'He was in my regiment,' old Jim Andrews said chattily to Wilmore. He looked about three hundred years old, and stank of rum. His eyes darted furtively under his fungating brows. 'Subaltern, tanks, western campaign.'
'Er, no. Wrong generation.' I caught the old soak, who tottered. 'Look, how about you have a lie down?'
'Nurse banned me in the bar, Lovelock. Two s my ration.'
'Right, Jim. Give me some help, Wilmore.'
'Sure.’ We helped the reeling Mr. Andrews to an armchair.
'In the drawing room,' the old man quavered unexpectedly.
'Talking about their Restoration society. Can you credit it? Off their silly bloody noddles. Mark my words.'
('Er, right. See you, Jim.' We knocked gently on the double doors, Nick hating me but smiling benignly whenever Wilmore caught his eye.
Ashley was pontificating. '. . . a brilliant politico-religious movement. It mirrors the needs of the times. Think! If only those wondrous days would come again!' His eyes shone with strange fervour. 'Everything for Europe, and the world!'
The tourist group applauded, exclaiming approval. Some waved welcome at me and Wilmore. They'd noshed a light supper and been slugging back the wine. Roberta sat in her semi-reclining Manet posture but without a nubian slave. She looked beautiful. The portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie, looking even tawdrier, was unveiled. Something had leant against its surface and dimpled the canvas. Why didn't they straighten it out, for God's sake? Takes a minute. Sloppiness with even fake antiques galls me.
'My wife Roberta will speak on Romance and the Prince!'
'Thank you, Ashley.' Roberta sipped wine for strength. The full glass sank to a mere drop. Some sip.
'We founded Carolean Restoration Now, CAREN, because we feel so passionately about the story's romance,' Roberta said wistfully. 'Sweet Flora Macdonald, the prince's love all his life . . .'
As she spoke this pack of falsehood, I took out my grubby handkerchief and dipped it into a glass of water and crossed to the portrait. Gingerly I lifted it down and propped it against Mahleen's knee. If you lean canvases together the corner of one can indent the canvas of the other. It causes an ugly dimple that stays, distorts the picture's surface. I touched the dimple with the wetted handkerchief, and pressed it round in concentric circles, wetting the canvas.
‘. . . So month after month, Prince Charlie was led to safety by the loyal Flora. Imagine the scores of times when, sleeping in the cold mountainous highlands, the faithful Flora, roused the Pretender, and led him . . . over the sea to Skye.'
'How lovely!' Hilda said, tears filling her eyes.
'So wonderfully real!’ said Nadette.
'In later years,' Roberta said, wistful to the rowlocks, 'after starvation, the faithful Flora sailed overseas to mend her broken heart. After enjoying the splendid democracy of the USA, poor darling, she returned to spend her last years sighing alone for her lost love, handsome Bonnie Prince Charlie!'
Applause. More wine, to celebrate this rubbish, and the visitors started praising Roberta for the wonderful work she was doing, keeping alive the most wonderful love story. I didn't clap, because a con trick always earns my respect. And Roberta, shrinking violet that she was, carried it off. My friends were captivated. Vernon, Jerry, Wilmore even.
They talked of the lovely Flora Macdonald, wondering if she'd been near their home towns or not. I said nothing. I hung the painting. Then I saw what had been making me feel off colour. The former veil curtaining had been replaced by a piece of silk, fawn in colour, floral patterned - purplish lilac, white pink-spotted lilies, carnations, a creamy chrysanthemum.
'Lovejoy is critical,' Roberta said, watching. 'I shall replace that old faded silk with new brocade!'
'Shut your frigging mouth, silly cow.'
We all looked about. I too looked in astonishment, wondering who'd been so rude. Then I realized. Me.
'Oh,' I said in lame apology, but I'd meant every word.
Roberta cried, 'Ashley! Lovejoy is abusive again!'
He advanced, but I was past caring. I stood glowering. She had the grace to cringe, Pearl White before the bully.
'Listen, you simpering bag of spanners,' I said. My throat felt cold, my cheeks tingling. 'That piece of silk - see it? You probably got it from your attic, found under the floorboards as insulation. But it's worth a hundred times you, and your precious toadying Ashley.'
'Lovejoy!' Hilda exclaimed. The others were deploring my conduct or standing appalled as I ranted. Except I was speaking almost in a whisper.
