The busker

Tuesday mornings are not usually one of the busy times in my bookshop cum tearoom – well mostly tearoom actually, but this morning I had just spent a manic hour dealing with an indoor deluge of tourists sheltering from an outdoor deluge of rain. It seemed as though thousands had crammed themselves inside the tiny space, when in truth it was probably only fifteen or so, magnified by the fact that they all spoke in a torrent of various foreign languages distinguishable only by the replacement of guttural sounds with sibilants. They had crowded in with the tourists’ disregard for ‘personal space ‘ and had consumed gallons of café late or cappuccino and virtually all my Olde Worlde, West Country, home made cakes and flapjacks.

I am very lucky to have a shop that faces directly out on to the Cathedral Square and so am ensured a fairly steady flow of custom – especially now that I have abandoned myself to the embarrassment of being a rugby playing teashop owner and charmed several of the local WI and other worthy bakers into supplying me with a constant stream of wonderful home made cakes and other goodies. In fact I had set out to be run a much more macho bookshop, but needs must when the bank manager drives and tourists seem to have a bottomless pit of desire for refreshment and less of a driving need for reading material.

I have become rather attached to my niche with its front row view of the Square and in slower moments I can watch the ever-changing ebb and flow of life outside my window. Couple that with the opportunity to read the books that are destined never – or rarely ever to be bought, I have a pretty good time of it.

As I cleared the tables, which were overrun with the debris of the sheltering hordes, I glanced out of the drop-spattered glass in the small bow window across the glistening and puddle strewn, pedestrianised square. I mopped up puddles of coffee from the tables and rivers of rainwater from the floor and watched as the girl opposite tangoed with the  sheet of plastic she was trying to remove from the pile of belongings that were in a tidy heap by the wall – a canvas shoulder bag, a small collapsible stool and her violin case. Carefully she removed her instrument, set the case down on the spread plastic to collect coins and stood gazing into the middle distance stroking her violin musingly. By dint of some fast flapping of my arm and the tea towel it held I caught her attention, pointed to the sky and shrugged elaborately as if to say ‘That’s Life’. She grinned and, by way of reply, played at drying herself with a towel as if after a bath. Obviously she had been caught out by the heavens opening.

She and I had become good acquaintances from afar throughout the summer months. We had never spoken – well not with words, but we had conversed with mimed gestures, funny faces and friendly waves.

She usually set herself up in the same sunlit corner between a buttress and the West Door of the small, mellow stoned Cathedral. She seemed to belong there somehow – seemed to be in complete harmony.  More often than not she was surrounded by an appreciative cluster of people – adults and children, locals and tourists and somehow she managed to still their ‘ nineteen to the dozen tongues’, as well as their ‘where are we going next feet’, inserting a brief calm interlude in their harum-scarum day.

Actually I have never been sure whether it is the sound of her playing which holds people in thrall or the sight of her flaming mop of long curly red hair, motley-patched skirt and bright rainbow hued tee shirt with the golden glow of the ancient stone blocks behind her forming the perfect backdrop. As she played, swaying slightly she would incline her head, close her eyes and seem to lose herself in the moment.
As the music ended she would give a little skip as if to realign herself with the real world once more, throw an exaggerated bow to her audience and grin her thanks as contributions were variously dropped, lobbed or placed in the open violin case in front of her.

On wet days she is there, on dry days, sunny days and in wind – she has not missed a day all summer, the only differences I notice are the various bright colours of her clothes and recently, as summer waned and Autumn beckoned, the appearance of a voluminous sunshine yellow plastic water proof garment of no readily recognisable type – one that today she had obviously not managed to get on in time to avoid a soaking.

Listen to me waxing lyrical – must be the influence of the teashop environment and serving too many old ladies their cream teas! Still, as I served the obligatory tea and scones to yet two more foot sore pensioners, I contemplated how odd it was that I had not so much as managed one word to the mysterious musician whose image danced so often before my mind’s eye. All summer she had been there – but then she arrived a good hour after I opened up and was packing her various belongings at four in the afternoon when I was firmly entrenched in the late afternoon trade that never failed to materialise.
All summer I guess we had both been intent on making the most of the thin seam of gold that is the tourist industry.

As I turned to watch the familiar figure weaving her magic, I decided that today, come what may, I would somehow manage to speak to her with real words.  The season was nearing its end and whilst I would remain through the winter months half hibernating in my snug shop, she would probably just fail to appear one day and that would be that. No, today had to be the day.

As I started to move away from the window, a flash of movement caught my eye. It was a movement very different from the gentle advance and retreat of meandering tourists. Half a dozen skateboarders in their peculiar uniform of impossibly baggy trousers and black hoodies weaved, jumped and slid their way through the various huddles of people in the square, round the few trees, circling and criss crossing the area, they moved with purpose and organisation, very much in contrast with the haphazard movements of the sightseers.

The local traders know these boys well – or if not these specifically, we know their ilk.  They too want a cut of the summer income, only, unlike the shopkeepers and street entertainers, they give nothing in return. Their aim is not to trade, but to take and they do not care who they take from – it could be tourists, children, pensioners, they have no preference. Their sole objective is gain, their methods as direct as the arrow like furrows they are ploughing on their stealthy wheeled platforms.

Like the other shopkeepers with no outside displays I am mainly immune from their attentions, as they do not venture through doorways, but if I had a stand of postcards outside, or maps and tourist guides perhaps, I too would be expecting trouble. These ‘gangs’ have several different ways of working the square and none of them necessitated getting off their boards. The easiest by far is to dip into carelessly open bags and lift purses, cameras and phones and glide away leaving their victim none the wiser. The second is to overturn a display of goods and then pick wallets and watches from unsuspecting people caught up in the mayhem. The third is to sweep past a street juggler or magician maybe and grab their modest takings in one swift and sure movement – almost too fast to see.
A golden violinist with eyes closed and mind running up and down the bars of her sweet melody stands no chance.

As I thought it I saw it. Two hooded figures homing in on her from opposite directions. One crouched low, the other standing upright, intent on their target, oblivious to anything other than their plan to grab her money.

I leapt from behind my state of the art coffee machine to the absolute amazement of the two elderly ladies sipping their frothy coffee and pulled open the door, setting the wind chimes jiggling and jangling in melodious protest.

As I hurled myself across the square I was aware of muttering and foreign chattering as I forged ahead –  splitting photographers from their grouped families, masking viewfinders of video virtuosos and dividing parties of arm waving Latin coach trippers – on I sped – head down in a true Rugby prop forward charge. I wasn’t known as the man-mountain of the local rugby club pack for nothing.

In some part of my brain I became aware of swaying figure ahead of me, totally oblivious of the impending wheeled danger, or indeed of her valiant saviour. I had no time to shout a warning as I flung myself full length between the rapidly converging stealth boarders. I felt a thud of contact at ankle and thigh height on my left and a simultaneous crash into my hip and shoulder on my right. I continued to hurtle forwards, spreading hooded figures, skateboards, coins, her instrument case and stool in all directions. I came to a halt, in a crumpled heap by the Cathedral wall.

My only coherent thought as I sorted arms from legs and attempted to sit up was
“ My first words to her could well end up being my last!”
I looked up in time to catch her shrug, skip, beam and hold out her hand to help me up.