The Possessions of a Lady

by Jonathan Gash

  You can only hold a meaningful look for a few seconds. It becomes too pushy. I busied myself, checking that the chains weren't on the hubs. Sleekie's a mistrustful sod.

  'Have you the key, please?'

  'Yes. Here, Jig.'

  She undipped it from her waist. For a millisec I stood as close as morality allowed, my breathing funny. You get times like this. I was torn between this exquisite creature, or making off with Sleekie's massive vintage motor. Fear won. Sleekie's sly. He wouldn't exactly brawl, but sooner or later I'd finish up poisoned by an unknown hand.

  'What time will you bring it back, Jig?'

  Hopes rose. I’ll phone, Ruby. Will you be in?'

  She nodded. 'Yes. He does evening performances at the Tolbooth. They send a taxi.'

  'Marvellous.' I swung into the leather driving seat. 'Perhaps we'll have time for . . .' I displayed a brief wrestle with conscience.

  'Maybe.' Pert smile, a definite plus.

  A quick prayer to the god of engines. I pumped the petrol knob. You can flood the damned thing and it takes a day to clear. A woman called Sheila had showed me the manoeuvres, but that was long ago. I'm still not sure whether I was glad when the motor fired. I'd have to go. I'd forgotten how high these old bangers are. You seem miles off the ground, on a palanquin. I released the handbrake, rolled the old car forward. I halted.

  'Ruby. You wouldn't like to come along?'

  'Get on with you, Jig.'

  Jig? Me. 'Have the kettle on, love.'

  'Perhaps.' Her smile lit the village.

  Easing the clutch in, I moved the monster forward onto the road.

  A lovely lass, Ruby. Did she truly know the effect she had on a bloke? No. Women don't, or we'd never do anything but grovel around them all day. Lucky old Sleek. I've never seen him with the same woman twice on the trot.

  20

  Old motors are a nuisance. You never feel in control, like the damned thing's letting you sit there but don't get too cocky. Also, they're strong. Touch the throttle, and your neck jerks, clings to some tree you passed a mile back. The wind howl deafens you. And other motorists salute, applaud, hoot, expect a wave. Old motors are absurdity on wheels. No wonder they never caught on. And costly? The thing needed filling up every two yards. I stopped at one garage and got surrounded by enthusiasts asking about axle ratios and carburettors. I hid the gleaming hulk behind a tavern's trees when I stopped for nosh in the early afternoon, but it was no good. Some maniac actually asked if I'd let him slide underneath for a gander, as if any car's interesting. I'd sold this old crate to Sleekie five years before. It had acquired a load of trophies along its front bumper, I noticed, this rally, that procession, like war medals.

  Driving, I pondered. 'She,' Spoolie had let slip, took it to Brum. 'They' wouldn't let him say more. Plural, of foes? And somebody had told him the maker's name, Maerklin. Poor Spoolie. The nasty thought kept recurring. Spoolie wouldn't keep our appointment. Despite my promise, I turned at a roundabout and headed south on the A45. The opposite direction, save you getting the map out.

  The only time in my life I ever gambled for a girl, I lost to Sleekie. He'd eyed this Alana I was trying to inveigle. She had a collection of bat-and-ball implements—racquets, battledores, table tennis bats. She had a couple of old shuttlecocks. They aren't worth a lot, and she wouldn't budge. I'd decided to slope off when we met this man waiting for an illegal auction ring to finish in a tavern. He started doing card tricks.

  Alana was fascinated. My hopes rose that she might leave me, if she was fascinated enough.

  'It's the eastern shuffle,' I told Alana airily.

  'Shush, Lovejoy!' she'd cried. Sleekie produced four aces from the pack. Then, surprising even me, a fifth.

  Sleekie had smiled. 'It sometimes works by chance, sir. That's why nobody ever gambles on that trick.'

  'I'd gamble,' I said recklessly.

  He said, 'Play you for your lady, then?'

  A joke, but with pretended anger I grabbed the cards. 'Right!'

  'Lovejoy!' cried Alana, but thrilled.

  'Then I too will stake everything I possess,' Sleek said gallantly. Maybe that's why he always gets the bird, having more outrageous lies.

  We cut the cards, the highest card in five. He was determined to lose, of course, after which he'd entice me and gullible boozers into a game. I'd end up losing, and so would everybody else. These card sharks are ten a penny. On auction nights they go from tavern to pub, work the football trains. I played silly, of course nicking the top card. He knew, but couldn't accuse me outright of wanting to lose Alana. His eyes went glassy. He had no time for legerdemain. I kept the pack by my elbow, in case a tentacle reached that far.

