'Has it a strainer?'
'No. Should there be one?'
'Not if it's a true biggins. He pegged out in the early 1800s. Henry Ogle patented a modified biggins with a strainer in 1817, fifteen years after George died. You see the hallmark?'
Her breast was blinding. I could hardly speak, swallow, think. A breast, sloping like that when a woman leans over, has cruel effects that damage rational thoughts. My mouth was watering. It's not fair.
'Yes. I think it's 1798.'
‘Oh, is it really?' I said, voice quaking.
Sabrina was casually paying no attention but probably rolling in the aisles inside.
'Give it to me, I'll ditch the hallmark.'
To 'ditch' a hallmark is not to get rid of it. It's to add metal round a genuine hallmark so that people will assume the hallmark has been added later. Many silver items-coffee pots, tea urns-were imported from the Low Countries, and escaped being hallmarked. They're around still, common even in fly-by-night roaming antique fairs. It's become quite the thing for an unscrupulous dealer to simply impose some famous London silversmith's hallmark, complete with the period assay mark. Duty payable from 1797 was a shilling - twelve whole pence! - per ounce of silver, so it was worth evading. Needless to say, an unhallmarked piece of silverware costs peanuts compared to a genuine item with a London master's mark.
'Will you, darling?'
Now, our law says you can't buy a Regency silversmith's die, even if genuine, and use it on silver, even if that's genuine too. But villains do this. Big Frank does, on the rare occasions he's not getting married again. The alternative is to 'float', as we call it, a hallmark from some relatively unimportant, cheaper, silver piece - like a church communion patten - and stick it on the desirable costlier piece. It becomes a small recessed hallmark set in a circular 'ditch' with raised shoulders. Once a dealer glimpses that, he walks off, because it means the silverware's a boring old piece with a fraudulent hallmark.
To make dealers ignore a genuine Biggins biggins, I'd need to add silver round the hallmark skillfully enough to make it look as if the genuine hallmark was floated on. Then, when the auction was over, I could simply remove the silver shoulders and sell the silverware at a price justifying its pristine original glory.
'Will you do it for little me?' Her breast stroked my face.
For a second I felt narked at being forced into doing something I didn't really want to. I drew breath to tell her to go to hell and leave me out of it.
'Course, love.'
She laughed a throaty laugh. My speech was silenced by her lovely shape. She tapped my face in mock rebuke, and dropped the proofs on the carpet. I heard them go, then she was superb, honest, truthful, and goddess of everything.
Which encouraged me to risk burglary on Sunday night, something no self-respecting footpad ever does, in his right mind.
12
Once, my motor was active, meaning it went. Now, it rusts in the garden undergrowth, lamps unlit, its corrosion crackling in the evening mist, bits crumping to the grass. I've given up hope of ever getting it going. Its main value is a possible sale, until the sums Sabrina's accumulating for me arrive. I asked her for a sub. She said it was out of the question.
'We can't forever disinvest for no reason, Lovejoy.'
‘I have a reason.' Namely, me, hunger.
‘An inadequate reason is no reason, Lovejoy.'
Which is where I'd been earlier, except now I was walking away tired and despondent with three new problems. First, who was the lady from Fenstone? Second, how to find time to do the biggins ditcher. Third, how to burgle the Dragonsdale Guest and Resident Hotel. I'm not too bad at burglary, but haven't the panache of the seasoned eaves walker. Some lads I know could do the place over without breaking step, but for me it loomed like the Tower of London.
With my last coins I phoned Margaret Dainty. She was out, her machine politely saying to leave a message. I would have called Dolly, but she was on holiday with her husband, the selfish swine. Janie was in the Orkneys looking at some of the more important grass on one of her estates, thoughtless cow. Beth was being apprehensive somewhere, and so would remain, until she felt lust stir and would then breathlessly demand panicky ravishment out in the untrodden wilds. Helena, my assistant, was due back soon from Brasenose College, Oxford. She undid the erudition with me in vacations and learnt life, subsidizing me in the process. I was without visible means.
By the time I reached town and the Misses Dewhurst's Lorelei Sweetmeat Delicatessen and Tearooms I was dispirited. The bell clonked over the door, going on for five o'clock. They'd soon be closing for evensong at St James's on East Hill.
'Afternoon, Priscilla.'
