by Tim Lott
‘Have you got any books about angels?’
Henry looked puzzled. ‘You mean like the ones on top of the Christmas tree?’
‘Guardian angels,’ said the woman. ‘I want to know how I can get in touch with mine.’
‘That’s quite a conundrum,’ said Henry.
‘I’ve heard there are ways.’
‘You might want to try this.’
He held up a book on anthropology and mythology – The Hero With A Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell.
The woman took it and flicked through a few pages.
‘It’s actually excellent, and written with admirable clarity. You can have it for free. Just send it back to me when you’ve finished with it.’
She shook her head and returned the book to the pile.
‘Have you read a book called Jonathan Livingston Seagull?’
‘I’m afraid I have.’
‘Do you have a copy?’
‘I think you might be better off at an ornithologist’s.’
Her smile, for the first time, disappeared. ‘You’re not going to do much business with that kind of attitude.’ She began to move away. ‘You’re a freak.’
‘Thank you,’ said Henry genially.
A few moments later, a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties occupied the space where the woman had been. He wore a combat jacket, army trousers, Doc Marten boots and a khaki T-shirt. From one of his belt loops hung a Swiss Army knife and a hefty set of keys. His hair was cut very short, which, along with the duds, gave him a martial air, as if he was preparing to engineer a coup there and then and sequester Henry’s books for the greater good. He had a full Zapata moustache that stretched to the line of his jaw.
Henry nodded towards him.
‘Hello, Pattern.’
‘Who’s the kid?’ said the man, gesturing in my direction.
‘Adam, this is Pattern.’
‘I’ve heard about you,’ I said.
‘Really?’ said Pattern, looking edgy. ‘Who from?’
‘Strawberry.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Pattern. ‘Sweet kid. Nut job.’
He looked down at the stall.
‘Why do you keep coming, Henry? Your shit is so out there. Have you ever come across something called the real world?’
‘Why do you keep coming, Pattern?’
‘Because there’s work to be done.’
‘I’m sure that’s true. A portion of pious outrage is no doubt our birthright. If only it weren’t for all that tiresome false consciousness keeping the man on the Clapham omnibus in chains. But what is one to do?’
Pattern seemed oblivious to Henry’s flagrant sarcasm.
‘Read this, Henry.’
He handed Henry a leaflet, then gave one to me.
It showed a pig decorated with stars and stripes. Four guns were pointed at the pig by unknown assailants. Along the barrel of each gun was a motto: GET OUT OF THE GHETTO, GET OUT OF LATIN AMERICA, GET OUT OF ASIA, GET OUT OF AFRICA. The pig was cowering. Underneath was the legend March Against America: Bristol Town Hall, Saturday 27 July, 11 p.m. Free food. Pink Fairies. Free music.
‘I thought you might want to get down from your ivory tower and get involved in something that actually might make a difference, for once in your privileged, complacent and largely useless life.’
‘It’s not really my territory.’
‘What is your territory, Henry? What use are you?’
He was smiling and Henry was smiling back. It seemed they had a well-practised routine.
‘Let’s just say I have a different approach to these things.’
‘You need to get angry.’
‘According to you, everyone needs to get angry. Your manifesto seems to be for an angrier world.’
‘There’s plenty to get angry about.’
‘I’m not really sure that helps anyone. How’s Moo?’
‘Why do you want to know about Moo?’
‘I’m asking out of politeness. You don’t have to answer.’
Pattern paused, as if weighing the consequences of giving out sensitive information. He nodded towards the stage at the far end of the hall.
‘She’s over there.’
I followed Pattern’s glance. A rather overweight young woman with greasy brown hair and wearing a long floral frock was arguing with a middle-aged man while trying to give him a pamphlet.
‘How long has she got to go?’
‘Oh, that. Yeah. That’s not going to happen.’
‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? Was there some sort of mishap?’
‘Not really. We made a choice.’
‘You did what?’
‘Wouldn’t want to bring a child into a world like this.’
Moo looked up from her discussion with the middle-aged man and noticed Henry staring at her. She smiled and waved, then returned to her customer, who was examining a book with a fist and a gun depicted on the cover.
‘Moo agreed?’
‘Moo sees my point of view.’
‘Did you bully her into it? Poor woman. She should try someone with a little more paternal instinct.’
‘What would you know about that?’
‘More than you might think.’ There was now a note of irritation in Henry’s voice.
Pattern smiled.
‘You see what I mean about getting angry, Henry? It’s good energy.’
Eleven
Pattern turned his back and walked towards his stall. Moo made another faint wave. Although Pattern was dressed for the army, his walk was anything but military, with a long, loping stride that gave a slight rubbery bounce to his walk.
‘Why is he called Pattern?’
‘Because he believes everything has a pattern. Usually controlled by malign forces.’
‘It doesn’t sound all that implausible.’
‘Life isn’t like that, Adam. Life doesn’t have a pattern. Not one we can map, anyway.’
I was sitting next to Henry behind the table. There was now a steady flow of people entering the hall.
‘It’s going to be a busy day,’ he said.