'That piece of silk was woven in Spitalfields in 1744. Know how, Roberta? No, you don't. Let me enlighten you, you idle overfed cow.' In fury I dragged her across to stand before the painting. I pulled the silk close.
The people were Huguenots. They'd come to escape massacre after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. They lived in Spitalfields, London. Starving, struggling to survive. This silk was wound onto quills by malnourished three-year-old children. Whole families living and working in one room. The looms never stopped, hand-thrown silk growing an inch an hour. Poverty that overstuffed gannets never knew.'
I glared at Roberta. She was weeping. It was the end of the world, somebody not worshipping the ground she simpered on. I glared at the rest. They were staring, silent now.
The women and children were winders and throwsters. If their looms were slashed by bastards who ran a protection racket then the women went to stand in Spitalfields Market, to work for strangers at three shillings a week, not enough to keep alive.
'Inform on the loom-breakers and there was retribution. Oh aye, the slashers got hanged all right, like those outside the Salmon and Ball pub in Bethnal Green. But those who asked the law for help got stoned, like poor Daniel Clarke in 1771. The mob chased him down the alleyways - and stoned him to death, for weaving silk.'
'In England?' somebody said, I think Hilda. 'London?'
There's no telling some people. 'Slump hit, caused wholesale deaths, starvation. Spitalfields - a stone's throw from the Bank of England - was a nightmare of gunshots, riots, tumult, murders, barricades in every street, explosions. Into that horror there came from a quiet Lincolnshire parsonage a lass called Anna Maria Garthwaite. Alone, she travelled into this pandemonium, lodged in Spitalfields.’
Silence. Even Roberta listened, no limelight for a change.
'What happened to her?' Mahleen asked.
'She wove this.' I let Roberta go, suddenly I was sick to death of the woman. I didn't want to be here. I wanted my cottage, to stay there with the curtains drawn, have a bath and feel clean. Somebody had finished Tryer, and it hadn't been his fault. I wasn't sure that it wasn't mine, but I was too tired.
This? She made this silk?'
'Went freelance. For a pittance. For you, Roberta. To veil that poxy phoney portrait of a drunken bum that you romance about. But don't knock it, or Anna Maria Garthwaite. She's worth a dozen of you, love.'
'Lovejoy.' Jerry, Nadette's husband, decided to speak up for chivalry. 'We came to this gracious lady's home, as your friend, to hear her wonderful tale of the marvellous links between our two great countries -'
'Jerry. Don't say it.' I was worn out.
'I have to, Lovejoy.' He was adamant. 'Our country plucked that poor heroine Flora from the perfidy of - '
'It's a con, Jerry.' In for a penny. 'Can't you see?' I stood ready in case they called Nick's men in to cudgel me to oblivion.
'Con?' Mahleen and Wilmore said together. They knew con.
'Flora Macdonald was only with Charlie eleven days. When he'd gone, to drink himself stupid the rest of his life, she was feted in Edinburgh and London. King George himself extolled her. She returned home laden with gifts, married a Macdonald, settled down in fair prosperity. She went with her family to the New World - and fought against your new republic.'
'Against?' somebody croaked.
'Her spelling was atrocious, even in North Carolina. But everybody liked her. Seven children, they did well for themselves. Until the Wa
r of Independence. Her husband's Royal Highland Emigrants fought disastrously at Moore's Creek Bridge. For two years, Flora was separated. She had a grim time under the American Patriots. No fetes or presents this time. Possessions gone, family scattered or imprisoned. Your Americans' Loyalist committee abused her shamefully. It was then that Flora was brave. She escaped to Nova Scotia, and came home, reunited with her husband on the Isle of Skye.'
More silence. Vernon and Wilmore exchanged glances. I offered lamely, 'Richard Wilson painted her portrait . . .'
Ashley was apoplectic, Roberta was near to a swoon. I stood embarrassed, as the party broke up. I went with them to the door. Gwena was driving the charabanc this time. I avoided her.
'No, no,' I said smiling a bit shamefacedly to everyone who asked if I was coming with them to the George for a nightcap. 'No, thanks. Actually, I'm staying a few days.'
'Thanks.' Wilmore shook my hand. 'See you, Lovejoy.'
'Maybe I'll call round tomorrow,' I said, not meaning it.
