The Grace in Older Women

by Jonathan Gash

  'Number . . . Two.' The old idiot was taking it down.

  I ask you. 'No, Doothie,' I said, broken. Tell Juggernaut to make me Number One, see? Number Two is famous.'

  'Very well, Lovejoy.'

  The receiver down, I told Chemise that we'd let somebody make a fantastic find at the exhibition. We'd advertise it as a forgery.

  'Somebody can buy it for a song, and we'll say it's genuine!'

  'Why, Lovejoy?'

  'Stop asking daft questions. Find the bishop's address, love.'

  Honestly, people rile me. They have all sorts of brilliant skills, but can't be bothered to see the obvious.

  The bishop offered us tea, despaired when we refused.

  'What newspaper are you?' he asked, a benevolent, twinkling old gent. He really did wear gaiters. I was thrilled, for Trollope's sake more than mine, standards hanging on.

  'We're from the north, m'lord.' I was proud of my clean shirt. 'Bolton Journal Express . . .'

  'Ah, yes. The vicar in a dying village?'

  'Yes, m'lord. We always run a weekly article on underpopulated areas. I gather there are several villages face extinction?'

  'Indeed.' He heaved a mighty sigh. ‘We have several. Quite the most affected is Fenstone. The few loyal people there have tried everything to rejuvenate the community, all to fail.'

  'How do you choose a priest for a village like that, m'lord? Do you have a cadre of specially trained priests?'

  'Heavens no!' he said. ‘I wish we had. Incidentally, not all clergy wish to be called vicar, parson, rector even. The present Fenstone incumbent is known as Father. Leanings towards the papacy, perhaps? Ecumenical times, though, what?'

  'Oh aye, m'lord. Isn't that reverend, er, Anglo-Catholic . . . ?'

  'Hardly. Very sparse in this area. No, Jay Smith only arrived three years ago. Midlands seminary, religious teacher in a school, returned to parish work.'

  'Which seminary?'

  'Oh, closed.' The bishop winced. 'Sign of the times.'

  'So sad.' I brightened. 'How d'you dispose of all your antique seminary furniture?'

  Pain struck my leg. Chemise, the cow, had kicked me.

  'I'm sure you do your very best,' she said sweetly.

  'Thank you, my dear. Do write a few lines about our seminaries. So little financial support these days . . .'

  That was it. Chemise and me had a principal ally in Father Jay who seemed at least as much a fraud as I was.

  We drove to Dragonsdale. I got a private audience, and told Roberta and Ashley - in mid-tea, still not losing weight - that I'd have to stay at my cottage for a couple of nights, because at vast expense I was arranging their exhibition.

  She looked miffed at my having to stay away, probably narked she'd have only Ashley to criticize. I went all meaningful, hinted that I already missed being away from her, even though I'd been chastised for natural hunger. I got in six good double entendres. She managed to look sad for a millisec, between tartlets. I'd left Chemise at the crossroads. I wasn't having Nick adding two and two.

  'Can I have a private word, Roberta?' I asked, businesslike.

  'Very well. Ashley, stay within earshot.'

  Ashley went. I looked down at Roberta. The pace of her noshing slowly lessened. She sipped a dainty cup, replaced it in its saucer.

  I yanked her to her feet hard. I sucked her mouth until she went limp for air hunger, let her go.

  She dragged air in, reeled back onto the couch in a faint. First time it had ever been legitimate, I'll bet.

  'Now, love.' I was cool. 'Remember that I want you more than Ashley ever will. If anybody is to help your Cause, it's me and only me.'

  'Lovejoy,' she gasped faintly, 'you're jealous!'

  'Don't, darling. I'll be back. I'm in the phone book.'

  And swept out. All lies, of course. I wasn't in the book any more, been cut off too often. But if she and Ashley had done Tryer, then eventually she'd be out of it. I'd see to that. (No, I really mean that the police would see to that, not me.)

  Chemise was waiting. Father Jay wasn't celibate for religion. He could wed Juliana any time. Theology for once was no obstacle, an all-time first for that shifty science. I told her what I'd said to Roberta. Now, Chemise knew as much as I did.

  'What now, Lovejoy? The exhibition?'

  'Ah, no, love. Tonight we burgle a friend.'

  'You burgle a friend's house?' (Note that singular, me! It's their minds.)

  'No, love.' I was patient. 'We. You plus me. And I meant for a friend. Farouk, I think's his name.'