He was wrong. Most of the other stalls, even the Aetherius Society, got medium-to-heavy footfall as the morning rolled by. We, on the other hand, received few visitors. People wandered into the orbit of the stall and wandered off again, looking thoughtful, or amiable, but finally unengaged. They seemed confused by what it was that Henry was offering. Five or six books were borrowed. Henry took no money, simply pointed out that donations were welcome. A few entered his philosophy tent, mainly with a larky attitude, but none of them left anything but small change for the privilege.
A fat man with a large red beard and rectangular wire spectacles had arrived at the stall and was picking indifferently through the books.
‘Can I interest you in a session in my philosophy tent?’
‘Sounds a laugh. ’Ow much is it?’
‘It’s absolutely free. Unless you want to make a contribution.’
‘I don’t know. What sort of contribution?’
‘Whatever you like. Or nothing at all.’
The man looked suspicious.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘You pay what you want.’
‘Oh, right then. No, I don’t reckon so.’
‘Aren’t you curious about life?’
‘It all comes out in the wash, doesn’t it?’
Without waiting for a reply, he put down the book he had been inspecting. I noticed that he had jam on his fingers – I recalled seeing him at the Women’s Institute stall, helping himself to Victoria sponge. He left smears all over the expensive copy of Elliott Erwitt photographs.
‘Not much happening,’ said Henry. ‘It’s odd. The fact I’m not charging anything for my books or my services seems to convince people that they can’t possibly be worth having. Human nature is highly perverse, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe it’s you that’s perverse.’
‘It has
been said before, I must confess.’
A few more minutes passed, silently. Henry nodded towards the tent.
‘Do you want a go?’
‘In the tent? Why? I can ask you what I want when I’m at the boat.’
‘It’s different. The nature of the space transforms the relationship.’
‘Hello, Henry.’
I turned and recognized Moo, Pattern’s wife or girlfriend, I wasn’t sure which. Although she was solidly built, with a strong face and a commanding presence, she gave off a faint aura of anxiety. She nodded towards the tent.
‘Henry, could you spare a few minutes with me?’
‘Certainly.’
Relieved, I stayed in my place behind the stall. I had no desire to spill my guts to Henry. After a few minutes, I could hear sobbing coming from the tent. It got more plaintive, until it broke down into almost uncontrollable wailing. People began to stare.
Embarrassed, I left the stall and went to pretend to use the lavatories. When I returned Moo had gone.
‘What was wrong with her?’ I asked.
‘The same as what’s wrong with most people,’ said Henry. ‘She doesn’t believe she’s worth anything.’
At around 2 p.m., while the rest of the market was still booming, Henry, clearly discouraged, began to pack up.
‘Can’t we at least wait until the music starts?’ I said.
There was some movement by the stage – sound checks, a man shifting speakers and tapping microphones. To my surprise, I saw Strawberry walk up on to the stage, cradling a scratched and beaten acoustic guitar like a sickly baby. There was a flutter of applause. She acknowledged her audience, then tried to say a few words into the microphone, but was immediately sabotaged by brutal feedback. An engineer dabbled with some cables, and she tried again. This time the PA rang clear.
She did not speak again, simply went straight into the song. Her voice was shadowy, not much more than a sketch at the lower registers, but gutsy, violent, broken and sharp like a dropped crystal glass on the bigger notes. I didn’t recognize the song – Henry informed me that it was by Jacques Brel, ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’. Like many chansons it did a lot of grandstanding, shading into melodrama at the crescendos, aching with loss in the troughs. As the song reached its conclusion I thought I saw a minuscule tear work slowly down Strawberry’s cheek. There was a moment’s silence before applause began to roll across the room.
Strawberry didn’t smile. In fact, she seemed distressed. She just nodded and left the stage. Henry made his way in her direction, and after a while brought her back with him. She seemed to have regained her composure.
‘Oh! Adam!’ She reached across and kissed me on the cheek. Her lips felt waxy and warm. There was still a track on her face, where the left eye had been weeping. ‘I’m so flattered that you came to see me.’
Before I had a chance to blurt that I hadn’t come to see her, Henry interrupted. ‘I think everyone here would have happily made the trip just to see that performance.’
‘It’s a hobby. Something anyone could do, given a bit of practice.’
‘You’re wrong,’ objected Henry.
‘Am I?’
She looked almost pathetically hopeful, as if what I first took to be false modesty was in fact genuine, and acute, self-doubt.
‘Self-effacement is a nice quality, Strawberry. But you shouldn’t deny your gift.’
‘Ahh, you’re biased.’ But she was clearly pleased.
‘Adam and I are just leaving. I find this place depressing. It’s like the remnants of a past time – or the hideous vernix of one that is newly born.’
‘Why does it always sound like you’re spouting shit from a book?’
She looked around her at the hall. It was bustling.
‘Are you coming with us?’ said Henry.
‘I promised Troy I’d hang out with some friends this evening. I’ll be back at the shack after that for a while, probably tomorrow.’
‘Are things OK there? Is he behaving himself?’
Strawberry strummed a few melodramatic chords on the guitar – de, de, DAH.
‘Don’t be silly, Henry.’
She was so thin I imagined her to be translucent under her cotton shift. Her words were punctuated, as when I had met her on the boat, by small, skipping coughs.