'Lovejoy! You dear!' Priscilla Dewhurst clapped her hands with real pleasure. She was behind the counter busying herself with clotted cream for two lady customers to gossip over. 'Philadora! See who's visiting!'
They are quite like twittering birds, who could be bookends in another life. They had arrived last summer from the northern cotton mills, where they had worked through a million incarnations, not far from where I was born, actually. As the mill towns collapsed, they'd joined the diaspora and come to breathe moderately clean air here. I'd sold a collection of miniature industrial engines for them. It had given them life security. They have an unbelievable brother who's a town crier somewhere in Lancashire. At first I was the only one who could tell what they were saying. Now, they tailor their dialect and haul out their aitches.
'Lovejoy!' Philadora also came to peck my cheek. 'You're just in time!' She lowered her voice conspiratorially. 'Reverend hates latecomers! Why, Mrs. Whitehorn -'
'Philadora!' Priscilla's reprimand shut her sister up. 'Lovejoy wants his tea, not gossip!'
'Actually, Priscilla, I can't stop - '
'Nonsense! What have we done, for heaven's sake?'
They made me sit and served me a nosh, which more than saved my life. It brought me a tranquillity I don't often feel. Just listening to the two dears battling and laughing gave me rest. They occasionally threw a question, what about this weather, how was my cottage and weren't the nights chilly. It was so genteel, this the one place where I'd not get caught by Tinker. Sabrina owed me a fortune; I'd done maybe a hundred auction lots for her. She must have culled a mint. But debts were my trademark. I didn't want to get caught. By now I probably owed every pub in the parish. Tinker lives on ale and the occasional meal. He can chalk up a slate faster than a football team.
The Misses Dewhurst were my one last chance of reaching Dragonsdale and Fenstone. They were also my first chance, truth to tell, because they would fund me any time, but you can't go cadging off the undeceitful, can you? Different if they'd been crooks.
When the customers had left, they came to sit with me, giggling at such boldness.
This isn't proper, Philadora!' Priscilla said, hiding her face. 'Entertaining a visiting gentleman to tea!'
'What would . . .'Philadora had the grace to colour, but managed to get the unthinkable out '. . Mrs. Hey wood have said?'
'Oh my goodness, Priscilla!’
They squeak when they titter, rocking on the chairs, as if they -them, not the chairs - have wooden joins.
‘I’m grateful,' I said. 'But look. I haven't any money for this.' They'd given me a bowl of clotted cream, a plate of scones, jam, butter, tea strong enough to plough.
'How dare he, Philadora!' Priscilla flung her head back. She had to clutch her mob cap to keep it on. 'How dare he!'
'Yes. How dare you, Lovejoy?' the other said soulfully. 'You practically gave us this entire business!'
'Thank you,' I said awkwardly. They like to watch me eat, God knows why. They never have any themselves. I'd come on their opening day, and tried to pay, start them off on the right foot, but they'd threatened me with fire and brimstone. Having to cadge off them now was making me disconsolate.
'Lovejoy, dear. Please don't mind. When is your birthday?'
Philadora inhaled at such temerity. 'Priscilla! Should you?
'
'Thirtieth of September, last I heard.' I was fast running out of scones. They had parkin in the counter case, but I didn't look. 'Gemini?' I knew they were into the zodiac. They even had a window notice each dawn, TODAY'S STAR SIGN.
'There!' Philadora was triumphant. 'Libra! I knew it! Haven't I always said Lovejoy's a typical Libra, Priscilla?'
'You were a little unsure, Philadora,' her sister observed sweetly. 'You always inclined to the view that Lovejoy was Aries.'
They set to bickering in the politest manner. I noshed and slurped, until Priscilla saw I was down to crumbs and rushed for the parkin. They cook it right, the oatmeal crumbly, the treacle not too sticky. Supermarkets in the south sell it nowadays, but it's horrible. You'd think they'd get their act together, use the right recipe or whatever.
'Lovejoy, dear. What time were you born?'
A think. I remembered my Gran saying. 'Ten to midnight.'
'There!' All excited. 'Aquarius or Gemini, Lovejoy!'
‘A choice?’ Nothing fills you like parkin. Its oatmeal settled in my belly with an audible thump. I grunted with pleasure. Had they found a way to put the clock back?
'It's our scheme, Lovejoy! From studying ancient Persia's astrological diviners.'
