of day you're spoilt for choice, as gaunt figures scamper nimbly between the piles.
You can always tell when a pile is “scrag”. It's attended by a small group, on their haunches, intently searching and rummaging through the items, like congregating crows plucking at a carcass. Scavengers gather to pick apart the past.
One lot of scrag is very much like another. Someone's life, hopes, dreams and achievements, happy times and maybe some sad ones.
All left abandoned and now raked over by strangers.
Cherished memories, going, going, gone.
I saw hardbacks, paperbacks, books with no backs, dusty books and defaced children’s books.
I rummaged to pick up a forties school copy of Julius Caesar grabbed a pamphlet on Haworth, viewed boxes filled with crumpled playing cards, photographs with sepia smiles from the past, jostling next to some 60’s Cilla Black LPs accompanied by well worn 45’s. There were postcards of places your nanny used to know, besides paintings of sunny seaside scenes, carefully dodged the broken glass as I sifted through incomplete board games nestling next to jigsaws with missing pieces stuffed inside ancient mouldy suitcases containing scattered maps and guides to faraway places, standing cheek by jowl with tatty sports bags lying upon dirty towels and stuff like that.
I passed by carpets of flattened cardboard, tattered scraps of wrapping paper, a guitar with a solitary string, surrounded by smatterings of lonely faded scuffed up shoes. I bobbed and weaved around discarded plastic bags scuttling around, mischievously chasing one another over scratched plastic trophies and a torn, coverless TV TIMES. Then walked past hulking golf bags all ripped and torn, standing tall as tombstones, buttressed by bulging black bin sacks filled with unfashionable musty clothes, surrounded by shoals of glinting black plastic coat hangers.
I peeked at the paper cup mounds with residues of tea and coffee languishing inside. Then examined a crate of cracked crockery. At the bottom lay videos of forgotten 70’s shows. I eagerly lobbed three cassettes of Department S into my bag, delved deeper, perhaps to dig out and dust off someone’s discarded dream and discover a rare figurine. Wondering what mystery remained hidden beneath that stained hessian sack?
Poke, prod, pry, feel and reveal.
Merely oily rags and crumpled up magazines. Moved on, kept seeking.
You never know, one person’s junk is another's treasure.
After all, value lies in the eye of the scavenger.
Raked over a family’s personal treasures lovingly built up over decades, now the crumbling rejected remnants of someone’s lifetime.
Opened a cardboard package with an address, to find a faded flowery card, full of flattery.
She was loved once.
Saddest are looking at the old framed photos that used to adorn someone's mantlepiece, putting a face to the forgotten. They were cherished and adored once… now dumped and disregarded in a box. Like nobody wants to know. It's frightening to think that's where all our worldly possessions will go.
All swept up into a household clearance to be cast into this place, waiting for the final chance to become someone else’s pride and joy. Just people’s possessions passing through. You can’t take it all with you. Come to a place like this and you’ll know it's true.
The rest are destined for burial in a landfill.
I Looked upon them all, line upon line, little mounds of memories. People bending down to take a last look. The endless shifting and sifting, searching for salvage. No words or glances exchanged. It’s silent work that requires concentration and determination. It's a grim task, picking apart someone’s past. What will catch the eye?
But do hurry up, there’s no time for lingering looks.
It won’t be here for long.
It’ll soon be going, going, gone.
The council cleanup crew is hovering to move in and sweep up the leftovers within the hour. They won’t miss much. Better be quick.
The lookers and pickers dodge the traders’ vans as they make a quick getaway.
They’ve swiped all the stuff they want to keep, and like a retreating army they scuttle away and flee, hastily leaving behind scores of unwanted items and tire marks. Within seconds a flock of scavengers scrambles and swoops upon the fresh scrag in a frenzy of seeking and picking.
Not long to go now.
The scavengers have taken their choice items and now depart.
Going, going, gone.
And after the clean up team has finished, you’d never have guessed there had been a scrag market. All the left behind memories for this week are swept away and taken with the town’s trash to the tip.
Going, going, gone.
The Scrag market is now silent and deserted, ready and waiting for next week, when the same traders will return with a new lot of clearances and a new collection of scrag. Then someone else’s memories and dreams will be picked apart.
One way or another, It's all gotta gow!