SMALL ADVENTURES IN ACCESSIBLE PLACES VOLUME 1
THE FRIDAY MARKET Friday 3rd February
Friday 1st June
NICHOLAS OF HITCHIN
Privately published in 2012 by Courage Les Garçons Š Nicholas of Hitchin 2012 The moral rights of the author have been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise, without first seeking the written permission of the copyright owners and the publisher. A catalogue record for this book is available from the Central St. Martins library. www.nicholasofhitchin.com
SMALL ADVENTURES IN ACCESSIBLE PLACES VOLUME 1
THE FRIDAY MARKET
NICHOLAS OF HITCHIN
CONTENTS 7
INTRODUCTION
11
LIFE-BOAT MUG
13
POSTCARD
14
ANGUS MCBEAN
15
MUSSOLINI
17
AGRICULTURAL TOOLS
19
SHIRLEY TEMPLE
20
CLOGS
21
CROTAL BELL
23
TEN TYPES OF OLIVE
24
THE TOP PICKLE
25
A MURDER
27
TOKENS
29
ORTHODOX CALENDAR
30
YURI GAGARIN
31
A MYSTERY
33
KING OF MEAT
34
ELEVEN BOOKS
Friday 10th February Friday 17th February Friday 24th February Friday 2nd March Friday 9th March Friday 16th March Friday 23rd March Friday 30th March Friday 6th April Friday 13th April Friday 20th April Friday 27th April Friday 4th May Friday 11th May Friday 18th May Friday 25th May Friday 1st June
INTRODUCTION By February 2012, having spent a number of months researching historical and literary mythologies, I was tired. Mentally adventuring between Arkham and Ruritania, Mount Olympus and Shangri-La, Avalon and Golgotha – all of it took its toll on my desire to travel much further for a while. I wanted, creatively speaking, to come home. Inspired by the hometown obsessions of Alan Moore (Northampton) and H.P. Lovecraft (Providence) – two writers who did all their imagining from home – I decided to look locally for new ideas. I stopped reading about exotic destinations for a while. Instead, every Friday for several weeks I visited the flea market in my beloved Hitchin, selected an object, and asked the stall-holder about it. In my imagination these ordinary objects would be my mystical artefacts; the stall-holders their priests and guardians. I would be a parochial Indiana Jones, on a provinicial adventure. When I told a friend of mine about this she called them my small adventures in accessible places, a title which stuck. But that’s not really what happened in the end. Perhaps inevitably the written words became as much about 7
the people behind the objects as the objects themselves. Ben, Simon, Pom, Sarah, Darren and Colin, Yvonne, The Top Pickle – all of them and others became guides, rather than guardians, on my small adventures. After only a few weeks many of them would call me over to share the stories behind their latest acquisitions, an unexpected and happy outcome for which I was, and am, very grateful. It had occurred to me to present these stories as works of fiction, as miniature mythologies. But I think, for once, realism is worth a visit. NoH September 2012
THE FRIDAY MARKET
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
LIFE-BOAT MUG I am with my friend Drew. Drew is visiting from Fort Wayne, Indiana. We are talking about mugs. I say, In an honest household everyone should have their own mug. Drew agrees with this. I say, We should get you your own mug, for when you visit. Drew agrees with this, too. We go looking for mugs. The Friday market gets cheaper the further into it you go. At the top end the stall-holders know the value of their things. At the bottom end the value of the things is judged by the customer. This is where we go. Near a carpets and rugs stall there is a table on which lies an arrangement of unloved things. There are brasses and pieces of crockery and boxes of fuses and gas meter keys. There is also a moulded ceramic mug, tar brown, with Inshore Life-Boat written on it, and a picture of two lifeboatmen taking their life-boat to sea. Drew says, Like the coastguard? I explain about life-boatmen. Brave men, Drew says. Yes, I say. That is the ugliest mug ever made, he says. I say, Would you like it? He says, Yes. There’s my mug, buddy. We buy it for fifty pence from a lady.
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L I FE -BOAT MUG
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
POSTCARD Neil sells postcards. His table consists of rows and rows of postcards all separated into different categories. I am browsing through a section entitled ‘Comic’. There are postcards with pictures of little boys chasing ducks, women with big bottoms in bathing costumes, old men pulling faces, and so on. One has a colour engraving on it, an illustration of a man in a small room surrounded by many unruly children. One is climbing the dresser, another is blowing a trumpet, another is pulling his sister’s hair. The man is unhappy. The caption says, Oh!! I wish I was single again! On the back someone has written, Dear Fred, How do you like married life? This fellow doesn’t seem to be enjoying it very well. I return it to the ‘Comic’ section.
