The Rich And The Profane

by Jonathan Gash

  There wasn’t much light. A little was coming from Mrs Vidamour’s, feeble indirect stuff through the front door’s fanlight. The skyglow, and that one street lamp ... Should there be more? Organized punishers could have easily dowsed the street lighting. I gave up. Reason’s no use at the best of times.

  God knows how long I sprawled by the box hedge before I managed to creak on to my hands and knees. That was how I made it inside. I locked the front door after me -clever, eh? - and crept upstairs. I didn’t manage to undress. The little clock said twenty to five. Thoughts started up about five past, stealing into my head and forming patterns. I wondered how long it would be before Jocina’s husband called to gloat that he’d warned me.

  Women are great. Give them their due.

  Rosa came bustling in at seven, tea on that round tray. She put it down, stared. She left without a word, fetched bowls, flannels, and started. It made me worse. Being unpeeled and washed is embarrassing, not because you finish up naked as a grape while she whales at you, but because a woman crossly assumes you’re deliberately impeding. For example, she’ll want you to roll over when it’s the last thing on earth you want to do, for pain surges and submerges you in nausea while she tuts and complains and holds the bowl for you to spew in. It’s not dignified.

  Also, women secretly know you’re an infant. I reckon it’s their genes. Suddenly they ignore speech, and completely forget communication except for curt gestures: on to your side, lift your arm, bend your leg. You get more talk when they’re passionate. It’s like they’re blazing mad, as if you’d deliberately done yourself over, oh, it’s Tuesday, I’ll go and get clobbered senseless.

  It’s at least as bad for the injured party, namely me. Mrs Vidamour’s breasts moved to and fro above me. When I miserably let her flip me onto my belly it was no easier. Her thighs kept brushing my legs, and her breasts squashed my shoulders. It’s not fair. If I’d tried to reach for anything, I knew I’d be for it.

  It took a good while. She did a fifth change of hot water, had the nerve to powder me, then hauled me vertical. I winced along the landing, my arm on her shoulders. She kept gasping because of my weight. I was slotted into a clean bed. She vanished, brought some tea, sat.

  ‘My husband was a drunk,’ she told me after a bit.

  Oh, good. I felt encased in hot iron. My chest was crisscrossed with red marks, as if somebody had left the grill on overnight.

  ‘I’m not sloshed. And,’ I added pointedly, ‘you haven’t offered me a glug.’

  ‘You’ll get no alcohol in this house, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Keep your hair on.’ That’s all I needed, a ballocking because her spouse was a wino. ‘Doctors say we must swig for our health.’

  ‘He was always being brought home inebriated.’ Tears shone in her eyes. I could tell that this annoyed her. Or maybe it was me? ‘It was my job to clean him up, pretend he’d fallen. Any excuse. He died of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  She tried to smile. ‘It’s all right. Like old times.’ Hesitation crept in. ‘Should I call the doctor?’

  That she hadn’t spoke volumes. I shook my head, winced it motionless.

  ‘I got beaten up. They told me to leave Guernsey or else.’

  Rosa coloured. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why’s always a rotten question, love.’ I moved, groaned.

  ‘Will you go?’ Her voice had gone quiet.

  ‘Look, dwoorlink. Any chance of you coming in to keep me warm?’

  ‘You mean ... ?’ Her colour deepened, spread. ‘Certainly not. I’ve only just got up.’

  ‘Come to bed, and tell me about the antiques in Guernsey.’

  Too much to hope for. Women can only co-operate in one thing at a time. I got some guide books with bits of ill-remembered local wonders.

  ‘They’ve had some luck in Jersey,’ she started, prim with disapproval of Guernsey’s arch rival. ‘A man found one or two tin things there. They put them on display, showing off as usual. We’ve far more interesting places.’

  As she spoke I took her hand. She didn’t snatch it back. Considering that she’d blanket-bathed me only minutes since, this was giddy progress. I listened to her miscellany. She was interrupted a couple of heart-stopping times by the doorbell. Once was the postman, the other some neighbour. When she returned the second time she surrendered her hand quite matter of factly.

  Thinking of Rosa’s vague accounts as she reminisced, I guessed that she meant the famed Cadoret Find. Never, I thought bitterly, the renowned Lovejoy Find, always somebody luckier. Except, the more you go out hunting with expensive equipment, the luckier you probably get.

