Three Men On Tour: 22

The market turned out to be just what we needed. It was bigger than I had expected and, in addition to the usual purveyors of fudge, chutney and rare breed meats, we found ourselves surrounded by fire jugglers, street magicians, opera singers and readers of poetry. Street theatre is a dubious form of entertainment. For a start, one is instantly struck by the lack of an actual theatre, viz. a viz. a roof, four walls, and somewhere to buy popcorn. On the other hand, the lack of popcorn was somewhat offset, in this instance, by the numerous stalls offering free samples and by the discovery of the beer tent. Strolling through the yammering hawkers, alcohol in hand and the relentless beat of sunshine on our heads, it was possible to tolerate even the hundredth actor painted to resemble a statue.

George was in his element. He ambled from stall to stall, chatting to stall holders and offering expert advice on the best way to cure Guatemalan guinea pig, or exactly the right kind of vinegar in which to pickle a walnut. In fact, so absorbed was I in the horrific fascination of George’s voyage of enlightenment that it took me a while to realise we had lost Harry.

“He was here just a minute ago,“ pointed out George, reminding me that, as a mine of pre-evident information, George is as useful as a horoscope.

“He can’t have gone far,“ I pointed out. “If we retrace our steps we’re bound to run into him.“

“Ah, yes,“ said George. “What a good idea. I would never have thought of that.“

On instinct, I headed towards the beer tent, George trailing behind me. As I peered around, searching for Harry’s distinctive spiky brown hair and yellow shirt, George ran a helpful commentary on the stalls we had previously passed. “Now then, this is where we had that delicious chilli jam, and that was the lady who knits those wonderful bobble hats – hello Miriam, we’re looking for our friend – and this was where we bought cheese rolls – yes, they were delicious thankyou, I really liked the cheese baked onto the crust, you’ll have to give me the recipe – by the way, we’re looking for our friend – have you seen him?“

Harry wasn’t at the beer tent. He wasn’t by the jams, or the chutneys. He wasn’t at the fudge stall where we had sampled every flavour on the slab and then promised to come back later; he wasn’t at the Mexican hammock stall where we had watched a fire juggler ply his trade excitingly close to the dangling tassels of the hammocks; and he wasn’t at the fruit and veg stall where we had chatted with the charming girl with the rather low cut top. I was just about to give up and suggest waiting for Harry at the car when I spotted him. He was at the end of a row towards the edge of the market, his back to us while we conversed with the owner of a stall. I nudged George and pointed. George looked over, took off his glasses to rub the street dust from his eyes, then put them on with a delighted sigh.

“Of course,“ he murmured. “Trust Harry.“

Trust Harry indeed. As we neared the stand I realise what had caused Harry such distraction. The stall owner was dressed in a denim shirt through which poked numerous tattoos, her jet black hair was pulled up into a 50’s style red bandanna and despite, or possibly because of, her nose stud and numerous piercings she made the fruit and veg girl look like small potatoes indeed. I walked up beside Harry and caught the girl’s eye.

“Is my friend bothering you? He gets ever so excitable if he doesn’t get his nap in the afternoon.“ Harry stiffened and turned, his delight at being reunited with us evident in the succession of stormy expressions that flitted between his eyebrows.

“Ah, Ian, I was wondering where you’d got to.“ He turned back to the girl. “Now anyway, you were telling me about hardwoods.“

“Did he tell you about the time he tried to make a trivet?“ I said conversationally. “It had five legs and every one of them was shorter than all the others.“

“Do ignore my friend,“ Harry said through gritted teeth. “He sometimes comes up with the most unbelievable drivel. Probably all those bangs on the head he received as a child.“ I shook my head sorrowfully.

“Poor old Harry. He gets so confused,“ I said with a sense of pity in my voice. “I didn’t receive any bangs on the head as a child“

“Yes. Well I didn’t know you then, did I?“ muttered Harry under his breath. The girl looked from Harry to me and then back again. Her expression wavered between amusement and concern as to whether anyone was actually going to buy anything.

“Oh, I say,“ a voice from under Harry’s left arm rang out. All eyes turned to the new entrant in the debate. George looked up in surprise. “Oh sorry,“ he said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. It’s just I saw these bowls with the pierced carvings here and I thought ‘how on earth did you manage that?’ I mean they’re identical. Did you use a pantograph?“

“Do you carve yourself?“ asked the girl in a gentle Bristol burr.

George nodded happily. “Mainly wood turning. I’ve got a Draper set up at home. Not much but it does the job.“

The girl nodded. “I use a Sealey myself. I find the Draper’s are fine but the chuck tends to work loose after a while. What kind of wood are you using?“

“Mostly ash, but I managed to get hold of some olive wood the other day.“

The girl’s eyes lit up. “That’s got a lovely grain. Are you going to leave it natural or add a bit of oil to bring it out?“

“Lacquer,“ said George happily. “But I’m interrupting. I’m sure you were just chatting to these gentlemen.“

“I think,“ said the girl, raising an eyebrow, “that they were doing better flirting with each other than flirting with me.“

“Oh,“ said George looking confused. “Does that mean you do want them to carry on or that you don’t?“

“Oh, I’m happy for them to carry on,“ said the girl. “But while they’re doing that, I want you to tell me all about your plans for your olive wood. I’ve never been able to get lacquer to work myself. I always find it colours the wood too much.“

“Oh, you’ve got to thin it down with linseed oil first. That way it sinks into the wood and lets the grain come through.“ I stopped following the conversation at that point. The battle between Harry and me was over. The better man had won.