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ANGUS MCBEAN A shoebox of old photographs. Different subjects, different periods; some colour but mostly black and white. All the people in them must now be dead. I make a selection of the black and white ones. They belong to Simon. Simon buys and sells pictures and keeps some of them and sells some of them. Old pictures used to be cheap, he says. But not any more. He says, Now that hardly anyone prints photos, they have become Objects. This is an idea I like very much. He says, Have you seen this? And shows me a small framed photograph by Angus McBean. It is of a woman, but I think it is a man dressed as a woman. I see what you mean, he says. But I think it is a woman. I say, Look at the hands and the teeth and the jaw. He says, Yes, I know. But I think it is a woman. I suggest she is a member of the Beaumont Society, the famous transvestite club in London. I’m still going with woman, he says. Your photographs are twelve pounds. I only have ten pounds to buy twelve pounds’ worth of pictures, but he says, That’s okay, you can give me ten. He puts them in a little plastic bag with a strip at the top that you can seal with your thumb and forefinger, to protect them. 14
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
MUSSOLINI Ben sells books. Books on art and history and poetry and religion. On the table there is a book about Mussolini with a striking picture of him on the cover. That’s very rare, says Ben. It is written by one of his lieutenants, and was published in Scotland. Il Duce, I say. A madman, he says. Perhaps you have to be mad to have ideas that big, I say. Ben shakes his head. I prefer Napoleon, says Ben. He was mad, too. But Napoleon is France. French law, architecture, finance, thought — Napoleonic to this day. They still love him. Napoleon runs through Paris as if he had never died. And poisoned by the British, he says. Arsenic in the wallpaper. I say, Are you sure about this? And Ben says, Yes. On St. Helena, when he was in exile. I say, Have you read Conan Doyle’s Adventures of Brigadier Gerard? He hasn’t. I say, You might like them. Napoleon is an incidental character in the book, cropping up from time to time to make the Brigadier’s life difficult. Ben puffs on his cigarette. I have overestimated his interest in Napoleon. When I get home I remember that Napoleon had a son called King of Rome. 15
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MUSSOLINI
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
AGRICULTURAL TOOLS I am holding a spanner designed to be held, more so than is usual. The handle is curved and comfortable to hold, the jaw set at a forty-five degree angle. It is beautiful in itself, perhaps because its function is so much a part of its appearance. I ask Brian, who owns the stall, what it is for. What’s happened is, says Brian, a farmer has needed a spanner for an awkward job, and he’s said, Charlie, knock me up a spanner like this, will you? And that’s what you’ve got. Also on the table is a bladed object about fourteen inches long. It is made of two handles joined together, and two blades joined together. Punched into the main blade is IH in capital letters. That’s John Hildick, says Brian. He was an 18th century plane-iron maker. Very well-known. He says, This was originally a tool for harvesting turnips. The long blade was for topping them, and then there would have been a spike on the end for picking them up. But what’s happened is, the spike has broken off, so he’s said, Charlie, stick a mud scraper on the end of this, will you? And that’s what you’ve got. The welding of the scraper is very messy. I don’t think the two Charlies are the same. 17
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A G R I C ULTURA L TOOL S
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
SHIRLEY TEMPLE I am at Simon’s stall again. There is much discussion about a signed photograph of the film star Bette Davis. Two ladies have joined the party. Says one, You can tell it’s her by the eyes. Yes, agrees the other. How much is it worth? asks the first. A hundred pounds, says Simon. Simon is having a tidy-up. He is putting children’s things in the Children’s box, music things in the Music box, and so on. We look at a publication from the 1970s called Baby Doll, a magazine for female impersonators. In the magazine there are lots of photographs of men in ladies’ outfits, one in a bikini while on the telephone, one in a fox fur, one in a housecoat, etc. The people in the pictures are smiling and look very happy. I buy it for a friend. Here, says Simon. A book. How I Raised Shirley Temple, written by her mother. In the book there are lots of photographs of the child star, one with a big birthday cake, one in a party dress, one feeding a pony, etc. Shirley Temple is smiling in all the pictures, but I think the happy person is behind the camera.