  He lived in Jersey, this detectorist, as they now call themselves. Out he plodded with his C-Scope CS2MX metal detector. He got a farmer’s permission to detect on an oddly angular-shaped field. Instantly, he finds the island’s hugest-ever Bronze Age hoard, over 170 genuine axe heads, sword fragments, bracelets and a small jeweller’s hammer with side grooving for making drawn silver wire. Brilliant. The world’s archeologists went into raptures. I remember hearing about the new dazzling find from Natty in the Antiques Arcade - the La Houge Bie Museum display was mentioned on telly. Dealers everywhere sobbed in their ale and blamed God for lack of fairness, et whining cetera. (No good telling them to get out there and hunt. Antique dealers find grumbling easier.)

  Closer by inches, me and Rosa pored over her guide books. They were sadly dated. From about half a million years ago, when England was connected to the Continent and rhinos, iions, bears and giant deer roamed wherever they wanted. The seas rose over five fathoms. Land submerged. The British Isles hived off from the Continent. The peninsula of Jersey joined the Channel Isles; Guernsey and Herm parted company, all that boring geography stuff. Rosa prattled on through the tourist literature. I was thinking caves, and where paintings could be hidden. And where somebody trustworthy - me, say - could accidentally find them.

  And thinking maybe that if there were no genuine Old Masters left, I could provide a new Old Master.

  ‘The ancient people were called neolithic,’ Rosa was going on, her hair falling over her face, showing me photographs in some crummy book. ‘They made slab graves. They covered them with earth. Here, see?’

  She showed me a picture. ‘Mmmh,’ I went, looking at her.

  ‘The Guernsey family Lukis started listing them, to protect them from collectors.’ She glanced at me to see I was paying attention, and edged away when she saw that I was.

  Years ago I visited a place in Berkshire, not far from Henley. Some old Jersey governor retired there in 1788, taking with him the massive Mont de la Ville neolithic tomb from Jersey. He stuck it in his grounds. You can still visit it. It’s a lesson. God knows what other priceless antiques wander from collectors’ cabinets to auction rooms. Age-old innocence becomes depredation with historical hindsight. Every antique dealer on earth envies the La Hougue Bie, Jersey’s massive 5,000-year-old mound that stands almost thirty-five feet tall and measures almost sixty yards round. Just think of the invaluable relics a burial chamber that size might contain. And what if you stumble across another in, say, Guernsey?

  ‘The most famous remains are at Les Fouaillages, Guernsey’s northern tip,’ she said. Take that, Jersey, you upstart.

  ‘Show me the museum and art gallery?’ I asked. I had to get some perspective if I was going to pull any stunt at all.

  ‘Will you be warm enough?’ she asked, not looking.

  It was a merry quip, I realized, about my asking her to come to bed. I smiled, forgiving.

  ‘By noon,’ I said gravely. ‘Earlier, if you’d help.’

  ‘Get on with you,’ she reprimanded. ‘I’ll bring you a new breakfast.’ Then she paused. ‘Who did it, Lovejoy? I heard noises through my sleep.’

  ‘Dunno. Your jealous lovers?’

  Into silence she said, ‘This doesn’t happen in Guernsey.’ Oh, aye, I thought. ‘Everywhere’s holy until I arrive, is that it?’

  One thing worri
ed me. ‘Three husbands,’ I’d heard of Mrs Crucifex. Her legit one was Martin. No prize for guessing that Prior George was the second stud in her stable. I now knew the third, my home county’s police boss Summer, benevolent helper on Jocina’s fund-raising team. He must have formidable allies in Guernsey. From their supercool behaviour I could assume my assailants were Plod. My enquiries had stirred him up. Had they also listened in on my phone calls?

  ‘Why are you arranging this show, Lovejoy?’ Rosa asked eventually. She now wore make-up, I noticed, but not enough. Women can’t wear too much, though they don’t know this. ‘If people don’t want you to, why not give in?’ ‘Look, dwoorlink.’ I mopped the grease with my last slice of bread. ‘I have a cousin. She’s elderly, really poorly. She runs this home for orphaned children in Manchester.’ I watched my lies take effect. ‘If I can earn a percentage -anything’s welcome - it might help, see?’

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said, eyes glistening. I too filled up, because it truly was. I mean it would have been if it was.

  She came on to the bed, after I waxed lyrical on my imaginary cousin’s struggle for imaginary orphans, but kept her clothes on and unfairly lay outside the bedclothes, selfish cow. Eloquence doesn’t do much.

