Winged figure across a back

Forty years back this market was all canvas and tin, and at the far end under the clock there was a stall where a woman sold loose feathers by the handful. Pigeon, gull, jackdaw, whatever the lads brought in off the roofs. Every wet Thursday a tall figure came under her awning in a robe the colour of wet slate, hood down, and bought one feather. Never two. He paid in coppers, always the exact change, and never once looked at the stock.

One Thursday the rain came sideways off the Irwell and he stayed longer than he ever had. He asked her what the feathers were for. She said hats, quill pens, dusting out the works of old clocks. He shook his head and said they were for lifting. Then he let the robe fall open, and behind him the wings unfolded past the edge of the stall, feathers layered like slate shingles, until the canvas sagged and the rainwater ran off them in ropes.

She sold him the last feather that day, I'll give her that. She tucked it in her apron pocket, and the clock under her stall has struck twelve a minute late ever since. Make of that what you will. Now, the coppers, if you please, and mind the step on your way out.