‘Perhaps you would agree to see a doctor for that cough?’ said Henry.
Strawberry ignored him and turned to me.
‘Why don’t you drop in and see me tomorrow? I’ll show you my cabin. I have some little Greek pastries someone gave me that I can’t eat because of the sugar, and they are apparently quite fucking yum for those in the grip of that particular addiction.’
‘As long as I don’t have to drink any green tea.’
‘I’ve got some of the ordinary stuff for those who like to hit the tannin mainline. So that’s a date?’
‘I guess.’
‘Henry, you going to swing by with the boy?’
‘See how it goes.’
With that, we said farewell and made our way towards the exit. I was excited to go and visit her, although not out of any sexual promise. Despite her beauty, her frailty rendered her more or less neuter. The fact that she had called me ‘boy’ rankled. She wasn’t that much older than me – although I had to admit there was something about her character that seemed, if not ancient, then wizened.
Outside, a group of about twenty protesters had gathered, brandishing placards. STOP THE PORN FESTIVAL, said one. CHRISTIAN MOTHERS AGAINST ABORTION, said another. MARIJUANA KILLS, said a third. Henry ignored them and made his way towards the Karmann Ghia, carrying a heavy tea chest full of books. I made to follow him, but then I noticed Ash standing under the Christian Mothers Against Abortion banner.
She caught my eye. I felt that to go over and talk to her would somehow be a betrayal of Henry. But at the same time it seemed rude not to say hello. I walked over and she separated herself from the group.
‘What are you doing here?’ I had to raise my voice to make myself heard over the singing.
‘Helping my father out.’
She nodded in the direction of a wide, tall man, built like a sturdy Victorian wardrobe, with wiry pepper-and-salt hair and a corrugated face. He stood at the forefront of the protesters, fiddling impatiently with a megaphone, which tweeted and squawked as if protesting at its treatment. He was wearing a clerical dog collar to top off an outfit of black clerical vestments.
‘Are you part of . . . this?’
I looked around at the protesters. Ash was by far the youngest one there.
‘My father likes it if I come along. It passes the time. Lexham gets kind of boring – anything for a day out.’
I looked over to where Henry was packing up the car.
‘I have to go. I’m helping Henry.’
‘Shame.’
Her lips drew back to reveal a glimpse of those lascivious gap teeth, a flash of provocative, Pantone-scale eyes.
‘It is. Obviously, I’d like to stay and shout at people going in. Is that what passes for entertainment round these parts?’
‘It’s less fun than it sounds. Listen . . .’ She paused, as if carefully considering options. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come and see me? Later in the week? Just to pass the time? We could kick up a bit of dust in the village? We could carry banners and intimidate passers-by with slogans.’
I looked around at the car again. Henry was looking up, scanning for me. I took a step away from Ash.
‘If your dad doesn’t mind.’
I glanced at her Wesley Toshack. He had fixed the megaphone and was bellowing into it – complaining, from what I could make out through the distortion, that the church building, although deconsecrated, should not be used for the purposes of promoting ‘drug culture’ and ‘free love’.
‘He’s not as scary as he looks,’ said Ash.
‘He looks livid.’
‘He’s caught a touch of the sun.’
Another flash of her
eyes.
‘Just to pass the time. Sure.’
‘Monday? At the clock?’
‘The day after. Tuesday.’
‘About noon, then.’
I held up a hand to say farewell, and she reached out and touched her finger on my palm. This time she didn’t smile, but looked serious. As if the contract we had sealed was momentous.
I turned and walked towards the car. Henry was looking faintly irritable.
‘Where have you been?’
‘I was checking out the zoo.’
‘You see what I mean about Ash the Pash?’
So he had noticed after all.
‘What? That she’s a “red-hot chilli pepper”?’
‘That she’s a zealot.’
‘Just trying to please her dad, I think.’
Henry regarded the thin corona of protesters surrounding Wesley Toshack, all singing together now, a thin, gruelly rendition of ‘We Shall Overcome’.
‘I don’t know who are the most lame, the protesters or those protested against. This is a two-ring circus. Are you going to help me load up the rest of this stuff? Or are your hormones too occupied with other matters?’
It took a couple more trips to finish loading the car. I was about to climb in when I saw Strawberry approaching across the car park. She waved and picked up her pace. Henry started the engine.
‘Adam. I’m going to do another song. Do you want to stay and hear it?’
‘I’m meant to be going back with Henry.’
Henry revved the motor.
‘We’re all going back to Troy’s after the Fayre. Why don’t you come with? You can stay over. Crash on the couch. I checked with Troy. It’s fine.’
I looked at Henry. He shrugged.
‘Troy’s only staying here for another hour or so. I’ll introduce you to some people. What do you say?’
‘All right.’
She grabbed my hand and squeezed it feebly.
‘Good. Come on. I’m due on stage. My audience awaits. Catch you on the flipside, Henry.’
‘OK,’ said Henry, with an air of slight weariness. He turned to me. ‘If you need to get back, there’s a bus to Lexham from Bristol on the hour.’
She led me back towards the hall. I turned to wave goodbye, but Henry was already driving away.
