The Grace in Older Women

by Jonathan Gash

  The castle is down to its keep nowadays, but was once a major structure. Spotlit at nightfall by our stingy town council - two glims of faltering candlepower - the castle would look splendid except for its grim disrepair. It stands in our town park by the war memorial. Here, two knights withstood seige for King Charles I during the Great Civil War, and when Cromwell's lads took the town stood to be shot to death on the greensward. Lovers use the place for snogging, and bands for parping their Sunday umpahs. There are pretty flower gardens, but that's it. Except for Jox's schemes.

  By the time I joined him he was already reading out some citation from a parchment from a heap of old stones. He had a phoney sword. A stout Scandinavian stood humbly before him, head bowed. I wore a cloak that stank of mothballs, leggings, black slippers and a beret, and stumbled across to join them feeling a right prat. A lass weaved adoringly with a video camera.

  ‘. . . be it known for ever and appurtenances hitherto,' Jox was intoning, 'that Sven Stromberg Hassellblad be henceforward and hitherto aforementioned as Sir Gallant Kingscouncil of Coggeshall in this noble and loyal county by authority and investiture pursuivant . . .' et fakedom cetera.

  On his signal I stepped forward with the cushion, part of my set. On it was a mock-up Order of the Garter, done by Sheer's cousin in Norfolk. They're only resin-cast bronze, from the modellers in Charlotte Street.

  He knighted Mr. Hassellblad with a flourish that almost took the bloke's ear off. A sash, the dud insignia of the Garter, and it was 'Arise, Sir Sven!' to a scatter of applause. Inge watched the phoney ceremony in tears of admiration, loving every minute. She'd have given Jox an Oscar for his performance, if not more.

  After that we hurriedly changed back, thank God. And I became the Superintendent of the Olympic Games. We walked briskly to the rear of the castle, where the spotlights barely reached. Two lamps trailed wires from a generator that coughed and wheezed nearby. The camera girl followed us. Jox was now in a smart suit, tall and imposing. A midget flagpole stood by. Jox whispered me instructions about the ceremony. Luckily it was one we'd done before.

  Slicer, mournful as an undertaker in bowler hat and winged collar, was on hand with the Stars and Stripes. He had a battery-operated ghetto blaster. Jox ascended the old mounting stone. I had the medal. An elderly lady, dumpy, singularly old-fashioned and with puffy ankles, stood proudly before the flagpole.

  Jox nodded. Loud music made me leap a mile, Aaron Copland's Common Man blaring. I swear the gardens wilted. Jox wafted it to silence. Another parchment.

  'Be it known that Hilda Fratrina Benshawk of North Carolina today won the Olympic freestyle fifteen hundred metres and is champion of the world from heretofore. The United States of America!'

  Hilda came forward. She could hardly hobble, but gamely made the mounting stone. Jox vacated it, helped her up. I stepped forward with the medal - Slicer's manufactory, Olympic circles, gold glistening, silk ribbon - and placed it on the lady's neck. I stepped aside to avoid her drenching tears and stood at attention for the US national anthem. The watchers stood in silence, hats doffed. Applause. We helped the lady down.

  Thank you,' she said over and over. 'I'm so proud.' -

  It was handshakes all round, with her husband advancing along camera angles and blinding us all with flashes. Then came the fee, which Jox snaffled, promising me with nods and winks. I edged him aside to get my food money, but he edged away faster. Inge went after him like a sprinting hippo. Slicer collected the gear in a handcart, ominously reminding me I owed him a mediaeval fake by tomorrow dinner time.

  'I'd like to invite you and your officials to dinner, sir.' Hilda caught me.

  Thank you, Hilda,' I said, dazzled. 'I am honoured. The officials are due elsewhere. If you're sure?'

  'Vernon here insists, don't you, Vern?'

  'Sure do.' We all wrung hands once more for the road, and were joined by several others.

  Everybody was talking. Working out what Americans say is hard work, but luckily they shun nuance so a streamlined syntax shows above their accents. They belonged to a touring charabanc.

  This was my dream,' Hilda said, proudly wearing her medal. 'I missed the Pensacola final when I was eighteen, didn't make the cut. Never got to the Olympics.'

  'Yes, you did, Hilda,' I put in. 'You just got the gold.'

  We went towards the George carvery, joyance unbounded. I barely made it from hunger. The carvery lets you fill your plate as many times as you want. I did six trips, and for the first time I could remember was replete.

  'You must have been a war baby, Lovejoy!' Hilda said in admiration as I scoffed the last load.