  He won with the ace of spades I'd given him. Tight-lipped, I bussed Alana. She stared with horror as I offed, obviously to blow my brains out from grief. In fact I went to a dance at Benignity's, only hiding my heartfelt sorrow, of course. It was Alana's own tight-fisted fault, her and her rotten collection.

  A twelvemonth later, I met Sleek on his way to Newmarket races. We had a laugh, old times. He didn't harbour a grudge. Alana had turned up trumps (sorry), helped him in sussing out marks in taverns, did a few games of her own.

  He'd ditched her in Southampton, a cruise ship. I sold him the Braithwaite, brokering for Big Frank from Suffolk, our local bigamist, trigamist, umpteenamist, who still owes me for my cut. It had belonged to an old colonel with a gammy leg in an old folks' home.

  I'd have gone for more legitimate means of transport, but I needed to blaze a trail. Reason: the old crate thundering away was unique. It was made by one Braithwaite, inventor of no renown. Very few people knew of its existence, except me, Sleekie, sundry ex-Sleek women currently recycling, and a few antique dealers. They alone would know what, and who, they were following. And one or more of them would know why.

  Whoever came a-hunting me had hired the rival divvy, who was destroying me. It had begun when Tinker's girl called Vyna arrived, instantly to go missing.

  That too was an uneasy thought. I lost concentration, frightening a motorist into hooting. Then he forgave me with a salute and a grin. I waved, fixed my eyes on the road, enthusiast of the sport of kings.

  There's a village called Birdbeck so small that everybody misses it. Go through in second gear, you won't even know. It's within striking distance of my own village. It has two other attributes. The first is it's the unlikeliest hideout on earth if you want concealment. The second is Lizbet.

  The hideout is a sweetpea farm. No kidding. Far as the eye can see, sweetpeas all colours of the rainbow. People come miles just to be photographed against the hues, scent the perfume. To me, see one sweetpea, see all. But Lizbet sends out catalogues by the million every year, sweetpeas this colour, that shape, this fragrance. You'd think people'd get fed up, but every year it's onward and upward.

  'Wotcher, love. Lizbet about?' I parked beyond the forecourt. A quiet time. No queues, only women packing shipments.

  'Up at the big house.'

  'Ta.' I walked the rest, met Lizbet in her estate wagon before I was halfway.

  'Lovejoy.' She cut the engine. 'How long this time? Two minutes? Ten?'

  'Don't, Lizbet.' I hesitated. 'On your own?' She wouldn't have stopped otherwise.

  'Don't pry. What do you want?'

  Lizbet can force you into honesty.

  'I am in trouble, love, but just passing.'

  'Does it involve the police?'

  My disclaiming chuckle would have appeased anybody else. It didn't even change her face. And it is a lovely face, smooth skin, eyes like jewels, fair hair, lips that tell you more than red wine. I felt myself pulled.

  'I asked about police, Lovejoy.' She closed the car window a little. We talked through the slit. What did Tubb say about talking through glass?

  'Of course not, love. I nicked a motor, without.' She knew without what. 'Can I leave it here till eventide? How's Jonto?' She has this infant.

  'Not so little. Started school no
w.'

  'Oh, er, great.' School? He couldn't have. Wasn't it only two years? But Lizbet was an obsessional timekeeper, so probably knew Jonto's age. I felt dispirited. Time would be more likeable if it'd only give it a rest for a month or two. 'Look, Lizbet. If it'll queer your pitch, I'll move on.'

  'I'll let you, Lovejoy.'

  'Right, right.' I was relieved, though I'd have still left the Braithwaite even if she'd said no, in a coppice you can reach from the main road.

  Something caught my eye. A stick bearing my name, near a wide swathe of the most beautiful blossoms you ever did see. Magenta—no, more a purply scarlet. Exquisite. Take back what I said about sweetpeas being all the same. This one was magnificently shaped, wondrous. The throbbing hue stretched over the main field, deep, perfect, flowers from outer space.

  'What's that, love?'

  'Lathyms odoratus,' she snapped. 'The plants we grow. Forgotten that too?'

  My name was on the stick. L. odoratus, var. Lovejoy, it said. I went to look, touched petals. Lovely. I cleared my throat. Me?

  'Lovejoy,' I read dully. I'd have looked at Lizbet, but flowers make your eyes run. 'Rotten name for a species.'

  'Variety, not species. Is that it, the extent of your visit?'