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CLOGS A pair of yellow clogs. They belong to Colin, who says, Call me Pom. Everyone calls me Pom. I say, Where did these clogs come from, Pom? He says, Holland. So I ask, And how did you get them? Don’t remember, says Pom. I had them for ages and then a Dutch lady bought them. She said they were the best shoes to have, very warm and very comfortable, and hard to find in England. But she brought them back again. Wrong size. I try them on. They are the wrong size for my feet too, so I can’t test them for warmth or comfort. Never mind, says Pom. Here, take my card. He gives me his card. On it is printed ‘Colin Pomroy, Dodgy Antique Dealer Extraordinaire!’
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T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
CROTAL BELL I am with my friend Craig. We are looking at boxes of dug-up things: buckles, thimbles, coins. One box is marked ‘Crotal Bells’. Craig ask Sarah, who owns the dug-up things, What is a crotal bell? She says, It’s a bell that you put around the neck of an animal — a sheep, a cow, a horse — so you know where it is. They are from the Middle Ages. The crotal bells are made from bronze, green with age, and about the size of a ping-pong ball. Each one has a little ball inside it that makes it tinkle. Some have intricate patterns carved into them, which I think expresses a tender consideration for the beast that will wear it. I ring the bell. The little ball inside it tinkles. I am disproportionately happy. I say, I am probably the first person to ring this bell since it fell to the ground hundreds of years ago. Apart from the person who found it, says Craig.
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CROTA L BE LL
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
TEN TYPES OF OLIVE Aman sells olives. His table is covered with glass bowls, each one piled high with different types of olive. He says, Would you like to try one? I say, I’m sorry. I don’t like olives. Oh well, says Aman. You win some, you lose some. I look at all the olives Aman has on display. He has queen olives, cracked olives, kalamata olives, colossal green olives. And then the stuffed olives: garlic, feta, pimento, jalapeno, and one called devil’s picnic. I say, I didn’t know there were so many types of olive. Aman says, There are more! But these are my favourites, all fresh from Thessaloniki. I ask, How did you get into the olive business? He says, I went travelling and fell in love with food. It became my great passion. But I had to come home to complete my studies. I ask, What were you studying? Ophthalmology, he says.
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THE TOP PICKLE Cheeses and pickles. One of the cheeses is called Green Thunder, and it is wrapped in a thick coat of green wax. I say to the man behind the stall, This is an unusual-looking cheese. Green Thunder! he says. It’s the top cheese for my pickles. And I am The Top Pickle. He hands me a business card. It says, Gary Crocker, The Top Pickle. The Top Pickle is a giant man, with giant hands and a giant voice. He booms, Green Thunder is the best cheese for my pickles. It is a match made in heaven. I don’t make any money on the cheese, but my pickles need a cheese. And this is the best one. I try some of the Green Thunder with some of his red onion marmalade. It is delicious and I have another piece. He says, I spent a year fiddling with this mix, to get it just right. Now it’s just right. Last year I won an award at the National Marmalade Awards. Aman, who sells olives next door, walks over. And he’s my love child, says the Top Pickle.
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T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
A MURDER I’ve got lots of things to show you today, says Simon. He does. A book called The Death Ray Dictator with a very handsome illustrated cover. A set of silver cups designed by the same man who designed the World Cup. Some pornographic photographs from the sixties. A piece of 2000 year-old pottery. A Suffragette pamphlet. A map of British photographic societies. But these are really interesting, he says. Pictures of a murder. He opens up a folder of glossy eight-by-ten black and white photographs. The photographs are in sequence. In one of the photographs a man stands behind a woman, a leather garotte stretched between his hands. In another two people crowd around a dead body. One of them has her fist in her mouth in horror. In another the body is being carried away on a stretcher, a policeman standing by. The policeman has a painted-on moustache. Amateur dramatics, says Simon.
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A MURDE R
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
TOKENS A box of little metal discs with imperial monetary values on them — 1d, 3d, 2/6 and so on — very thin so that you could bend them with two fingers. Around the values they say J. SALMON & SONS LTD. They look like money but they are not money. I ask the stall-holder what they are. He says, Tokens. Excuse me, says another man. He wants to get past me but we are in a very small space. As I move aside my bag catches a porcelain cat and nearly topples it. Bloody hell, says the stall-holder. I ask him, What were the tokens for? Spending, he says. I ask, Who spent them? Employees, he says. Another man wants to get by. We all have to come out so he can come in. For God’s sake, says the stall-holder. I ask, What’s your name? Graham, he says. I ask, with an E or an H? He says, Do you want the tokens? I ask how much they are. He says, Pound each. I decide not to buy them. He shuts the box and says, Jesus Christ.
