Garty happily leaves his name and connection to the inn nearby, signing a promissory note to release the loaned boots, floating rather than walking on air by the exhilarating experience.
“I shall walk faster now,” he says jovially to the cobbler, whose eyes pierce him and then his smile widens. They shake hands with sincerity and part ways.
Garty walks along the crude pathway that becomes smooth at one particular area. He looks up from watching his new boots in a mesmerised way; there before him is Scatt Bank. He desperately needs to withdraw more money, however, he knows that his account is terminally low. A lady on a shopping spree, wearing a bright velvet bonnet with a sweet face catches his attention. He almost runs her down being distracted by his boots and the Bank Sign on a brass plaque.
“Sorry Madam,” he tips his hat and bows somewhat as an apology.
The woman acknowledges his apology by a faint smile and movement of her lips and eyes. Her eyes are darkest brown, Garty notices, feeling his face flush pink. No words are uttered from her lips. Garty takes a good look at her face for one moment, a flash second, as he has learned to do to avoid intimidating folk. He is continually on the lookout for the king’s daughter, despite the fact that he has not spotted anyone exactly like the queen in the painting he carries. He now begins to wonder if someone like this picture exists or what if she may look different? Immediately he dismissed that notion. He will be faithful to the King until she is found if only in his thoughts, he determines, walking on air with his new boots. I love this place, he decides. Sadly there is also a sign on the bank’s front door.
“Closed! That is just my luck!” Garty mutters. He decides to return another day. His funds were not completely dissipated and he will sign promissory notes if he needs to do so.
Garty’s next stop is to the barber shop, where he is greeted with a warm welcome.
“Sit down and relax,” says the barber, Mr Trink, who noticed Garty as he enters through the ajar door. Mr Trink is alone, humming a tune, waiting for the day’s surge in customers and he is excited to see Garty, knowing already that he is on the king’s business.
Word travels like stormy winds in these parts, Garty muses, snuggling in the great big chair with arms and a firm cushion made with finest black cow leather. Trink’s tools of trade are set out like a doctor performing the most intricate surgery. Little pots of ingredients, stubby brushes, blades all shimmering and sharp lay waiting for usage dormant in a neat row. In a warming oven nearby Garty can smell the aroma of hot coals and smoking warm towels, white, fluffy and ready for use. A convolution of mirrors, some with handles to enable holding, lay on a small table covered with a fine linen woven white cloth. Everything in this realm gave one the feeling of order and efficiency, and anticipation of a great experience, even a spiritual one. Garty can barely wait to experience some calming touches and refreshment for his aching body and soul.
“So, would you like a shave and a hair cut?” Trink asks, reaching into the warm oven, flicking a warm towel and placing it on Garty’s face, carefully avoiding his eyes.
“Mmm,” Garty moans in ecstasy. He nods his head. His personal grooming has become less frequent and his tools of trade are somewhat on a lower grade level than Trink’s superior sharp razors, scissors and combs.
Trink, as a magician weaving a magic spell, spins a full body sheet over Garty and tucks it around his neck, being careful not to make it too tight and frighten his client into leaving abruptly. Garty does not stir. He is a fearless man because he has become so, primarily from his experiences for almost five years on the king’s quest, avoiding highwaymen, thugs, cheats and flattery until today.
Now is a time to relax and recoup my manhood to its former glory, or something like its former glory, Garty muses tiredly.
Just as he begins to fall into a stupor of delight, he remembers why he has come here to this town and his soul awakens vexedly. I must find out what I can or this work will never end, he reminds himself as Trink’s droning voice hovers over his chair and he feels his breath near his temples, crisp and clean like the sheet over his hurting body? Soon I shall be in a trance if I am not alert, he reminds himself. Arguing with his inner man, he rebukes his desire for pampering and deep rest. Bed was the place for resting and he would do that later, when the day was done. He reminds himself of the four poster bed with its plump pillows and silk covers waiting his pleasure, and is satisfied with his plan.
As Trink paints his face with luxurious oil, Garty’s mind meanders and he finds himself thinking about what steps he has taken to find the missing princess. He is sure that he covered every possible piece of ground that might have been involved thus far.
As Trink bathed his face in sweet warm lather, Garty’s thought wandered to the hidden things he had uncovered over the years, the possibility of a crib being involved, and children being found abandoned in some towns? To date nothing had checked out as a definitive, but there was a new possibility of truth in this town and he was determined to find it.
Once enlightened by his inner thoughts, Garty’s detective mind began to churn with questions. Garty decides to ask the barber for any information he might have known about the missing princess. The business had been in the district for twenty years. Garty hoped earnestly that something may have been said about the situation over the many years and he could glean the clues he needed to end this saga.
