Then she reached out, fumbled to find my belt one-handed. Her eyes were still on the screen. She tutted once, some finer point of technique I suppose. I started to undo the belt myself. She resumed her nosh. Her alacrity was mind-bending. Not even in Woody's or China's had I seen food disappear this fast. Yet she ingested - and even that's not elegant enough -gently, seemingly hardly bothering to eat at all. It was dining with balletic grace, the consumption Olympics. The nosh drew me, then her mouth, then she was pulling it and tutting at my shirt.
The screen showed several couples were watching from rocks. Excited by the coupling, they all started to make love. I groaned, because the gateau went the way of all flesh with a movement that can only be called a caress. It was beautiful to watch the selfish bitch eat while I starved to frigging death. Then the covers parted slowly to admit me.
There wasn't a single crumb in the bed! Unbelievable. I've only to have a slice of stale bread and my cottage is a mass of crumbs. I keep finding them days later. Roberta had cleared the best part of a vicarage nosh and her fingers, the sheets, pillows were untainted. She reached over me, which accidentally brought us closer, as the television started up multiple passionate cries.
Roberta finally slowed her repast, turning her attention to me with, at first, casual acceptance rather than interest. Then she waved, and the TV went silent. Another stretch, and the lights dimmed, images of fountains and flowers appearing on the ceiling. No music.
By then I was in no fit state to notice anything environmental, and found myself a new Roberta, one who exclaimed and exhorted. It was not elegant. She became savage, demanding savagery back. It was wonderful, even though I still didn't know quite what was going on. It was ecstasy, because it always is. I abandoned all other appetites in appeasement of the greatest human hunger. She was superb, everything a goddess could be. Craving, worse almost than me, working with passionate abandon. I knew I would love her for ever and ever, do anything she wanted. I was hers, no two ways.
Eventually we slept. Dunno why, but women are always cold, going to bed. Even in summer with a head start, they're perishing. They amaze me. How can you make your feet so freezing? Even their bottoms are frigid, and a bottom's at the very centre of things, so to speak. Icy knees too, and I've never met a hot breast yet. In the morning, they're warm.
And they snore, in two episodes. One's half an hour after they drop off, lasts forty minutes. The other's at four-thirty, and is a long chuntering hour. Dunno why that, either. I woke in darkness. The magic romantic pictures on the ceiling had faded. I reached, found a plate of something, scoffed the lot. I found another - small sweet things - and engulfed those, put the plate carefully under the bed. Got a third and gnawed through a thick marzipan cake. Then a flan. Crumbs, I thought. These sheets would need washing, because I'm hopeless. Chocolate spreads so.
About then, she gave a stretchy kind of groan, and her hand called me to attention, as it were.
She was twenty times better than any of the television. Within seconds I was babbling undying devotion, and I meant every endearment most sincerely. Lily's remarks came to me between passions, though, and that odd complicity of Ashley. I was now on their strength, a devoted member.
Came dawn, I found the side table cleared of grub and the gorgeous Mrs. Battishall gone. It was shoving back the curtains to see the countryside staring in - I quickly drew them again - that I realized that, if Ashley had ordered Tryer dead, then Roberta must have agreed. Or worse, for she was boss.
Bath, shave, dress, then tell Ashley how antiques could raise money the right - i.e. wrong - way. Outside, I heard activity on the gravel. I peered out. To see Stubbs's brilliant portrait of Whistlejack being carried in. Real? I couldn't feel the vibes at this distance.
Things were too fast. I had to see what Mahleen's whispered promise ('Antiques! Money!') meant, see what Ashley was playing at, find Chemise. And gather the five Fenstone survivors at Dame Millicent's. And see Big John Sheehan, ask could the rules be moulded. Then to Farouk, maybe, ask him if he needed help to burgle Dame Millicent's. Then Corinth, maybe, if I could reach her. Sabrina would have to wait. And so would my own non-existent antiques dealing.
For once I felt an ache. Roberta was marvellous. I wondered if that was all, a see-what-I-can-give carrot ahead of the donkey (me). I scented food, hurried into the day.
21
Swanning downstairs, I felt as if I could run over houses. Lovejoy of the three-league boots. Ashley, shaking with rage (did the blighter ever do anything else? He was getting tiresome), was glaring in the hall. But he was the one who'd sent me up to, er, rest in his wife's bedroom. I could smell breakfast.
'In,' he ordered me.
