The Possessions of a Lady

by Jonathan Gash

  By the armchair Halliwell's reference book, with a scatter of notes.

  'Spoolie? Jean Kent's doing her jealousy.' Tempestuous, sultry. T once saw her in a stage rehearsal. She kicked over a chair in a temper. God's truth.' I chuckled. 'Want to sell it? Personal True Star Reminiscence?' That's Spoolie's own product, a typed tale. He charges a fortune, guarantees that nobody else gets a P.T.S.R., but invariably betrays his guarantee. A real trouper.

  He'd scrawled, See Halliwell. I hefted the book. Novelettish balderdash killed stone dead . . . Halliwell'd written. 'Hey, Spoolie! See Halliwell's judgement, the rotten sod? Nothing wrong with film romance.'

  No answer. These old black-and-white films are lustrously lit. Colour killed them, technology exterminating art. Colour films haven't quite got it yet. I really hope they succeed. The bathroom was silent, except for running water.

  'Hey, Spoolie,' I bawled. 'List your top pre-colour pictures. You're not allowed Double Indemnity.' Everybody says that first, get crime out of the way.

  No answer.

  'I can't accept Anna Neagle, Spoolie,' I shouted. 'Nepotism. I'm sick of her brave face.'

  Not a word. Shouldn't Spoolie've been shouting that I was wrong again? A scatter of notes. Spoolie was obsessional about his jottings.

  ‘It's dawning on Stewart Granger now, Spoolie!'

  Nothing. I cleared my throat. Voices aren't reliable, not when you want.

  'Produced in the wartime,' I said, two attempts.

  Odd, how the armchair was placed. I had to lean over to get the screen full face. Spoolie sits directly in front. Now, I don't really know Spoolie, only as a pattern, the way you know somebody who's always on your bus, the characteristics unalterable. I concentrated on Patricia Roc.

  People don't change.

  'Hey, Spoolie!' I called, higher pitched. 'The Yanks got upset because Patricia Roc was too flagrant in that James Mason highwayman picture.' I've loved Patricia Roc ever since The Wicked Lady. I gave a falsetto laugh, unconvincing, my hands clammy.

  'What was that song, Spoolie?' I hummed a few bars of When Love Steals Your Heart.

  Not a word. The film now could have been anything, War and Peace, the news, Lawrence of Arabia. I'd never had difficulty concentrating on Patricia Roc's breasts before. Why had a bloke gone for a bath in mid-obsession, leaving his watching chair askew and his notes scattered?

  Scattered. Out of reach.

  With a yelp I leapt up. The reel had ended. I hadn't even caught the screen blob that signals the switch. The picture whitened out, clack, clack.

  'Spoolie?' I whimpered. Then I caught myself and smiled. Of course! He wasn't even in! He'd had to rush out, maybe to the pub.

  Spoolie didn't drink.

  Then I chuckled. Of course! He'd had to phone!

  He'd a phone right here.

  'Spoolie?' I said. 'Hell of a bath you're having.'

  Then thought how stupid I was being. For God's sake, I'd only to try the bathroom door handle. It would be locked, which would prove he was inside, hiding from me. I relaxed in relief. The explanation was there all the time! Obvious! I chuckled at my own folly. I'd shout through the door—tell me who'd put him up to luring me to Birmingham, and I'd know it all. Q., as they say, E.D.!

  He must have seen my arrival in the old Braithwaite. He'd guessed I'd be disappointed in his betrayal, setting me up. Well, sure, who wouldn't be narked? But I never really get mad, only sort of sad. And even God does that.

  So he'd scarpered into the bathroom, was pretending not to hear. Hence his leap from his chair.

  'Heavens, Spoolie.' I crossed to the bathroom and tried the handle. 'You had me going there.'

  My scream deafened even me. I stood by the open door. Water touched my shoes. The light was on. I was stupefied, but not enough to prevent me seeing Spoolie lying in the bath that overflowed with reddish water, taps fugging the place up with steam.

  That noise was intolerable, making my mind spin, my senses blanking out in the racket. I stopped screeching. The din ended. It'd been me, recoiling and howling and going, 'U-u-u-ughhh' or something and being sick on the carpet that was wetting as the bloodied bathwater followed me. I was vomiting and trembling because I'd been talking over old pictures with a dead thing, a corpse which was Spoolie.