  That set me roaring with laughter too. Dangerous, because I almost started reminiscing on Jox's many titles and awards. He'd lately dished out three Congressional Medals of Honour, a barrow-load of Victoria Crosses, and, during the recent European Games, made two people Count of Monte Cristo and no fewer than six ladies Countess Pompadour. There's an old geezer called Doothie, lives in a caravan on the estuary, who copperplates his manuscripts, the only calligrapher with a watercooled overheated quill. I didn't say this. I spoke a little heartfelt prattle when Hilda smiled rather sadly - by then Aldo the carvery boss was plying us with limitless wine - and said groggily,

  'Lovejoy, I expect you think this is all kinda silly.'

  'Silly? Why should I?'

  'Us, the whole holiday thing. These parchments that are pretty but kind of well, made up. Play, y'know?'

  'No.' I took her hand gently. It held her wholemeal roll. I removed it, pinched her butter and wolfed it. Never look a gift horse and all that. The rest were all yakking, laughing, joking. I helped her to finish her plate in case she ran out of appetite. 'I'm an antique dealer. I find dreams.'

  'Dreams? You find dreams?'

  'In the strangest places, love. Once I found a genuine ancient Etruscan bronze statuette for a politician in Newark.' I grinned, enjoying myself now. 'He wanted to present one to some visiting Italian mayor. I searched for three months, the clock against me. With two days to go I finally found one hanging under a wheelbarrow in a garden centre.'

  'How did you know to look there?'

  'Felt it, Hilda.' The wine and food made me indiscreet.

  'Feel?' She had great spectacles. I gazed into them, laughing, gazed at everyone. We were all on one long grazing table.

  'Aye, love. Your pendant's older than you by a hundred years, love. Did you know?' Glancing down the table, I picked on Vernon. 'Your husband's got something in his pocket worth maybe more than this carvery. And that lady with the brooch . . .'

  A silence had started up. They were staring, no longer grazing and gazing. I wondered if I was sloshed. Vernon cleared his throat. The rest of the carvery was still noshing, bustling with a genial clatter. It was only us.

  'What?' My stupid grin froze.

  'You see, Vern?' Hilda breathed in something like triumph. 'I said, didn't I?'

  'You did right, hon.'

  Then they all started talking at once, and I got woozy. I think they took me home. I remember promising to come for breakfast, meet them at the Welcome Sailor, talk over the Survey, give them a fortnight, show them round . . .

  Vaguely I remember them stumbling about my dark cottage, Vernon cursing, somebody saying, 'Hey. These goddam Limeys never heard of electricity?' and the woman with the brooch saying, 'Hush up, Elroy. We had it hard in Des Moines . . .' And a flashlight blinding as I fell on my unmade divan.

  Then I was alone, peaceful, in the arms of Morpheus. For how long, I don't know. A vague internal signal that it was midnight, and suddenly a slab torch clicked whiteness on bright as day.

  The peach dress girl was in my doorway. A draught blew in. She now wore a smart suit, ready to take over ICI, held the lamp out like an infected handbag. I gaped, bleary.

  'If it's a valuation, love, tomorrow, eh?'

  'Good morning, Lovejoy. May I trouble you?'

  Morning, when I'd just got to bed? Why do they say May I Trouble You,
when they already have? It's like the Inland Revenue asking, May I? I whimpered. 'Not now, love.'

  'I apologize. But it is a matter of life or death.'

  This intrigued me so much I dozed off, but she spoke the magic word.

  'I am Miss Juliana Witherspoon, Lovejoy. Antiques.'

  'Eh?' Suddenly I was sitting up. 'Where? Whose?'

  ‘A . . . a friend's.' She bit her lip. Really did gnaw her lower lip. I watched, fascinated. You don't often see people do it. And thought, oho. Her lover in trouble? Time is of the essence, Lovejoy. It's his last one, you see. I think it may get stolen. I wish you to prevent the crime.'

  Prevent crime? Novelty upon novelty. I gauged her. She looked in deadly earnest. And beautiful. This bird would not give up lightly. True to form, I surrendered.

  'Got a match, love? I'll brew up.'

  7

  Portents really exist. Sometimes, you just know an offer spells doom, this woman is born trouble, that date will prove your downfall. Me, I go anyway, drawn by hope which, combined with a perennial lack of willpower, leads to disaster.

