Chapter Two: The Fall of Snowflakes

Chapter Two: The Fall of Snowflakes

The Tar Man found that he preferred to sup his ale in taverns he had frequented in his previous existence. The George Inn was one such and it had changed surprisingly little. All the stage coaches between London and Canterbury used to stop here and there were rich pickings for any highwaymen prepared to tackle the guard and his blunderbuss. The George Inn still had its pretty, galleried balconies that overlooked the cobbled yard but gone was the noise and bustle, the passengers clamouring for food and the drivers shouting at the stable lads to bring water for their horses. It was here that the Tar Man liked to meet the highwayman, Doctor Adams, so called on account of his habit of dislocating the shoulder of any victim who proved uncooperative. He would, however, push back the arm into its socket before taking his leave for, as he freely admitted, once he had deprived his victims of their valuables, they would be hard pressed to pay for a doctor afterwards.

“Enjoy your meal, Sir.”

One of the bar staff placed a large plate of fish and chips in front of him, golden brown and crunchy. There was a steaming mound of green peas on the side. The Tar Man devoured it with his eyes first. At that time of day the low winter sun hit the windows of the modern office block opposite and its rays were reflected back through the casement windows into the dark, wood-panelled room. A narrow beam of sunshine passed through his glass of ice-cold beer and cast a pleasing amber glow on his succulent meal. The Tar Man licked his lips. And fresh peas too! How the devil did they manage to grow garden peas in the middle of winter! He was warming to the twenty-first century.

While he ate, the Tar Man’s gaze fell onto the cleanly swept yard with its rows of wooden tables and benches and curious outdoor heaters like giant mushrooms. He took another gulp of beer and looked at the scene outside. It amused him that all these people would choose to eat under the open sky when they could be sitting here in the bar. Something made him look twice at a girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen who was walking past his window. She settled herself at a bench underneath one of the heaters. He watched her pull open a packet of what he had only that morning discovered were crisps. He did not care for them. They hurt his gums. The girl took a swig of from a red-labelled bottle. What was it about her? She was very pretty – she had olive skin and large, expressive, dark eyes and her silky black hair was cut short like a boy’s - but it was more than that. Her clothes, which the Tar Man found ugly in the extreme, like most of the fashions paraded on London’s streets, were deliberately ripped and baggy and drab, yet her outfit could not disguise her natural grace. But what caught the Tar Man’s attention above all was the professional way in which she scanned the yard before she sat down, as if she were making a careful mental note of who sat where, who was worth a second look and where the nearest exit was to be found. He recognised a kindred spirit. They belonged to the same tribe he and this girl, he was certain of it.

The Tar Man ate the last morsel of fish and pushed away his plate contentedly although his gaze kept wandering back to the yard. Four youths walked by carrying pints of beer and chose to sit at the table adjacent to the girl. She had taken out a paperback book from her pocket and was poring over it, popping crisps mechanically into her mouth as she read. The youths were all loud and intent on having a good time but one of them, the leader of this little gang, was more full of himself than the rest. He was tall and blond and kept looking over at the girl and after a while started to imitate her, hunched up over a book, in order to win her attention. His mates laughed; the girl did not react. Then the youth reached over and tried to grab her book. Before he could touch it she swung her arm up sharply, without even raising her head, and knocked his wrist out of the way. He could not stop himself crying out – she was wearing a chunky metal bracelet and she had hurt him. She continued to read. His mates, on the point of laughing, stopped themselves when they saw the thunderous expression on his face. He shouted something at the girl. The Tar Man could not make out the words he used but, by the reaction of the people sat at tables around them, they were ugly. At first the girl did not move but then she coolly raised her head and looked up at the boy. Whatever it was that she said to him, all his mates burst into spontaneous laughter, spluttering their beer into the air. The blond youth kicked out petulantly at the girl’s table, causing her bottle of Coca-cola to wobble from side to side. The girl’s hand shot out to steady it and calmly went back to her book. The Tar Man smiled appreciatively. She had spirit and knew how to handle herself. A thought came to him: could this girl be the guide he was seeking?

After a few minutes he observed her gather her things together and walk towards the inn, squeezing through the rows of benches. She slid past a large, burly man whose generous rear was jutting out over his bench. He was staring deep into the eyes of an attractive woman opposite him as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist for him. The Tar Man did not have a clear view yet he was certain that the girl had taken something from his back pocket. She had chosen well – of all the customers in the yard he was the easiest target. Then he saw her tap the big man on the shoulder, whisper something in his ear and point at the table of youths. The big man immediately got up, felt in his trouser pocket and, finding it empty, tore across the yard like a charging bull elephant.

Her pretty face alight with a delighted smile, the Tar Man watched the girl enter the low-ceilinged bar where he sat. She ordered a cup of decaffeinated coffee at the bar and while the barman had his back to her she removed several ten pound notes from the big man’s wallet and shoved the evidence between a potted plant and its holder. The Tar Man called over to her from his table.

“That was neatly done.”

The girl whipped round. She was angry with herself that she had not noticed him sitting there.

“What you talking about? I never did nothing!”

The Tar Man smiled broadly. “Never try to hoodwink a hoodwinker. I say it as one who has an appreciation for such things.”

The girl looked the stranger up and down, took in his scar and his unusual taste in clothes.

“Well I can see you ain’t the law.”

She walked towards his table, ignoring the Tar Man, so that she could see what was going on outside. She grinned broadly. The burly man was dragging the youth, shouting and kicking, out of the yard into Borough High Street.

The barman came over to the table with the girl’s coffee, thinking they were together.

“No-” she started to say.

“Yes,” interrupted the Tar Man, “let us drink a glass together.”

“You don’t half speak funny.”

“I see that it pleases you to read.”

The girl looked askance. “Yeah, and?”

“Would you do me the kindness of reading this for me?”

The Tar Man pointed to a small, framed poem hung on the wall next to the window. It was a surprising request and the girl found herself reading it before she could think of a reason to refuse.

“Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!

She reads well! thought the Tar Man. Even better.

“Forgotten your specs have you?”

“Specs? I do not understand you.”

“Spectacles! You know…”

“Ah. No. It is not for that reason that I cannot read.”

“You’re dyslexic, then?”

“Upon my word your speech is hard to follow!”

“You get your letters confused?”

“As I never knew my letters I could hardly confuse them. In my time natural good sense was more than sufficient and I never felt the lack. I fear that things have changed.”

The girl looked at the Tar Man. He read suspicion and curiosity in her features.

“I have a fancy we could be of use to each other, you and I.”

He had unsettled the girl. Usually she was good at sizing people up but she did not know what to make of this character.

“I gotta be going.”

“Tell me your name first.”

“My name ain’t none of your business!”

The Tar Man stood up and bowed his head. “Then until we meet again.”

“I doubt it.”

The girl swallowed down her coffee and made for the door. The Tar Man made sure that he was looking away when she sneaked a final glance at him, as he knew she would.