The drawing room was aired, light, clean. Roberta was leaning against a flower stand. She looked radiant in a camelia house dress, fortuitously in a shaft of early morning sun. I advanced smiling, but halted stricken when she raised her eyes. Hate? So soon again again?
'Lovejoy,' she said, voice shaking. 'How dare you!'
Eh? She'd raped me, for God's sake. I'd had no chance of escape. 'Eh?' I was confused. 'Ashley sent me to, er, you. And you encouraged . . .'But you mustn't tell how sex is, or women get mad. Euphemism rules. 'Didn't you, er . . . ?' Beg me to beat you, use crude foul language? 'Invite me?' I ended lamely.
'That is not in question, Lovejoy! What is, is that you are a thief!' She was shaking like an aspen leaf, though I wouldn't know an aspen from a daffodil. Some poem I'd learnt as a little lad, willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes. Quite good, for a poem. Whoever wrote it should stick at it, maybe make a living.
'Eh? I've nicked nothing, missus.' What was worrying me was that I'd seen the great equestrian painting carried in, yet so far I'd felt not a single chime. Forgery, rearing its head in Dragonsdale? I brightened a bit. All was not lost.
'Ashley? Summon Lily.'
We waited. Lily entered, stood mute with clasped hands. They could search me until the cows came home. I had the perfect witness in Roberta herself, right? She'd all but reamed me. I'd been naked, in no position to hide anything stolen or otherwise.
'Lily,' Ashley demanded. 'Did you remove the food from the blue suite bedside table?'
'No, Mr. Battishall. The plates were empty when I cleared away, sir.’
'Thank you, Lily. You may go.'
Food? Food? I listened. They were off their frigging heads.
Click, the door went. Silence. Roberta's furious stare was now triumphant. I felt lasered. She was livid because I'd eaten the remnants of her gargantuan midnight nosh in this madhouse?
‘There, Lovejoy! How dare you steal my sustenance!’
Ashley wore a smug gotcha smile. The sanest person in this bedlam was drunken old Jim Andrews, and he was completely off his trolley.
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Battishall.’ When in doubt, grovel. When in serious trouble in a loony bin, grovel more. 'I hadn't eaten all day. I was afraid it would go bad . . .' Et lying cetera. Christ, Roberta had scoffed enough to fuel a regiment. Why couldn't I have a mouthful while she slept? Yet I'd been shagging Ashley's wife. He'd planned it all, condoned everything. I wanted to go back to my cold empty cottage.
'Lovejoy, you will be severely punished for your treachery.'
Roberta swayed. Ashley leapt forward with a cry of alarm, helped her to the couch. She reclined. He dashed for cushions.
'I will see to him, dearest.' Ashley rounded on me, flushed with all this excitement. 'Lovejoy. You will begin work immediately without breakfast. Inspect the Stubbs painting, estimate its value. Advise on its sale-now.'
'Why?'
Roberta wailed faintly. Ashley looked fit to marmalize me, but I stood my ground. The aroma of breakfast out there was driving me insane. I was starving. I honestly felt I'd earned a crust, a cup of tea. Time I escaped from this frigging zoo, get to the Misses Dewhurst Lorelei nosh house . . .
Ashley controlled himself with visible effort. 'The Cause,' he said, reverence in his voice. He almost knelt.
'Money,' I said. 'Is that what you mean?'
'But the Cause must be financed -
'You're going about it wrong, Ashley.’ I walked to the portrait of Charlie, moved the burning votive light further from the precious Garthwaite silk.' You’ll get nabbed. So will Roberta and all your daft supporters. Serve you right, too. I hate a poor-quality fraud.'
Mrs. Battishall’s shriek was so loud it fetched Lily. She retreated under my bent eye.
'Ashley, dear,' whimpered Roberta, 'shall I be arrested?'
'Within seconds, love,' I answered for him. 'This place will be sold to pay lawyers,' I added. 'I'm only being kind.'
'Don't trick us, Lovejoy.' Ashley still wanted an execution.
'No, Ashley,' I said, sorrow coming over me. 'That Stubbs painting is a fake. If it was genuine, a mighty antique that size, I'd be staggering, being sick on your sham Isfahan carpets. As it is, I could eat a horse.' Mental apology to Whistlejack.