  'Lovejoy,' she said after a bit. 'I'm scared.'

  'First-night nerves, love. Once you've done your first robbery, you'll be cool as ice.'

  'On my own?' she said, near panic.

  See? Give them a job, they go to pieces. 'No,' I lied. 'With me beside you. One thing: can you lift a table on your own?'

  25

  There's a funny thing about countryside: word spreads like a moorland fire. Barkers, those hard drinkers who ferret out antiques, are the real gossip experts. They can leach news and clues from a passing breeze. Once, I was given a lift home from a village cricket match, twenty miles off. An old bloke at his cottage door, top of my lane, saw us pass and raised his thumb. I asked the bird to stop, walked back. 'How did you know we'd won, Bert?' I asked, curious. He'd no phone. I was the first back. 'Weather, son,' he said. See? Pigeon post, maybe, osmosis. Who knows?

  We went in to prepare for the robbery. There on my mat were three scribbled notes from dealers, plus another two carefully pinned inside the door. Chemise was angry, thought it terrible, said we ought to fit a lock. (We, note.)

  I told her, 'Dealers steal other dealers' notes, so their own antiques'll get chosen, see? It's life.'

  She still bridled. The phone rang. Its machine had clocked six messages. God, I'd started something. It was Margaret Dainty, lame, vaguely married, attractive middle age, deplorably honest, wanting in.

  'George Chinnery, Lovejoy, for some exhibition? Decent forgeries?'

  'Well, ye-e-e-es, love.' I owe Margaret. She's been a haven for me after many a stormy voyage, but I really hate owing friends who expect me to keep my promises. It's unfair to tax friendship, the rotten swine.

  'I'm so sorry, Lovejoy. But I do need help.' She's the only real aristocrat we have. I listened in anguish, wanting to say no. 'What we've been to each other shouldn't come into it. But my brother's boy, Jaddo, is talented. He does Chinnery like a dream. Please, Lovejoy?'

  'How many?' I'd already warned Doothie there was a surfeit.

  'Several, Lovejoy.' Hope lit her voice.

  George Chinnery was a scoundrel, son of an amateur painter in these parts. Young George was a pal of the immortal Turner at the Royal Academy. He spent half a century swanning around the brand new colony of Hong Kong, Portugese Macao, Canton in China's Kwantung. Opium figured large in his life. He was always being chased by loyal women, including his missus. He actually complained, can you believe, when his wife loyally followed him up the Pearl River. He said how good it was that China stopped wives 'from coming and bothering' him there. The poor lass, forbidden to land on sacred Chinese soil and join the jocular swine, died of smallpox. Quel boor, right? But he painted, drew, sketched like a dream. Scenes now revered as the truest depictions of the culture clash, ours and Chinese, in Hong Kong, Macao, Kwantung. Even economists scramble for Chinnery's work these days.

  'Okay, send Jaddo's stuff, but listen.' I cut through her thanks. Tell him pencil, ink, and pen, okay? And scenes of junks, river scenes, Flower Boats - Canton prostitute vessels - signed Lam Qua, Yin Qua, Fal Qua. If he can't hack the signatures, tell him I'll do mangled ones. Don't let him frig about ruining good forgeries.'

  'Thank you, darling. I'll never forget this.'

  'Tell your nephew that Chinnery mixed his own colours, and loved thin - meaning thin - canvas. Ellery in Lowestoft weaves it for Geckle in Limehouse. Tell Jaddo Chinnery was crazy for vermilion. Make sure he puts Chinese white f
lecks in.'

  Chemise read the notes. 'They're all offering forgeries, Lovejoy. French furniture, porcelain, pewter, silver, jewellery, English Regency. Motor cars, even.'

  'So?' I was impatient, nervous. She had to go a-burgling.

  'Is there so much fake antiquery about?'

  'It's everwhere, love. And it's beautiful, done right.'

  She stared, uncomprehending. 'How can it be, if it's dud?'

  'Because a forgery can be a sacrament.' I sat beside her. 'It's holy from the work within. Just as a woman becomes beautiful.'

  Bitterness crept in as she repeated the words, 'Look at me, Lovejoy. Am I beautiful?' Her smile was tearful. 'Nobody else thinks so. Except Tryer. I know he was a poor specimen. But he liked me, Lovejoy. And he took me in, an act of forgiveness. And you know what he forgave?' She sniffed, tears dripping. I felt horrible, not knowing what to do.