Then a strange thing happened. Mahleen stepped close, gave me a buss. As she did so - we were on the steps, Ashley being gravely formal to the ladies - she whispered, 'See me triple urgent, Lovejoy. Antiques! Money!'
And was gone. I thought I'd imagined it. I waved them off to spin their departure out. Nothing for it. I went inside, and took my medicine. It was different from what I expected.
Ashley was with Roberta. She was being supported by her angry husband. If looks could kill.
'. . . suppose I shall have to, Ashley.’
'Must you, dearest? It always leaves you exhausted.’
'I know, dear.’ She was in tears of self-pity. 'But the Cause. I have the most awful premonitions.’ She broke down.
Ashley told me to ring for a maid. I didn't know how. He lowered Roberta into a chair and rushed to pull a naff quid-a-yard braided cord beside the naff modern repro hall mirror. A maid appeared, pushing her hair into her maid's lace cap. She'd thought she was off duty.
'Lily, help the mistress to her bedroom suite, would you?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And, Lily,' Roberta murmured feebly. 'I think I could manage some gateau, a little of that trifle, with cream, some marzipan torte -you know the one - and a dish of fruit salad.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'With some peeled grapes, not those thin dark ones; the fat white Italian. And a selection of tartlets. Have you any from Gunton's? They agree with me best.'
'Yes, ma'am.' Lily darted me a sideways glance as Roberta was assisted to the lift. I know that all glances are supposed to be oblique by definition, but there was something congratulatory about Lily's sideways look that should have enlightened. But I'm thick at the best of times. At the worst, I'm pathetic. The lift doors crashed, making Roberta whimper. It whirred away, leaving Ashley.
'What you said, Lovejoy, was reprehensible!'
'I've seen too many scams, Ashley. If you wanted me out, you shouldn't have dragged me in. But you set your hoodlums on me, force me in. So take me, warts and all. I've kept up my side. Tell me what the scam is, who we're conning out of what, and I'll do what I'm made to. Then I can get the hell away from you and your winceyette woman. Where's my room?'
His cheeks glowed red, generating a scarlet fluorescence that could have lit our village. For a fleeting instant I saw a silhouette against the sheen of the children's boating pool, and knew it wasn't him that had beaten Tryer to death in the park. His orders, though?
Third floor, Lovejoy. Knock at the blue suite before entering." He said it like a penance. Jesus, I thought, what's in there? A hit team, torturers?
'Look, Ashley,' I said showing the chicken in me. 'I meant no harm. These causes, like your Bonnie Prince Charlie crap - er, project. I see ten a week. They never, never ever, turn out the way you think they will. They can't.' I heard the lift returning, to carry me to another battering.
'You do not know. Our Cause is the hope of mankind.'
'They always are, Ashley,' I said sadly. 'But mankind is hopeless. He wants sin.'
God, he was stubborn. And nobody's more stubborn than when bent on fraud. 'Truth got left at the starting line aeons ago. It's a folk memory, like boggarts and fairies.'
'Cynicism is evil, Lovejoy. You will be punished for it.'
So it was to be a belting. I sighed. Escape was out of the question. I tried to wheedle. 'It isn't cynicism, Ashley. It's experience. Of antiques, of people who want a fortune for a clothes peg, of dreamers - that's all of us - who claim that their bit of broken glass is the Hope Diamond.'
'You will do as you are told.'
'Right.' I eyed him, curious now. There was something I'd missed here. 'But if you're running an antiques scam, Ashley, you're going about it all wrong. If it's simply money you want, you'll fail.'
'You will stay here three days, Lovejoy,' he said, tight-lipped. I swear he hadn't listened to one blinking word. 'Understood?'
'Aye.' The lift crashed gently. I went towards it.
Ashley barred my way, in a new fury. 'Only the mistress uses the lift. Stairs.
He stayed in the grand hall. As if I'd taken away his toffee-apple. I wondered if all murderers were childish, or if it was an act. No answer on the first flight of stairs, none on the second. There was one on the third, of a sort.
20
The landing was almost threadbare. Blue suite, indeed. As I stood at the door, scared to death it would be Big John Sheehan inside ready to chuck me out of the window - his favourite ploy - Lily emerged wheeling a trolley. I cleared my throat a couple of times. She looked delectable, bending forward, curves moving.
'Er, all right in there?' I asked. My voice squeaked.
'You'll find out soon enough, Lovejoy.' Sideways, that glance again. 'I hope you survive.’