  There was once a Vandal King who ruled North Africa-we're talking Anno Domini 410. However you define that ghastly word power, King Genseric wielded it with horrendous effect. History books call him ‘the most terrible'. No wayside pansy he. He ravished Hippo, stormed Carthage, invaded Italy, engulfed Rome itself. But deep down he was a troubled man, for Genseric the Vandal had a recurrent nightmare. Served him right, because he invented a fashionable kind of genocide that persists to this very day: the social policy of Christians massacring Christians. An Arian Christian, he decided to massacre Christians of orthodox Roman inclinations, just like on tonight's - or any other night's - six o'clock news. So King Genseric surged through the Roman Empire, terrorizing all but whimpering in his sleep.

  He knew no physical fear. Why should he? But night after shivering night, this monster drifted into sleep. . . to find himself, in his dream, suddenly gliding through a serene palace. Forward he glides, thinking this is nice, all peace and quiet, towards a tranquil old gent. (Phew! Okay so far! King Genseric always started a sweat of relief about here, because it hadn't happened yet. Maybe tonight he'd make it unscathed . . . You know the feeling.)

  He glides. The old man smiles kindly. He is bearded, benign. No worries! The trembling but mighty Genseric is reassured. Will it be okay this time? The white-haired old figure, benevolence itself, stoops to offer some fruit. Hey, we're all pals here. King Genseric thinks, made it! He leans forward-and looks into the old man's eyes.

  Horror! He sees a pit of stark terror, feels himself falling in, oh Jesus, no not again, falling, falling ... He shrieks awake, gibbering and screaming, et ghoulish cetera. Night after horrible scarey night, he never escapes that ghastly pit. That's all it was, the whole scene: mighty Genseric, sweet old gent, the frighteners.

  Which is where it should have ended, a mere footnote. Everybody has a nightmare, so what? Except out in the world there was pillaging to be done, and hollow-eyed King Genseric knew his duty.

  Cut to Nola, in Europe, to the shrine of St Felix, where one Paulinus humbly tended the flower garden.

  Now, Paulinus was interesting. Snowy-haired, gentle, this creaking geriatric was kindness itself. Once, he had been governor of a Roman province, no less, a consul of Rome before his thirtieth birthday. So no slouch, our Paulinus. But he was deep. One day, he chucked it all up-the power, the riches - and became the priest at the shrine of St Felix. Life was serene. Until rumours came of the whole Roman Empire being stormed by the Vandal hordes of sleepless You-Know-Who.

  Refugees poured past, fleeing their wrath. Vandal looters swaggered about, dragging coffles of slaves. Turmoil, death, trouble reigned. In this mayhem, old Paulinus sold all his wealth to ransom back the slaves, incidentally including St Felix's sons. Finally he'd spent up. He'd stripped the shrine bare, given everything.

  On that last penniless day a weeping widow came.

  'Please, Paulinus. Ransom my son! He's taken in slavery!'

  'Sorry, love,' says Paulinus, sad. 'I'm skint.'

  She begs on her knees. 'Have you nothing left?'

  'Goodness!' says Paulinus. 'I've just remembered! I have.’

  He plods off to the Vandal captain, and sells himself. He makes a good case. Getting on in years, but he's an excellent gardener, skilled grafter of trees, grows superb vegetables, can write, you ask anyone. The Vandal captain says it's a deal. Paulinus ransoms the lad. And is chained into the Vandal galleys. The fleet rows away from smouldering Europe, docks in North Africa. Paulinus is sent to slog in the gardens of a Vandal prince. (I’ll bet you guess the ending.) For completeness: Eventually, King Genseric comes to dine, chats with his daughter, his son-in-law the Vandal prince. Ho, King and Dad, says the princess, why not try some lovely salads and things, because I've this gardener, a slave from some dump in Europe, a dab hand with greens, never seen fruit like what he grows. Great, ho daughter, says Genseric. Slaves, cries the princess, tell the old sod Paulinus to get a move on, bring the very best produce. This isn't some casual caller, this is the mighty Genseric before whom empires tremble, so quick about it. Frightened slaves scatter and sprint.

  Enter Paulinus with a basket of fruit, stoops down, offering it. King Genseric says hey, this looks the best. Says ta. He leans down - looks into the old man's eyes . . .

  Shriek! Horror! The nightmare's gone real! Mighty tyrant Genseric is a blubbering wreck. Well, you can imagine. Consternation, guards pouring in, the princess hysterical, the Vandal prince thundering out Who's done what to Dad? while soldiers and slaves mill about, during which saintly old Paulinus, kneeling with his trug, wonders, what the hell happened, I miss something here? Then the princess howls, 'What's in that frigging basket? That old slave sent Daddy demented! Execute him!'