  'Don't, love,' I said, uncomfortable. Tryer forgave me my ugliness, Lovejoy.' 'Shut up, you silly cow.' It was out before I could think. 'You're stpid. Every woman has her own beauty. It's those bloody magazines. Beanpole girls with coat hanger shoulders and no breasts. Fashion is a con, love. You can't have fashions in women. Women are what we must have. Her beauty is that she understands it's how things are.'

  'Oh, Lovejoy.' She wept on. 'He wasn't fit, Tryer. Drank too much, never exercised. You knew him. He wasn't as tall as . . . who hit him. I saw him go down, glow reflected from the water.'

  She cried it out, except that's only what people say. You can't cry grief out. It bides its time, comes stealing back. 'Who was it, love?'

  'I don't know, Lovejoy. I glimpsed him against the water.' We stayed like that a bit. I got her moving by saying the burglary she was going to do would help to pin the swine. I didn't know if it would, of course, but a grieving woman has to be fetched back into life. We drove to Farouk.

  'It's like this, Farouk,' I explained. He owned a restaurant. I wouldn't go into the kitchen, that place of raw carnage, so we sat where people came to order takeaways. 'Mr. Sheehan allows three weeks. Your time's running out.'

  'There is time yet, Lovejoy.'

  He scribbled an order while I paused. A couple wanted a load of grub that made my mouth water. They waited watching TV, some quiz show with inanities.

  'I can do it tonight for virtually nothing.'

  'Why would you go to such trouble? We are not friends.'

  'Because I am organising -

  'Your exhibition?' He smiled, i see! You want my Danish piece out of the way beforehand?'

  'Correct! Don't want it turning up among my exhibits.' People often give you the reasons they want to hear.

  ‘A sound argument.’ He paused. 'Are you expensive?'

  'Not very. Pay me on commission,' I said, munificent. Three per cent, to get the trade.’

  We laughed at that, the second oldest commercial falsehood. I rejoined Chemise.

  'It's on, love,’ I said. 'You know what to do?'

  'No, Lovejoy. I'm worried sick.’

  'Honest to God!' I exploded, starting the motor and pulling away from Farouk's nosh house. ‘I’m not asking you to do much. Get it into your stupid noddle, you daft bat! I chat the old dear up. You creep upstairs and steal the furniture. Christ Almighty, it's simple!' She said nothing. I yelled at her for always interrupting. 'Your trouble is I've been too good to you, you whinging moron. I do all the donkey work . . .

  It wasn't much as supportive psychotherapy goes, but being worried sick was my job, not hers. She'd got the easy bit. Do it properly like I'd told her and I'd be in the clear. The risk to her was minimal. I seethed in anger. Women complain when they've nothing to complain about.

  There was a faint light in the house when I drove up and parked, banging the driver's door, swaggering like auditioning for The Student Prince. Dame Millicent came to answer, pleasure lighting her features. I felt a cad, nearly. 'Lovejoy! You want more farm produce?' 'Ha-ha. No, I came about the meeting.' I shoved the mat with my foot so the door couldn't close. She plodded in, sat with a groan. Her dog was asleep, thank God. I carefully closed the room door. The logs had run out, the fire dying.

  She had three candles about the room. 'They gutter, Lovejoy, most irritating.' i use candles too, sometimes. You make them?' 'Mr. Geake. He renders the fat down. It's country free.' 'Good old countryside.' She was sipping whisky. I shook my head.

  'Dame Millicent. What are the chances of buying Juliana's forgeries?' 'Juliana is in the unfortunate state of love,' she said, acerbic. 'I'm never sure these days about that condition. Is there now such a thing?' 'I'm lodging a bird who was loved,' I said. 'I think.'

  'You see, Lovejoy? We do not know. Possessiveness comes into love. Quite terrifying, how far one will go to keep the loved one.'

  'If I wheedle her into thinking it's for her priest?' I put my feet on the dog. It snored, contented.

  'Like a shot. But she's a bright lady. She must be convinced. Which raises questions, Lovejoy.'

  'Does it?' Her old eyes glinted in the candlelight.

  'Indeed. Like why are you really here. Why, when you are the only divvy, the best forger, do you need Juliana Witherspoon? You haven't fallen for the girl yourself?'

  'No,' I lied. This lie's easy, because I fall for them all. 'I'm forced to help the Battishalls. They're pals with a Mr. Sheehan.' Best I could do on the spur of the moment. She nodded. 'I'm scared of Sheehan.'