Dear God. k Look, Lily. Pass on a message for me. To Tinker Dill. Tell him -'
'Do your own dirty work, Lovejoy.' Hate, so soon?
'Er, ta.' I was desperate to leave some rock carving so future astronauts would know I'd been this way. 'Give my regards to . . .' To the world, anybody. 'Mr. Andrews,' I ended feebly.
'You know old Jim?' Direct look this time, no obliquity.
'Old pal,' I said, grasping at straws. 'From way back.' It sounded Lone Ranger. I amended eagerly, 'My dad's war pal.'
'I'll tell him.' She paused. 'Be yourself in there, Lovejoy.' And went. There was a service lift on the landing.
Be myself? I prayed to be somebody else for a millisec, thought, oh get on with it, and went in.
A sitting room, furnished in warehouse gunge. And blue! A television muttered, somebody groaning? Music of the egg-and-beans-for-table-three sort droned.
'Hello?' I called, I'm here.'
Nothing. At the far end a door stood ajar, the pale TV screenlight reflected through. A window, curtained, gave me an instant's mad hope but I knew from experience that goons would be prowling outside. Dejectedly I edged forwards. Bedroom? Chamber of horrors? Both?
'Hello?' I said, louder.
The door gave onto a bedroom, eggshell blue. Roberta was in a round, white, frothy bed, eating from a tray. It was modern pressed plastic painted to resemble silver. Honest to God, a mansion this size, servants, and she dines off a chunk of stamped compound. I swallowed, realized I was hungry.
The television showed some woman, groaning in the throes. A corn porn video, eight ninety-nine from Hamblesons in Wyre Street. This was the only torture.
'Er, am I right, missus?' I didn't want Ashley to come charging out of the wardrobe with his psychotic mob.
'Shhhh.' She shushed me. The mound of grub was enormous. Lily's knowing glance came back to me. Roberta's eyes didn't leave the screen.
What to do? I stood like a spare tool. The lady selected some little sweet things, that they give out at posh parties. I watched her. Delicately her mouth opened, the morsel went in with no unnecessary expenditure of energy, then that lovely smooth hand returned to waver, decide, dip, select out one more tasty titbit for that luscious
paradisical mouth. And one more time.
The cake was a huge gateau. My mouth watered. I tried to smile at her, but it felt cardboard instead of silent endearment. She tilted her head slightly. I edged aside, partly in the way, and the groans from the television came faster. I tore my gaze from the grub to look. The woman, rolling her eyes. Close-up of the bloke on her starting to thresh. Pan to their conjoined bodies, limbs writhing. The woman shoving her breasts at him, rolling over on a sandy seashore, to straddle him. Him crying out as he curved his body up to thrust into her, she laughing, head back, riding him like a bucking beast . . .
God, but the grub was tantalizing. I couldn't keep my eyes off it. Roberta cut herself a slice of some chocolate-covered thing. How didn't she turn into a giant squab? I heard myself moan with lust. Roberta, I noticed, as she started on the new slice, was slowly shedding her nightdress, one of those white satin garments with foamy collarettes.
Her breast appeared. She ate on, baring her shoulders. The nightdress's skirt was out over the satiny quilt. Her eyes closed, ecstatic at the taste. Her tongue flicked her lips.
The groans had become yelps out there as the waves beat on the seashore. Close-ups of hands, buttocks, limbs going.
'Can I pass anything, missus?' I was desperate to get nearer the grub.
'Shhhh.'
How she said it with her mouth filled I don't know. I watched her press a chocolate marzipan in. It was marvellous to watch her eat, except the word eat sounds too indelicate for the way which the morsels were chosen, inspected, and elegantly assimilated into that beautiful mouth. To think it actually became part of her, a total act of union. Like watching osmosis to music.
The grunts became yelps, screams. The screen's flicker was swifter, electrons straining to keep up. Roberta beckoned. I advanced hopefully. Food? Moi? My belly rumbled. I tightened it to shut it up, passing the message that I was doing my best, before this selfish bitch swallowed the universe. There was flan left, a dozen of those little cakes, some buttered scones, a quarter of that chocolate sponge, a gateau, and a swirly thing in a tall glass. Three plates stood empty, with two glasses showing they'd had their swirl tastefully excised. I was astonished at the pace.
The Grace in Older Women Page 16