'Oh, aye.' I eyed them warily, wondering if they'd gone doolally with the strain of this teashop. 'Er, look, loves. Me and astrology aren't -'
'Oh, shush, Lovejoy!' They were really motoring. k We will launch our New Astrology! Though,' Priscilla continued, abashed, 'it is really the oldest astrology, you see?'
'No,' I told Philadora. 'Sorry, I don't.'
'We've discovered people have two zodiacal signs!' Their heads were shaking in firm negation. 'Not merely one. A main one, of course. Plus an obverse. You have a choice of obverse.'
'Determined,' Priscilla added, 'by your Libra primary. Aquarius or Gemini, Lovejoy.'
'Don't you know which?' And who cared? I didn't believe in the Libra I'd already got. Why add to it?
'You are a problem. Fourth sign from Libra, earlier or later. Balance, you see?'
Well, no, but what can you say when you want to borrow their motor for a burglary? ‘Er, yes!'
'You're nearer the start of the Libra zodiacal span. More Gemini than Aquarius.'
'Great! Well, ta for the grub, loves. Incidentally, can I borrow your car, please? I won't be long, honest. I have to deliver a rare antique to Harwich
They both smiled in definite refusal. Groan.
'No, Lovejoy. You can't borrow anything at all.'
There's always a first time. I sighed, said my thanks and started to leave. They said wait a minute. Priscilla fetched the car keys and gave them to me. I looked. What was going on? They'd just said no. Had I missed something zodiacal?
'Dear man doesn't understand, Priscilla. Explain.'
Priscilla's eyes were bright. 'Lovejoy, we need a partner. A gentleman, wise in the world's ways. We have no pretensions.'
'Oh dear, no!' from Philadora. 'None!'
'We manage well, drive hard bargains with the suppliers. And,' with lips thinned in resolve, ‘we savage accounts!'
'Excellent, Priscilla. Well done . . .'
No good. I had to listen or I'd never get away.
'Needing a partner, we turned to our first love.’ She misinterpreted my astonished look and said quickly, blushing, 'No, no! To our astrology, Lovejoy! It proved we needed . . . you.'
'Me?' I looked about the Lorelei Sweetmeat Delicatessen and Tearooms. 'Look, loves. Me and chintz -'
'Oh, Lovejoy!' Philadora scolded. 'Not to work here. Partnership by merger! You do your . . . things, we do ours. Sharing resources! We contribute to your wellbeing- food, use of car. You contribute to us!’
'What?' I asked, guarded. 'Contribute what?'
'Your expertise! We could have been destitute!'
'Forget it.'
'No. The Obverse Zodiac has spoken. We require a Libra gentleman with Gemini obverse, balanced by Aquarius.'
Lost, I said, 'My, er, obverse says I'm your partner?'
'No other, Lovejoy!' They beamed. Take the car, partner!'
They saw me to the door and waved after me fondly. They stable their tiny Morris Minor, an extinct coughing species on four bald tyres, across the road in a lock-up garage. I found it, got it enthusiastic after cranking for ten minutes, and drove off to do over the Dragonsdale Guest and Residential Hotel.
Sometimes when you expect the worst, it turns out to be acceptable. A party you're dreading - horrible folk, feared talkers - proves interesting, the people tolerable. The auction you're scared of proves a doddle. The woman who finally corners you is the most exciting you've ever met, and so on.
This isn't to say I recommend burglary instead of a pleasant riverside walk. I don't. It scares the hell out of me. But for once I'd worried unnecessarily. Come dusk, I drove into the village and parked the Morris Minor in a tavern yard, and walked to the hotel. I fell in with one of the residents returning from the pub. He was a smart, elderly bloke in a worn cardigan, corduroys and boots, who told me interminable tales about heavy calibre handguns and 'small modern things .
'No bloody good winging the blighter, is it?' he kept asking fiercely. 'Sod just keeps on coming. The old wide calibre actually stops the bugger, see? Learnt that in the Western Desert!'
'Mmmh,' I kept saying. 'I see.'
'I'm Jim Andrews,' he said. 'Displaced person, refugee from family. Live at the Battishalls' dump now. Going to see Lily?' he demanded shrewdly at the gate when I dithered.
'Well,' I said. Lily, she of the laden tea trolley.
'Watch his nibs,' he said, eyes alert under bushy eyebrows. 'Do a recce, shunt in the side door, what? Word of advice. Nick's barmy as the rest of that Battishall crew, what?'
