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it.This tramp, comfortably shod, was walking between the heat-soaked bracken and his thoughts were concerned with the solution of triangles according to the ancient Greeks. This song immediately sent his mind along fresh tracks towards the migration of the Asiatics into the American continent. In the bracken Mark Douglas, the landlord, heard it and immediately slapped the behind of George’s blonde mother, at which she giggled. And in his dreams beneath the rhododendron the new captain heard it and he smiled, and by some curious reflex action his snores subsided.
    Only the corpse of the man called Harry was untouched by this glorious song on this glorious day in this glorious country. It lay, shoeless and sockless, staring bleakly into the chalk-blue sky.
    Down through the bushes towards the road went Sam Marlow the artist. A young man, carved it seemed from solid gold. He was a big young man. He wore clothes, but they were more a convention than a covering. Indeed, there was much of him uncovered. A broad, thick body, well-proportioned yet not muscular. The crown of his head swayedabout six feet above the ground when he walked. His thin hair was sparse and fair from sun bleaching. His eyes were blue if you could see them, but usually they were screwed up as though viewing a distant sunset. He had a full mouth of white teeth and a square, stubbly chin. His throat was long and prominent and his chest, a golden barrel, made his ragged shirt look silly and inadequate. His waist was not athletic, being as far round as his legs were long. His old flannel trousers gaped at the top as he walked and his navel was plainly and unashamedly visible amongst his torn shirt and a quantity of hair. He wore sandals and no socks and his feet were big and chocolate brown. He looked as he sounded, as though he were bursting with summer.
    Under his arm he carried a large watercolour.
    He reached Mrs Wiggs and her stall with his song still unfinished. Reluctant to stop singing, being intoxicated with the words and his own voice, he walked around her three times before coming to the last fine note. The thin, colourless and elderly woman stared out across the road and the field and woods beyond, enjoying the music but passing no comment.When he had finished she said: ‘Good afternoon, Mr Marlow.’
    He looked at the stall. He walked from end to end looking at his pictures. When he had walked along the stall one way he turned and walked back. At last he stood in front of Mrs Wiggs, the new painting held between his stomach and his toes.
    ‘Woman! Woman! You haven’t sold a picture!’ He swept his hand in a grand gesture of disgust. ‘All my pictures standing in the same place!’
    The woman was unruffled. She shrugged apologetically. ‘There’s so few cars … They don’t seem to want … I think the lemonade takes their attention …’
    ‘You naughty, naughty Wiggy!’ cried the artist, waving his fist at her. ‘You naughty, naughty Wiggy! The lemonade indeed! Throw it away. Drink it.’ His voice descended to the soft register of pathos and he bowed his head. ‘Not a picture sold …’
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Marlow. Let’s see your new one. Hold it up.’
    ‘I’ve a mind
not
to let you see it,’ he said. ‘You don’t deserve to see it. How am I going to eat?’ Hethumped his stomach and the woman tried not to look at his navel.
    ‘Mr Wiggs always said it’s a funny spot for anything like that,’ said Mrs Wiggs.
    Sam Marlow turned about with a suddenness that made the woman flinch. He took a long look at the empty fields and the woods. He could see two cows, a crow, and the smoke from a distant train. He turned back to the woman as though struck by a sudden thought. He put his face down to hers.
    ‘You think we’d do better in Bond Street?’
    Mrs Wiggs looked uncertain. ‘If there’s more people there, Mr Marlow.’
    ‘Oh, there are! There is! Crowds. Thousands of people. Millions and billions of people.’
    ‘It might be