As the sharpened blade gently touched his sideburn area, Garty relaxed a little. Trink was still talking about beards and faces and skin, so Garty felt there might be an opportunity to tilt the subject to his princess quest.
“Some men love their beards so much they never stop missing them…” Trink says, in his hushed deep tones related a story about a local man and his emotional connection with his beard. How he felt colder without his beard… Garty listened quietly under his sharp razor waiting for an opportune moment to question Trink.
“He really missed his beard and could not wait for it to grow again…Which fortunately it did!” Trink rinsed his blade in the bowl of icy cold water for a moment.
The word missed gave Garty his moment for questions.
“Have you had many folk talking about the missing princess?” Garty bravely asks Trink as he now resharpened his razor on a honing strop for a smoother finish.
“Well, it is strange but from where I came, there was certainly plenty of talk a long time ago. But, of course, nobody has seen or heard of this child in many years. Sadly, these events occur and the persons involved go underground and usually the victims are never seen again.” He says this in a voice of authority gained by ageing well.
He began the warming and shaving process once again, smoothing out Garty’s taut skin to a silken feel.
“You will soon be softer than a baby’s bottom!” He says this triumphantly. “Thanks to my splendid techniques.”
He sounded very satisfied with the results even before he is finished. Garth takes a mental note.
A proud man no doubt.
“Mmm, nice, it feels just like a newborn, wonderfully calming,” Garty muttered. “So, what is your opinion Mr Trink? Do you feel there is more to this story about the princess newborn?” Garty dares ask this question and risks a rebuke if his timing is not precise.
“I will help you in this project,” he said at last. Garth breathes a sigh and waits in anticipation.
Trink still held the sharpened blade close to Garty’s neck, causing a slight tension underneath the sheet and towels. Finally he spoke proudly again.
“Not many people around here know something about me, and my connection with Gypsies,” Trink says, tension in his voice causing his tone to reduce greatly. Garty has to listen intently to hear his words now. He must know something I don’t know, he cogitates excitedly. Garty’s attention is stirred to a frenzied pitch underneath the sheet and towels. “Stay really still Sir,” Trink commands.
Garty obeys.
“Please, say on,” he says to Trink, popping open his eyes in a moment of excitement. Perhaps this is the moment in time when the mystery shall finally be solved. Was Trink involved? Why did people not know about his background? Garty wonders about this gypsy story, and his mind starts buzzing about how gypsies being involved was a nice slice of truth to note in his book. It is a sound possibility that I have not investigated until now!
Trink begins to tell his story, slowly, thoughtfully.
“You see, I was with the traveling folk for many years as a boy and teenager. They were my family…” He pauses to let a slice of his personal information pie be digested by Garty.
Garty waits with his mouth open as if ready to swallow a big piece of pie.
“Keep your mouth closed during this process, and keep still,” Trink directs Garty.
Garty is barely able to contain his bodily pose and wishes Trink would tell him more and rapidly also. He even thought about stopping the whole shaving process and meeting with Trink at another time today, to have a more in-depth conversation. His mind buzzed like a bee over a fresh bloom. Had he finally found the right connection to the crime? Maybe lunchtime would suit better than this busy time of day?
“You know these people?” Garty asks, looking into Trink’s disturbed eyes, with eyebrows furled and mouth set as a peg in the ground.
“Relax Mr Garty, please, otherwise you may have scars and look like a highwayman not a gentleman.” Trink said jovially. “And no respected person wants that!”
Garty tries to relax again, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes once more.
“Gypsies know things,” Trink says with definition. “Gypsies know something about all this, for sure!” Trink says seriously. “Not my family, no we would never do anything criminal. We do what we have to do, but not criminal. Never!” He is so adamant that he almost slices Garty’s countenance with his sharp blade giving him a real scar. He pauses to compose his thoughts.
“Twenty years ago now, something happened that caused a lot of bother! Let me see?”
He gazed away as if looking into the past in a crystal ball for a moment, and then continued.
“We had been in this building for a few years I remember and we were still using old fashioned implements, like the huge long razors and rough towels. Now we have upgraded of course.”
“So, these gypsies, do you know anything about their travels? Or family name? That would prove helpful to me, and the King.”
“Let me think about that,” Trink says.
“I am sure I can remember something of interest for you. I would like to help,” he adds.
The men are silent for a few minutes as Trink finishes his shaving process, placed a fresh towel over his face and massaged Garty’s face as if he is a small child. Garty feels loved. He then removes the towel and places it in a space designated on the nearby bench for used towels.
Without asking, Trink places a hand mirror in front of him.
“What do you think, friend?”
Garty tilts his chin and turns his face right and left and is happy with the results. He wants to feel the skin but his hands are still trapped behind the large sheet.