'Don't be stupid, Lovejoy. You are simply trying to deceive us.' He was calm in ignorance. I was frantic with fear in my cold certainty. 'We paid highly to Mr. Sheehan for the privilege of having our own true retainers take the Stubbs. It can't have gone wrong.'
'Don't say I didn't warn you, Ashley.'
Ashley was so sure, every second of his life just so. Must be an unnerving feeling. 'You've already decided on some betrayal scheme. Try it, and you will have to take the consequences.'
'No betrayal intended,' I lied, with a sad countenance. 'But I'm a peaceful bloke. All I want is my usual life. It may not seem much, but I live down among the bread men. It's what I'm for. Okay, I'll raise money for your daft cause. You have the whip hand. I give you my word. Honest.' That took some saying. I was quite sincere, as far as I could tell.
'In return?'
'You just leave me alone afterwards.'
'But?' he said, warily.
The best rule when lying, I find, is to make a condition. I pursed my lips, eyed Roberta's languid form.
'Two conditions,' I said, chancing my arm. 'You let me arrange your scam, the money-raiser. I alone do it. It will bring in a huge sum. I keep penny in the pound. I promise you'll control every groat, start to finish.'
'Very well. You will market our Stubbs?' Their? See what I mean? Possession is fluid stuff, ownership a myth.
'Promise. Hand on my heart.' He ahemed. He knew what was coming.
'You mentioned two conditions, Lovejoy.' Frosty.
'Yes.’ I looked at Roberta, went a bit red, not acting. Did I say euphemism rules? I stammer when embarrassed. 'The main condition,’ I gave a rueful grimace by way of apology, ‘I want to . . . visit Mrs. Battishall. Er, spend the night in conversation with the lady, just once more.' 'Conversation' meant physical intimate contact. Translate the word in old novels by sexual intercourse, heavy petting at least, and you're there.
'Dearest?' Unbelievably, Ashley passed the query on.
She sighed. I noticed she had a mark on her neck, and looked away in guilt. Somebody had been gnawing Mrs. Battishall in orgiastic detumescence. And her milk-white cheek was also darkened by a faint bruise, skillfully cosmeticked not to show. I had some too. Only she knew where.
'Very well, dear.'
For the Cause, I thought, but did not say. She'd been more explicit than any soft-porn video.
'We agree, Lovejoy,' Ashley explained, as if they'd been talking in some secret lingo. Maybe they were. Chinese women in the olden days developed a special language, for writing to one another so nobody outside their circles could follow. I wonder how often the code was cracked. Linear B had been, and Samuel Pepys's mirror diaries. Maybe Ashley's docile agreement and the plump luscious lady's compliance meant what had happened to Tryer?
Breakfast now? But they were looking at me in expectation. Up to me. I needed a scam that gave me freedom.
'Here's what we do. We arrange an exhibition of frauds, forgeries, fakes. Sexton Blakes, shams, lookalikes, duds. Scores, hundreds, maybe.' They were quite blank. I paced a bit, energy starting to flow. 'We claim nothing, just tell the whole wide world that we've got a variety of forgeries. It's quite legal. The British Museum's done it, earned itself a fortune. Every antique . . .' I panned with outspread palms, being a huge advertising sign '. . . is a genuine forgery! At knock-down prices! Get your Monet, your Rembrandt, here! For peanuts!'
Still silent.
Don't you see?' I cried, marching to and fro in enthusiasm. 'We'll pull the selling ploy when we open!'
'The selling ploy?'
'Yes!' I beamed, laughing with excitement now I was motoring. 'We announce that somebody has actually found a genuine X, Y, or Z in the sale, bought a real Rembrandt, Tompion clock, Turner, whatever, for a song! Don't you see? They'll come in droves! We'll seed the exhibition with a dead obvious genuine antique, ask a colossal admission fee!'
'Where do we get a genuine antique, Love joy? We only have the Stubbs painting, and daren't advertise that'
'You two aren't in the real world. We sell any antique to some delighted customer for a bob, aye. And tell the world, do a broadcast on the evening news. But it doesn't mean we have one, see?'
'No,' Roberta said. She looked good enough to eat.
My patience gave. 'See it as we go. Leave it to me.’
'But we'll get very little from selling mere forgeries, Lovejoy,' she said doubtfully. 'They are surely cheap?' She was recovering before my very eyes, her vapid ailment vanishing under the glow of imagined money.
I sighed. 'Just trust me. Fraud's as routine as drawing breath.'