  Eleven o’clock, I groaned my way into the world. After my marathon phone session, four performers were due in by one o’clock, followed by six more on the late afternoon flight. I was nowhere near ready.

  ‘You kept me late!’ I cried, floundering about for clothes. She rushed to get them from my bedroom, complaining that I hadn’t warned her, where were they going to stay, dross questions women always ask when they’re trying to escape blame for idleness.

  ‘Get old Jethou and Gussy,’ I shouted, limping to the bathroom. ‘And tell them to find me a crook.’

  ‘A what'?’ floated back along the landing. I turned the taps on.

  ‘You heard. Where’s a towel?’ No towel, no love, no nothing. Was that a song? I looked in the fogging mirror. It’s not something I do often, thank God. I saw a desperate face. I decided to avoid mirrors in future. If Rosa hadn’t come to help me into the water, I’d be standing gaping there yet.

  ‘Lovejoy,’ she said at last, offering me a mothball-scented dressing gown - first outing of her husband’s remaindered gear? ‘I’m not sure of this behaviour. I think we ought to perhaps leave the island for a week or two. It’s rather outside my experience.’

  ‘We?’ I sat on the edge of the bath to ponder. Did it mean what I hoped it meant? She wasn’t looking at me, so maybe I was on a promise. But it would be daft to leave now because everybody that mattered was here in Guernsey. The fag ends were going to arrive in shoals, starting today.

  ‘You expect too much of me.’

  That was a bit steep. What the hell had I asked her for, for heaven’s sake? Nothing had happened yet.

  Just as I thought that, the doorbell went. And Rosa, in a kind and caring way, gave me an hour’s notice to leave her lodgings for good.

  20

  Morning, martin,’ I said to the figure in the vestibule.

  ‘Marteen?’ said Prince. He gestured imperiously to the taxi. ‘Iss I, Lovejoy!’

  ‘Er, wotcher, Prince.’ I’d not counted on this. Hadn’t he sold his forgery commission, the Nicholas Brown bookcase-desk, to Florida? ‘Why’re you here?’

  He thrust his way past and ceremoniously kissed Rosa’s hand. ‘ ’Eez Roy’ ’Ighness Prince Yussopopoff, madam ...’ etc. She went flustered. I don’t know why he does this pantomime. Maybe it has some effect on the ladies? The duckegg certainly has an effect on me. He wore scarlet Cossack pants, Russian boots, a blue fur hat, and a vermilion cape with epaulettes. I needed secret help, and got a game show.

  ‘I ’ear,’ he boomed, twirling his earring, ‘my fren’ Lovejoy pulls a grett scam, no?’ He reclined, beaming joyously on Rosa. ‘Theess yor concubine?’

  ‘Not yet - er, no,’ I said. ‘Look, Nev—’

  He sprang up in fury. ‘I no Neville, Loveyoy! I duelling, no?’

  ‘We’re just off out, mate.’ I’d no need to be servile any longer. ‘Find yourself some other place.’

  ‘Oh, Lovejoy!’ Rosa cut in, all eager. ‘I’m sure His Highness—’

  ‘Clear off,’ I said wearily. ‘See you at the harbour nosh bar, sixish.’

  I managed to shove him out, protesting. The taxi driver was just unloading the last of his sixteen suitcases. I slammed the door.

  ‘Rosa, love. That duckegg lacks scruples. He’s a bigger con than ...’

  ‘Than you?’ She went to peer through the window. I’d already agreed before I realized what she’d said.

  ‘Less lip from you. Did you catch Jethou?’

  She bleated, ‘When have I had time to phone? I’ve been busy.’

  That’s women. Excuses. Comes from having nothing to do.

  ‘Lovejoy.’ She seemed distressed, wrung her hands. ‘I meant it. I have to give you notice.’

  ‘Don’t muck about, love,’ I said, impatient. ‘We’ve things to do.’ I petered out. She was in tears. Was this serious? My heart fell. Suddenly I remembered the early morning rings on the doorbell, postman, then some neighbour. After that, she’d been solicitous, kindly and rather sad. She’d been given orders to ditch me. Also, how at ease Martin had seemed, drinking his coffee in Rosa’s kitchen. The penny dropped. Silly me.

  ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ll go.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lovejoy.’ She blotted her eyes. ‘It’s the stealing, your telling lies, those men beating you up. And associating with ...’ Drunken old Jethou and crazy Gussy?

