Bird's Eye View

Fantasy on an Ancient Market
by
Vic o'Bradford

Chichester..... the grand old market still sleeps.
Over there the tall, ancient beech tree reaches into a blue early morning sky, its reluctant spring buds coaxed into leaf by a timid sun climbing above the dawn horizon, cooled by the Arctic chill of motionless air.....
"Caw, caw," opens the conversation.                                                
Through a wintry lattice of branches the full moon hangs suspended, approaching its nadir in the west, a spent silver ball above the tranquil city.
"Chatter, chatter, chatter," comes the black and white reply.
High up, an untidy black rook and a sleek young magpie await their opportunity to capture a tasty morsel cast aside by the growing company of market traders beneath. Wares and packaging lie everywhere, unloaded from a proliferation of white vans.
"Caw, caw."
It’s only half past six; few early traffic sounds emanate from surrounding streets, offering little competition to the metallic clanking of stay rods: busy workers assembling their brightly striped awnings.
"Chatter, chatter, chatter."                                                              
Orange sodium lamps, still burning from their previous night's duty, appear incongruous above the antique spiked iron gates at the entrance, survivors of the forties war effort raids on railings.
Daylight strengthens.
For a first whole hour itinerant dealers retain sole possession of their designated trading area, a third of the expanse of this original cattle mart. The remaining portion, still almost unoccupied, is marked for public parking by line upon line of lighter coloured bricks, set within the dark herringbone patterns of a carefully inlaid surface.
Unseen, we watch.
Stalls take shape; varied displays of merchandise appear in colourful profusion: rows of shoes; racks of dresses; multicoloured boxes of fruit and vegetables set on their green, mock-grass matting; hardware; ceramics..... every conceivable commodity is here, carefully positioned to maximise visual effect and tempt the unwary impulse-buyer later to appear.
The distant Cathedral bell informs the city that eight thirty has arrived. A vanguard of motor vehicles, four fifths driven by the fair sex, begin one by one to sweep through the ornate gates, replacing the esteemed horses of yesteryear, ignoring ranks of redundant wrought iron tethering rings still embedded in the periphery wall.
The initial influx quickly swells into a nose-to-tail snake of mixed conveyances, jockeying for position amongst the rapidly filling spaces, eventually to disgorge their noisy occupants and destroy the delightful calm of this historic place.
Growing hosts fill the gangways; gregarious merchants begin their chants:
" 'ere you are, Lady, a pound o' yer money buys two pound o' these."
No metric conversion here - our illustrious market men among the last to relinquish their national pride and defer to the whims of Brussels.
With the expanding population comes an ever-increasing volume of sound; bustling activity prevails; a city within a city is hatched wherein the abilities of the human voice are to be tested to unbelievable limits.
 Waving hands on outstretched arms proffer cash in their frenzied quest for items of short term value, their owners remaining unaware of the skilful application of crowd psychology, practised from childhood by every self-respecting market professional:
"Come on now..... only three left..... hurry Dear," veiling the stack of dozens behind the white van.
Slowly, inevitably, the crescendo approaches the proportions of a symphony orchestra at its splendid Wagnerian height when.....
'Bang !'
..... an ear-splitting explosion rents the air..... stunned silence falls upon the assembled company, broken only by astonished whispers of disbelief:
"What was that?"
"A bomb, I think."
"Anyone hurt?"
"Don't know..... but look, there's a fire over there."
On the edge of the trading area stands a pickup vehicle, enormously damaged by the disintegrated gas cylinder that had been part of its cargo. The flimsy stall alongside stands shattered into fragments, awning burning, surrounded by scattered particles that minutes ago were the livelihood of its owner.
Acrid smoke pervades lungs in a pungent attack upon those nearby.
"Mind yer backs!"
A market official, spearheading through the crowd, trails a water hose all the way from the circular brick kiosk on the corner. Directing the nozzle firstly at the flames, then on to the pickup, he achieves a successful outcome, his colleague attempting to disperse the gathering throng to safety. The tall beech, presiding over yet another of the human follies witnessed in its century-long life, stands unmoved above the scurrying ants below. Its winged occupants, patiently awaiting an end to this unseemly interruption, continue their discourse:
"Caw," croaks the old rook which, being translated, means: "Cor !"
"Chatter, chatter," replies the magpie, meaning: "What fools !"