  'How's the farm?'

  'Hard as ever, Lovejoy. Competitors, money for expansion, the usual. Lucky we're the best.'

  ‘I heard you won again. Prizes, in the paper.'

  'Naturally. You?'

  We were fencing like Basil Rathbone in some mediaeval castle, but I was out of snarls. I kicked the soil, finally met her eye.

  'Lovejoy Towers not been repossessed yet?'

  'Yes.' I gauged the daylight. 'Look, love. I'd best be off.'

  'Get in. I'll drive you, overtake the bus.'

  And the whole journey we made what my Gran called spoon-and-saucer conversation, anything but what mattered. She dropped me off ahead of the Bures bus, drove off without a word.

  Late afternoon, I reached town, lurked in the bus station's grotty nosh bar until twilight, then marched to battle.

  An American gambler once said everybody ought to gamble, in case they were secretly lucky and never found out. That's like the belief in antiques. Sooner or later, we're all going to

  find the missing Old Master, Robin Hood's famous Last Will and Testament, or that stupendous Hope Diamond's nonexistent twin. Look at the numbers who turn up at the 'antiques road shows' that flood the nation every weekend, carrying bedspreads, old—indeed new—chamber pots, desks made last week, porcelain figurines churned out in Taiwan. The truth: most is trash, utter dross. The fiction? Why, we know our thing is Gainsborough/Hepplewhite/Wedgwood/ Lalique/Ming Dynasty. Anybody who says different is obviously trying to cheat us.

  In other words, the con. But in antiques we con ourselves, as if we want to save dealers the bother. The hope in folks' eyes breaks my heart. There's a proverb: Guard against your enemies, but not even Heaven can save you from friends. There's truth. Our biggest friend is ourself—we think. We're our own worst enemy. This explains what follows.

  The possibilities in any town are endless. But here, Thekla was gunning for me. Oddly was all right. Tinker should have been my first choice, but I'd got that strange feeling about him. Basil-the-Donkey, Alf, Gumbo and his ilk at the Antiques Centre? Well, hardly. I owed Alf that non-existent Bowie knife. Roger Boxgrove no also, because I'd got that strange feeling about him too. Carmel? I was hired to do some sand job for her, now lost in my labyrinthine mind. Tubb, her superstitious helper, I'd avoid, because God knows who he was phoning every stride. Jessica wasn't really up to this, and anyway'd sort of got religion, or not.

  I crossed the road, keeping to the shop doorways, still working it out. I could fail on my own without Sadly Sorrowing's help. Lydia had declared independence. Mavis her mum had it in for me. Brad and Patsy were civilians, not in the game. Kent the Rammer, the rest, had jobs. Portenta, Tubb's stargazer, would be casting runes. Faye had had me arrested for not killing her bloke Viktor Vasho. Big John Sheehan only gives orders, never accepts them. Cradhead the Bill would gaol me for whatever crimes he suspected the world of.

  Unerringly, I picked my one proven enemy. With a dangerous woman you know where you are, safety rule.

  Aureole had left no lights on. I still had her key. She'd still be out, to see to her chain-dating quota. I just turned the key and went in. It's strange going into a place you intend not to burgle. It's as if it raises its eyebrows in astonishment, what are you doing here? I have feelings about houses, just as they have, if we'd but listen.

  The kitchen, bedroom, pantry, where I'd washed the ambers. The fail-safe computer was in the wall of her bedroom. Her chain-date code word was AUREOLE, about as original as people get with access codes. She'd not used her birth date, though oddly I knew it from when we'd made smiles, two days before mine at the end of September.

  The console came on easy, just the one button underneath. I didn't put any lights on.

  I can't work those computer mouse gadgets, being clumsy, and they never click when you want. I used the keyboard. God, I pity folk who tap away at those things all day. It took me, I swear, nearly an hour's blundering to get the simple alphabetic list of chain-date clients. I couldn't find the actual dates. Aureole, clever lass, had blocked access.

  The list seemed endless. It scrolled up and down, me wildly mixing right, then wrong, instructions, then having to start again at the beginning. I had to get up and take deep breaths. The computer wearily started firing instructions at me. I meekly obeyed. Finally it listed the names, sternly ordered me to go One Page Down At A Time.

  Which is how I came on Boxgrove, Roger. I stared at the name. A number against his name, 007164. After long negotiation I persuaded the console to sequence the numbers.

  Grumpily, the screen rolled them before me at breakneck speed. I pleaded with it, and found 007164's date.