'But fraud is so rare, Lovejoy.'
Well, I had to laugh. 'Look, love.' I cast about for an example. 'Ashley here uses a mobile phone, right? Well, that instrument is the fastest-growing source of fraud in the universe. Let's say you're travelling abroad, Bangkok, Malaysia, London, wherever. You want to phone home. But it will cost the earth, right? So you simply go downtown to the public phone banks anywhere on earth and stand there, looking willing. Within five minutes, honest to God, somebody'll whisper, Want to phone home, cheap? They charge one US dollar per illegal minute. They're called phreakers.' I spelled it for them. 'You can even buy a number for three hundred US dollars.'
'Buy a number?' Ashley scoffed, but he was worried.
'Then you simply dial, on any phone. The phone company bills the registered owner of the mobile's number. You merrily phone Alaska, Australia, Jamaica. Talk all you want. Why not? Somebody else gets the bill.'
'Lovejoy,' Roberta said in a small voice. 'You are a crook.'
'I didn't nick the Stubb painting, love,' I shot back.
'Ashley . . .' Her lip trembled. She began to wilt.
'Sorry, love. It just came out.’ I made to advance, possibly to offer consolation.
Two problems, Lovejoy.' Ashley interposed himself. This show of forgeries. Will it be open to the public? We don't know how to organize such an exhibition, or make money from it."
'It's all the antiques trade does, most of the time.'
He blinked, but his wife took it in her totter.
'I take it these fakes would have to be excellent quality,’ she said. 'Where will we get them?'
'Love,' I said, with more sincerity than I'd felt for days, 'the world'll provide any number, any time."
'Honestly?' Her eyes went round.
'Well, no,' I admitted. 'Not honestly. But,' I added with fervour, 'genuine forgeries by the train load. Deal?'
'Deal,' she said, modestly lowering her eyes.
She didn't need to refer to Ashley. I was pleased. As long as she stayed boss, I stood a chance of getting out of this unscathed, not least by Big John Sheehan, Ashley's minions, and Maudie Laud and her constables.
'Done, then.' We smiled at each other. Ashley didn't smile at all. I decided to push my luck. 'Is it breakfast?'
A reasonable nosh in the communal dining room, with Jim Andrews asking me what my platoon thought of the new batch of Lee-Enfields, and a gaggle of elderly twitchers itching t
o trudge the fields looking for birds. And Lily, sardonic with her non-smile when I wanted more toast. Then to the cellars, to see the great Stubbs painting.
Nick and goons rigged lights up to show it off.
Well, it was bonny, right enough. The huge horse, colours just right, rearing on that genuinely ancient canvas. And the frame had the right marks. I looked, sniffed, felt. All in all, a really good forgery. Well done, Juliana, I thought. Gold star for effort. But fake. Not a chime of the genuine about it. She'd probably used the phenol-formaldehyde trick - this chemical ages an oil painting in a fortnight. Everybody does it. The oil plus pigment swiftly hurries to the necessary hardness. I was disappointed, though. She'd used French vernis craqueleur, varnish that imparts a realistic fine surface cracking. Only takes thirty minutes, and a new oil painting looks 150 years old, but it's still the mark of an amateur forger. Very sad she'd used Lefranc's ageing varnish. If she'd used frame gilder's assiette a dorer, extra-fine grade, she wouldn't have needed to. It's upsetting to come across a good job spoilt. Ha' p'orth of tar, and all that.
'Thanks, Nick,' I said heartily to the swine. 'You pulled in a winner there, Ashley. I'm sorry I doubted it. You nicked it without a mark. Brilliant!'
And left them. One day, I thought, one day. I got permission to leave for an hour, to go to the library.
22
The racecourse at Tey sounds better than it is, a few fields, fluttering flags, white railings, and those box things nags start from. Big John was pacing the ground and taking camera photographs. That is to say, he was sipping whisky from a lead crystal tumbler while villeins of various intellectual calibres did the work. He was on a chair beside his Rolls.
'Morning, Lovejoy,' he said, interested in racing?'
Any Big John question is fraught. I dithered. 'Well, I can see the attraction, John.' I'd rather watch fog.
'Fascinating sport,' he said. 'See that young stallion?'
'Eh? Oh, aye.' It looked clumsy, born stupid, chewing grass. Three blokes and a bird attended it. Post-operative humans in major surgery don't get that degree of care.
The Grace in Older Women Page 17