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TOK E NS
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
ORTHODOX CALENDAR A little book, in what I presume is Russian. It has 1961 on the cover, but that’s all I can understand. I ask Kevin, who owns the stall, What do you know about this little Russian book? Nothing really, says Kevin. I ask, where did you get it? He says, A house clearance. I ask, was the owner of the house Russian? Hm, he says. He calls over his assistant. He says, Did we do a clearance for a Russian? I’m Russian, says a lady. What do you want to know? I ask her if she knows anything about the little book. It’s Ukrainian, she says. It’s a calendar for Orthodox Christians, so they can observe all the feasts and holy days and all the rules and rituals. Most days there is something you have to do or not do, and people need to know which day they have to do or not do each thing. I ask her her name. She says, It’s Elena. Thank you, I say. She hugs me warmly and we say goodbye.
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YURI GAGARIN Yvonne sells stamps. She arranges them by theme: birds, flowers, animals, aircraft, and so on, all in small stamp albums. I ask her, Why do you arrange them by theme? She says, Some people collect stamps this way. I like to help them. I ask, Do you collect stamps yourself? Yes, she says. I collect space stamps, ever since I was a child. I show her the silver Yuri Gagarin badge I always wear for luck. Yvonne smiles. It is like a code between us. I say, Do you know what Gagarin whistled when he was in space? “The Motherland hears, the Motherland knows / Where her son flies in the sky.� She opens an album. She has lots of stamps with Yuri Gagarin on. From Mongolia, Romania, Russia, Czechoslovakia, Cuba, Hungary, even the Maldives. We look at them together. He had such a lovely smile, she says.
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T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
A MYSTERY Colin and Darren sell records. I’m looking at a record by Faron Young. Good record, says Darren. I say, He’s a bit of a mystery to me, but I always liked the song Apartment Number Nine. Colin says, Do you want to see a real mystery? From under the table he produces a seven-inch record. He points to the label. Look, he says. Side A: Mystery Girl, Jess Conrad, on Decca. He flips it over. Now look, he says: Side B: Mystery Girl, Jess Conrad, on Decca. I say, It has the same A-side and B-side. A-ha, says Colin, But that’s a common enough thing. I say, So what’s the mystery? Darren Says, The mystery is, it might say Mystery Girl, Jess Conrad, twice, but it’s actually Brenda Lee singing Sweet Impossible You and The Grass Is Greener. I say, A mix-up at the production plant? Can’t be, says Darren. Jess was on Decca and Brenda was on Brunswick. How is that possible? I ask. That’s why it’s a mystery, says Darren. That’s why it’s a mystery, says Colin.
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A MY STE RY
T HE F RIDAY MA RK E T
KING OF MEAT The King of Meat is talking. Come on superb bit of beef look at that. Fit for a king come on. You just tell me what you’re after lovely lamb look at that gorgeous. He lays out some lamb chops on the counter but nobody is stopping to look. The King of Meat continues. Okay now anyone for a nice bit of pork let’s have a go. Gorgeous superb. One more time come on. He slices up a pork joint with a cleaver. The first slice doesn’t look very nice. Put that out of your mind that one’s going in the bin here’s the next one. One more time gorgeous superb. Look at that. Lovely come on let’s have a go. He continues slicing the joint and laying out the steaks. Anyone else come on? But I am the only person listening to the King of Meat.
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ELEVEN BOOKS Boxes and boxes and boxes, full of books. All good books, too. At least, I think they are good books. On magic, on poetry, on art, on mysticism, on history. I make a big pile of the ones I want. Soon I have eleven and the pile is so big that a lady comes over with a bag for me to put them in. Thank you, I say. I ask her her name. She says, It’s Margaret. I ask her how much she would like for the books. Oh, five pounds, she says. This is a good price and I am happy to pay it. I say, These are very good books. Where did you get them all? A house clearance, she says. He was an artist. I say, How long have you been doing house clearing? She says, More years than I care to remember! I say, Really, how many years? Four years, she says.
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