'Right,' I said.
'Decoy, the old feint, frontal attack,' he said in a stentorian voice for secrecy. 'Enfilade, what?'
'Ta, pal.'
'Roberta will be stuffing her fat face - fit as a pole vaulter! Good luck. Shag the girl one for me, what?'
'Er, right, right.'
He marched up the drive whistling 'Lillibullero', swinging his stick and making hell of a din. He stopped at the great sweep of stone steps and shouted, 'All clear!' Daft old sod.
My signal. I walked unhurriedly along the hedgerow, not wanting to be seen lurking. I had my story ready, in case: I came back to see if they'd really meant I was to move in, in two days. Across the lawn, up to the house. Lights were coming on. I could see figures moving, shadows on curtains, an orchestral concert on some radio, the ghost flicker of a TV set. The side entrance was locked, but the back door was ajar. Somebody aged was on the nearby lawn collecting croquet things, probably loading the dice for tomorrow's game. I slipped in.
Blundering about a house gives you the frights. I went up a few blind alleys, answered in a muffled monotone when some lady called, 'Is that you, Winifred?' Up some stairs, down others, hearing loos flush and televisions on the go. Some inane quiz show, audiences roaring on cue and voices quavering answers to some quizmaster know-all.
Then surprisingly I was in the great hall, one central light on in its chandelier. I crossed to the with-drawing room door and knocked gently. No answer. But I could now say I'd knocked. I opened one leaf of the double doors and went in.
A coal fire made me remember home. The room seemed even vaster by subdued light. I shut the door and stood a second. No, nobody lounging on the couch or slumbering in the armchairs. A votive light, blue like for Marian worship, made little leaps of flame from the mantelpiece. The picture was still covered. I crossed to stand before it, listening. No stealthy steps, nothing to indicate I'd been sussed.
Gingerly, I took hold of the little curtain, scared suddenly in case it was the Elephant Man or worse. Moved it and stared, puzzled. Shifted the votive light for safety, and stared some more.
My mind went, Who, him?
Prissy, with red lips, blue sash, tartan jacket, neck cravat high, blue bonnet with
a grey-white wig, a four-star ribbon of silk shaped like a cross on his bonnet, ornate brown gauntlets. A good fake, really, but wasn't this merely an inclusive copy of the Edinburgh portrait? I peered, disappointed. No wonder it hadn't exuded a single vibe. Modern. I sniffed, but maybe the painter had used one of those fast-drying chemical salts, or oils like hempseed. The Pretender. I'd have to look the picture up. I drew the curtain and replaced the votive light. Some romantic hankering for olden days, perhaps.
Then the light came on.
'Stay where you are, Lovejoy.' My name, meaning they didn't need to gun me down.
Ashley Battishall, no less. My hands raised themselves. 'I wasn't doing anything,' I said in a pathetic whimper.
'I saw him, guv,' Nick's voice said, all self-righteousness.
'You did splendidly, Nick. Wait outside.'
He let me turn, and stood glowering at me while Nick went to apprise the boss lady. I felt a bit peeved that he hadn't even got a shotgun. I mean, I'd done my bit, trembling in my boots, and all for nothing. We stood, each of us out-peeving the other, until Roberta entered, vapid and swooning still, in a different silk house dress and frothy slippers. She was helped to the couch by the lovely Lily, waved her away.
Ashley told her, 'Caught red-handed, stealing the portrait
'Steal?' I almost laughed aloud. 'Steal? That thing? It's not even a good fake, for Christ's sake! Who on earth'd want to? I could do better with one hand tied behind my back.'
Ashley didn't glance at Roberta. She glanced for us all. We paused a moment, while Lily rolled in a collection of edibles. For somebody in permanent decline, Roberta noshed well.
'I think I could take a little blancmange, Lily,' Roberta whispered feebly. 'And Black Forest gateau. Yes, a little cream.' Her tone had a rather wailing high cadence before plunging to the punch line. Lily dished up and glided out. Roberta started on the grub, sighing at the effort.
'Listen, love,' I wanted to get this over, I had visions of Nick secretly phoning the Old Bill and me having to explain to the Misses Dewhurst why their little motor was suddenly all over tomorrow's tabloids. 'I'm sorry, but I had to see this. I want to know what the heck we're going to do with Whistlejack, for best price.'
The Grace in Older Women Page 10