  I sat staring. '007164: Dill, Vyna'. Tinker's missing relative. There was a 'Catalogue Reference' file, but I couldn't find it. Possibly details of each client—age, preferences, availability days, where not to go in case of meeting husband/wife/ neighbours.

  One thing narked me. I came across my name—me, for heaven's sake. Against Faye Burroughs. She had a number, I didn't. Against me were the words Reserve: Aur. So I was put aside for Aureole? A titbit for afters, when the great lady could be bothered? I seethed, almost told the damned thing to ablate its memory. You can do that, except I didn't know how.

  By the time I got out it was latish. The chances of meeting Spoolie by ten were remote. I had no illusions. Spoolie had set me up. He'd be going over his old films in his pit at Mistley, not in Birmingham at all. Now I was really motoring.

  Only one thing to do, make sure that Spoolie was home in his cinematic heaven. If he was, I'd know I was being flushed out to track me all the easier. I walked to the town's fly-by-night taxi rank outside Marks and Spencer's. I checked that I didn't know the driver, and told him Birdbeck.

  By ten-thirty I was struggling to hold the Braithwaite on the Mistley road. I smiled as I drove, working out phrases for Spoolie when he saw me. I was sure how it would turn out.

  21

  Spoolie's shop is on a slope in Mistley, between two black-and-white Tudor taverns that lean together confiding, like they do. I left the Braithwaite in a little square, otherwise empty, that opened to workshops for potters and arty-crafty activities, and a pair of old almshouses endowed these 600 years. Lights were on in The Ghool Spool, I could see from the fanlight.

  That really annoyed me, him so cool. Then I thought, oh, well, the poor blighter was being bullied. If everybody kept to the truth, the world wouldn't be in such a bloody mess, right? I rang the bell, a yank-and-clank tugger. No answer. I peered in the letterbox flap, and grinned at a ghostly flickering on the stairs. No hard feelings, Spoolie, I thought. Run your old films. You'll gape when you see me—you think I'm in Birmingham.

  Startle him? But I hate practical jokes. You need a
sadistic streak. But I mistrust humour. Even laughing at a comedian's jokes takes nerve.

  I pulled the bell louder. No answer. I went round, found the back gate open. There's a yard with slate walls.

  The back door into his storeroom wasn't locked. This was a bit unusual. I entered, calling, 'Spoolie?'

  Maybe he'd just gone to answer his front door? I went through the corridor curtain. No sign. Upstairs I could hear that clipped speech, grating black-and-white films. Not sure whose voice, somebody once famous.

  The front parlour is Spoolie's shop. Counter, stacked films, posters, boxes of postcards, past claims to past fames. A loo off the corridor. Spoolie always checked movies for props—guns, handbags, cigarette brands, clothes. Two movies a night, fourteen a week, cross-checking cars, shoe styles, jewellery, hats, anything to sell to film buffs. A barmy career, but fans are nearly like real people.

  'Spoolie?' I started up the stairs.

  He lives upstairs, with his projector. I'd only been up once before, three years back. He'd been looking for a partner in his money sink of a trade. I'd listened politely while he brought out his prize possessions. I'd thought him daft, and declined. The trouble was Spoolie always set his sights too low—he'd wept when he'd been outbid for a dress allegedly worn by Marilyn Monroe. Beats me. Addicts never listen.

  On the landing, I knocked, the door slightly ajar. The projector was whirring away on a cut-down bookcase. Before the window stood a screen. No light otherwise. The projector did its muted clatter.

  'Wotcher, Spoolie,' I called. Then I saw there was a gleam from under the bathroom door. Very cramped, though with my cottage I should talk.

  Sighing, I relaxed in his armchair, from where Spoolie watches these grainy old films. He says it's from Casablanca, but it's not. I gave it him, a throwout. He paid twenty-eight quid for forged sale certificates to back up his preposterous claim. Derrin on the Walton marina churns them out for a pint. Spoolie thinks he boxes clever. Like I say, Spoolie's no brain.

  'Spoolie?' I yelled. 'Get a move on.'

  Old films are great sometimes. When you're all of a do, and your infant's playing up, feed and change him, pull the phone out, then watch some old re-run. You'll laugh with scorn for two minutes. Then you'll be engrossed, and wonder why you've wasted your life watching TV sitcoms. Like this, Madonna of the Seven Moons. I like Phyllis Calvert. It was up to where the gypsy makes love to the elegant lady who inexplicably appears in his encampment. Stewart Granger was doing his stuff. Spoolie would start hunting the gypsy caravan in the morning.