The Man Who Didn’t Burn by Ian Moore

Author:Ian Moore [Moore, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

The fishmonger threw his tray of leftover ice towards the central drain as he always did. Only when it was too late did he notice Lombard sitting on the bench, enjoying the shade of the lime tree. The ice and fishy water just splashed over the front of his brown leather shoes.

‘I’m so sorry, monsieur. I didn’t see you there.’ The fishmonger was aghast, but Lombard waved the apology away and just smiled gently back. He was watching the market being noisily dismantled, like scaffolding taken down from a restoration project. He always marvelled at the speed and efficiency of things like this. He had no aptitude for mechanics himself, nor was he good with his hands in any way. Madeleine had often joked that if opposable thumbs were a sign of man’s advantage over less evolved creatures, Lombard was the missing link. When they’d first bought the shop he had offered to put some shelves up for the smaller trinkets and Madeleine had reluctantly agreed, admiring his willingness to get involved but, quite vocally, dreading the inevitable outcome.

‘They’re not straight, chou,’ she’d said, wary of hurting his feelings but unable to hold back anyway.

‘No,’ he’d explained confidently, placing a spirit level on the top shelf. ‘The walls are uneven.’ The bracket holding the shelf had immediately come away from its shallow moorings until it rested precariously on the shelf below, which was of course also now showing signs of distress.

He had no skill in that department and so, almost innocently, admired those that did. Yesterday evening this had been a tree-lined car park the like of which you’d find in almost every small French town, then the ‘No Parking’ signs would go up. Following that, just before dawn, the stallholders had arrived quietly to build their market. Within an hour a temporary village had sprung up, ready for the early shoppers.

‘Markets aren’t what they were,’ was the almost daily complaint heard in the markets themselves now, and Lombard got their point. ‘They’re not what they used to be.’ He wasn’t against change, but the markets were one of the things he held dear about France, partly because they weren’t that different to the markets he’d been used to as a lad in Dorset. They connected his two lives.

They were changing, though. Once this would have been almost entirely about food and produce: dozens of competing charcuteries, mobile boulangeries and fruit and vegetable stalls. There would be a few fresh fish stalls too, local cheese producers and the inevitable vignerons, all of them offering a free taster. He admired the spirit of the ‘market’ community, they all knew each other and would build and deconstruct their temporary structures almost every day of the week in different towns in the area. The commercial competition would be fierce but friendly, a draining profession and a cruel one in the icy, almost deserted winter months. Vital though to the personality of the area.

The numbers were thinned now, not just today but over the years.

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