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Don’t cry. I understand.’

  She gave me a bill for the rent, with every phone call priced, every bit of grub costed, added to the amount she’d lent me. It came to a hell of a lot. I promised to get the money in an hour, soon as I could get to the bank. We parted with mutual expressions of regard. She said I could return any time ‘in normal circumstances’. I walked, trying not to limp in case she was watching. Pride.

  Hospitality’s like eloquence. It doesn’t do much. I longed for East Anglia, where I knew the hoods, bloods, duds. On this lovely holiday island I was out of my depth. Just my luck to have landed at Mrs Vidamour’s. I felt sorry for myself. I had no illusions. Seaside places have systems to protect landladies from default. I’d be on everybody’s list. Had I better hop it?

  In a coldish wind I sat at the Quay, looking out to Castle Pier. Nights wear me out, and daytime only exists to be worn out in.

  Even when you feel down, sea’s somehow soothing. I’m not one of those romantics who’re forever on about us being in harmony with the mighty ocean. I’m only in harmony with antiques. I tried to think. What had I promised Jocina, exactly? I’d promised a competition. I’d left it vague.

  Some bloke stood nearby, pointedly I thought. I gave him a glance, then a couple more. He seemed familiar. One of my attackers? His stare intimidated me, so I moved to the North Esplanade. The Sea Link Ferry docks across from there. Walt hadn’t turned up. Maybe they’d done him over as well?

  It’s knowing that you’ve no money to buy food that undoes you. By noon I was starving. Deceiving nobody except myself, I went to the ferry office on the pier and made enquiries.

  Maybe I could pick up a groat or two at the marina doing odd jobs. But the rich only hire mariners who know what they’re doing with valuable sailing craft. They don’t hire inept scroungers.

  In despond, I actually started wondering if I should stow aboard the next ferry from the island. If I stayed to face the mob of showbiz folk, I’d have a hell of a time. Nobody more murderous than an actor who fails the audition. For one wistful moment I imagined that maybe Maureen Jolly might be kind and understand the mess I was in, but it was a pipe dream. She would kill me dead, and go to the scaffold delighted she’d finally made star billing. She’d do her hair for the occasion.

  If I hadn’t been so kind to Irma Dominick, I’d not be in this me
ss. Demanding to be taught to steal so she could balls my life up, stupid cow. I’d murder her if I could get my hands on her. Which made me think. What on earth had happened to Irma? She’d got nicked, I’d asked wino lawyer Michaelis to spring her, but then what? I felt a glim of hope. Wasn’t Irma the Rockingham porcelain thief who hated her Aunt Jocina? Had I a secret ally here in Guernsey after all? I used a public phone box, got the operator to reverse the charges by an inventive lie.

  ‘Yes, Vino Wine Importery of Guernsey here. To place an order.’

  They put me through like a shot. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Michaelis? It’s me, Lovejoy.’ He was partly sober. ‘Sorry about the phone charges trick, but I’ve no money. What happened to Irma?’

  ‘I bailed her, and she scarpered. You owe me her bail.’ He mentioned a sum verging on the National Debt. I felt ill. ‘Clients don’t welsh on me, Lovejoy.’

  Despite the threat my spirits rose, first time since I’d got marmalized. Irma had done a bunk. Where to? Here, of course! I could use Irma to betray Jocina.

  ‘I’ll not let you down, Michaelis. I’ll see you’re paid. I mean that with sincerity.’

  ‘I warn you, Lovejoy. My people get nasty.’

  Irma must be here. I wish I’d had the sense to think of this a couple of days before instead of wasting my time. It came on to drizzle. I was past caring and sat there watching the marina, ships to and fro. I scanned things in my mind. Antiques had got me into this, thanks to Irma. Antiques must get me out. Then I’d settle up with Metivier for Gesso’s ... I couldn’t think the word ... vanishment.

  Then I recalled when Walt Jethou had given me that lift on his crummy motorbike. We’d driven down a street. I’d yelled in his earhole that an antique shop we were passing looked a likely place. He’d shouted back, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. They’re not local!’ laughed like a drain, didn’t stop.

  Two o’clock, in drizzle, I found the shop near the Parish Church. If the dealer was ‘not local’, I stood a chance. A chance is all I’ve ever needed in antiques to get in a worse mess. I went inside, the bell clonking overhead.