  Happy ending for once. Paulinus is leapt on and, knee-deep in shackles and assorted ironmongery, admits all: ex-governor, Roman consul, etc, etc. King Genseric, badly shaken, goes phew with relief, recovers his cool, orders Paulinus freed, and sent home with a galley-load of freed slaves. It's back to St Felix's shrine. When kindly old Paulinus eventually passed on, people of every stripe followed his coffin weeping, 'even Jews and Infidels' adds Gregory the Great -among, presumably, the few surviving Christians.

  See what I mean? Portents. If you're a king of mighty armies like Genseric the Vandal, I suppose you can escape blame by munificent gestures. But somebody like me's for it. Maybe subconsciously I was trying to shun this portent, knowing it would be fatal, but I still didn't have the sense to tell Juliana Witherspoon a deafening no.

  'Look, miss,' I said to her blinding torch. 'I kip naked, so wait outside, please.'

  'No, thank you.' She stood like a sentry, feet together. 'I fear you may evade your duty, Love joy. I shall wait.'

  Narked, I struggled to sit up. You can't be angry at a woman when lying down. I've often tried. 'I didn't invite you - '

  'Your reprehensible behaviour in avoiding my requests have eradicated your rights, Lovejoy,' she had the gall to say.

  'That's bloody convenient,' I shot back. I'd never get to sleep now. 'What time is it?'

  Ten to six. We have a journey ahead.'

  Six o'clock on a cold rainy morning, and her bloke's antique due to be stolen. Why the hurry, unless he lived on the Isle of Mull? Another lip chew. It was worth a gnaw. I could see that.

  She stepped to the door, raised her lamp, saw the shambles of decrepit furniture and old clothes between the divan and the door, and nodded. Her conclusion: nobody could reach the back door without a hang-glider.

  'I shall switch off the light,' she pronounced firmly. ‘You will please dress. My car is in the lane.'

  'That'll ruin my reputation.' My drollery fell flat. The place went dark. I groped for my things. It's as if my mind gets mad about things but the person I am simply does as it's told. It narks me. I wish one or other of me would make things easier, because one day both of me's going to come a cropper. I dress
ed quickly, because a naked man looks stupid; it's naked women look brilliant.

  ‘I’m death until I've swigged my morning tea.'

  The torch lit the cottage. She tried to smooth her face, but the light caught her in mid-hate.

  'Why so . . .' She coloured, tried to end in a way that wouldn't offend her mam. ‘So unkempt, Love joy?'

  'I haven't time for housework.' I was double nasty. 'Birds keep barging in and molesting me in bed so I'm worn out.'

  'That will do,' she said sternly, and watched as I got some crumbs, a morsel of cheese and laid it by the porch.

  'Bluetits and my robin,' I explained.

  'Lock the door, Lovejoy.' I'd never met a lass like her for giving orders - well, actually I have, but I meant today.

  'No locks. Women keep battering in and molesting me - '

  'Stop it, Lovejoy!' She went nuclear. I blundered into her on the path. 'Your duty is to protect Father Jay!'

  Who? Miserably I followed her out to her motor while she ballocked me for not having a gate. I explained that these women kept battering in, et cetera. It made her hiss in fury like a snake. That's woman's logic - turf you out of bed, deny you breakfast, haul you out before cockshout, then blame you for having a non-gate gate and not doing your cleaning.

  Spirits low, they went lower. A priest, at this ungodly hour? And in trouble? They're supposed to help us, for Christ's sake, not the other way round. And why was she so desperate to help the bloke? Only a lover, actual or potential, can drive a woman so, and a priest was way out of reach, right? Unless . . . well, things change.

  'Can we call in Fenstone?' I asked, clambering into the scented interior. 'Only there's a bloke called Jox owes me - '

  That gentleman brings the village unwelcome attention,' she said. 'Do not associate with him while you are engaged upon this undertaking.'

  ‘I’ not engaged upon any undertaking, Miss Witherspoon.'

  Women have a distant smile that isn't a smile, but shows secret scorn at your pathetic resistance. She did it. I watched, gloomier than ever. It always implies threat. I wish I could do it. I've tried in the mirror, failed. If ever I learn how, I'll do it to everybody, then let them watch out. She fired the engine, and we hurtled - and I do mean streaked like an arrow - north through Suffolk's dark leafy lanes. My cheeks dragged at my skull from the G force. Only the seat belt kept me in the damned vehicle. She drove with a cool disregard for limits, scared me to death. Her one comment was Tut tut' when a herd of Jersey cows lumbered across our path. I thought we were going to smear them and us, but with a horn blast she set them scampering clumsily any old where, their demented collie scurrying after to round them up.