  'This exhibition. I heard,' she said to my face, 'from Mr. Geake. He stopped by an hour ago.'

  And well off the premises by now, I prayed. 'It's an exhibition of fakes, forgeries. Replicas, even copies. Have you got anything I could put in?' Clever Lovejoy.

  'In this place? I sold everything long ago, Lovejoy.'

  'Well, if your country set pals want rid of silver, anything antique, let me know.'

  'I promise, Lovejoy.'

  The conversation went from there to reminiscences about her old affairs, splendid parties, her old lover who'd been admired throughout the land. . . Only one candle was burning by the time I rose to say my good nights. I'd given Chemise enough time to steal the roof, let alone a dressing table.

  She was waiting where I'd told her, a furlong down the road. We couldn't get the dressing table in the car, so I had to tie the damned thing on the roof with rope.

  'Lovejoy!' She was elated, but disliking what she felt. ‘I’m a burglar!’

  'Hmmm?' I was disturbed, because she'd nicked a fake. It didn't feel like any antique I'd ever sussed. 'Well done, lass.'

  'You don't understand, Lovejoy.' She turned to me, solemn. 'I mean I am a burglar. I actually robbed a lady's house."

  'You've done what everybody else on earth's done, does, is doing. Now for Christ's sake stop boasting.'

  'I'm not boasting, Lovejoy. I never knew I could.''

  This always brings out the sighs in me. 'Everybody does it, love. You're just a late starter. It's like love - me and Dame Millicent were talking about it. When you make love, you actually make the stuff. Including nuns and priests. Celibate, perhaps, but read some saints. Nicking things is the rule, not the exception. Forgery's the mortar, antiques the bricks. Together, they are the building, love.'

  'Why are you not excited? I thought you'd be ecstatic!'

  ‘It's a forgery, love. Was it the only piece there?'

  'Exactly as you described, Lovejoy.' She started to cry, sniffing again. I'd suffered this evening. 'There was no other furniture, just a bed and a wardrobe.'

  'You did well, love,' I said. 'I'm proud of you.'

  'It's strange, Lovejoy. You know what is most disturbing?'

  Well, I did, but you have to say you don't. 'No?' I said in a puzzled kind of fashion.

  'It's that I'm thrilled. It was exhilarating. And worse.' She looked defiant. 'I'm delighted you're pleased.'

  'It's how it always is, at first, Chemise,' I said. She took my hand, laid it on her knee, and me driving between hedgerows struggling to see the way.

  'Look, love,' I said
, nervous. 'About you staying. Sooner or later I'll have to go back to the Battishalls.’

  She took some time replying, then said, 'It's all right now, Lovejoy. If it's all right with you?'

  Well, I thought piously, I deserved recompense for the fake Danish piece. I'd done her a favour by letting her take the risk instead of me. And taught her a new trade. Fair's fair.

  Except breathing heavily and all but ravishing her there and then in the motor as I turned in to my garden, I couldn't. The way was blocked by a large limousine. The lights were on in my cottage, and music split the night. Laughter, corks popped, glasses tinkled. And there was a delicious aroma. The Americans had come, bearing gifts. Party time at Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.

  'Who are they, Lovejoy?' Chemise was outraged, almost as if she'd actually wanted to -

  'American friends.' I recognized faces moving past the window. 'Love. Suss out Father Jay, okay? '

  We advanced, musing. Once, chance; twice, coincidence. But a third time it's a Genseric the Most Terrible.

  26

  'Hey, Lovejoy!'

  The whoops began before we were in the door. Mahleen was first, followed by a shoal. Gwena, slightly less frolicsome, was pouring the vino and dishing cakes. I brightened, joined in.

  'What's the occasion?' I asked. 'Is anybody welcome?'

  Hoots of laughter, during which people eyed Chemise. The women marked her down and wrote her off. They can handle ugliness in others, quite like it in fact. Beauty means she's a bitch, in the old comedienne's music-hall joke. Chemise was no threat.

  'So you're our ally, Lovejoy!' cried Hilda, though she was immediately silenced by a few, 'Hey, gal!' cries. 'Sorr-ee!' she screamed, unrepentant. It was only supermarket sixpence-off wine, but who knows the difference? Like most things in life, labels rule. I wish I'd remembered that.

  Mahleen came to chat. Chemise seemed to be enjoying herself.

  'We're proud of you, Lovejoy. You've jumped the gun!'

  'I have?' I was pleased, done something right.