  For a horrible moment I found myself sitting in Spoolie's armchair while the celluloid went clack clack and the white screen gleamed pallor all about, perversely turning the whole room into a silent epic with shadow and light shoving each other for attention.

  On its own the bathroom door slowly closed on Spoolie, lying there in his clothes in the red water. My non-brain went daft, asked, Hey, Lovejoy, what old film ended like that, a door closing while the camera withdrew? Spoolie once argued it was Escape to Happiness, the hero's wife coming slowly downstairs saying, 'Welcome home, John,' to Leslie Howard as the music swelled. I retched onto my shoes, realised I was being sick in dead Spoolie's chair and leapt away with a cry that almost choked me, my throat burning and my belly griping. I'm never cold, but found myself shivering like a thrashed dog. I whimpered and keened, made a dash down the stairs, falling on the second last like a fool.

  The darkness was trouble, even though I wanted to be out there in the cold. I wanted rain to wash my hand where I'd touched the door. I wanted to splash in a gutter puddle, wash the bloody water from my soles, wet me all over so the death would go from me.

  Without a thought I ran to the motor, cursed it for stupidity when it wouldn't start, groped for that weird pump thing without which it won't get going. It boomed into thunderous life. I'd driven four crazed miles before some motorist flashed me for no lights. I switched them on as his tail lights dwindled to nil.

  Some time later, I stopped trembling. I realised I was on the Great North Road, by then coherent. I filled the Braithwaite up at a garage, I think near Norman's Cross. An admiring motorist came over, said affably, 'I expect you want to raise, eh? Need help?'

  'Ta, mate,' I said. Reflexes can be useful.

  'I'll do it!' Eagerly he raised the canopy. It was only then that I realised it was teeming cats and dogs, and I was wet through. 'I once had an Allard!' he said, like I was expected to kneel.

  'Good heavens. You must be an expert.'

  'Well . . .'

  Other motorists came to poke around the old crate. Christ, I thought, is the whole world off its trolley? I went to the loo, bought some grub and swigged some tea, I think. Then I drove off in a chorus of admiring shouts from yet more maniac motorists who sprouted in the night. I drove like an automaton, thinking nothing. I must have been going a couple of hours when road signs developed meaning. I played back the memory of those helpful motorists. Different accents, slidey up-and-down, sentences ending in a falling tone you don't get in East Anglia. Next sign, I made myself focus on the lettering, spelled it out as I trundled past.

  Birmingham? I put my foot down harder. You will wait for me, I thought, you rotten swine. You won't let me lose the trail. If Lydia had stayed loyal instead of listening to her mother, or if Aureole had seen sense, if Thekla hadn't been vindictive just because I'd ruined her life's work, I'd have had a woman along to help. They're more practical, and see the obvious quicker because our male noddles are always chock-a-block with irrelevances. (Don't let on that I think this. I wouldn't like it to get about.) I'd made Spoolie ... I blotted out the verb to suffer, and changed emotional gear. I was sorry that kindly motorist had put the car hood up. I deserved a cold drenching. That bathroom stank. The hot water had discoloured his skin.

  I pulled onto the hard shoulder, vomited a bit more for old times' sake, then drove on. I wondered who it would be. Not Spoolie, that's for sure.

  22

  Nervousness can desert you, when it ought not. Suddenly you're too calm, and don't care. I was like that. I parked the great engine at a hotel and booked in. I walked to the station.

  Normally, I like railways, even the new rehashed terminals. And even at night, after the witching hour, wh
en there's maybe the odd wino, and one tired dad checking the platform where his daughter's express will come batting in. Our main line stations always have a nosh bar, machines challenging you to combat space invaders. I got tea and a cheese roll damp with mayonnaise that stared me out and I chucked away.

  Nobody I recognised. I watched two young up-tight lovers arguing in that silent head-shaking ritual that we developed in the caves. They left not speaking. I read the posters. They only reminded me of Spoolie, who would never do himself in. Okay, everybody gets downhearted, hears of a friend driven to extreme measures. But Spoolie, halfway through a film?

  Cradhead's number gave me a yawning policewoman, poor thing.

  'Cradhead, please.'

  'The office is closed. Can I be of assistance?'

  'Tell him The Ghool Spool. Somebody died.'

  'Your name and number

  They think you're stupid. I went back to my place. Somebody'd removed my tea. I had a row with the server, so-called, and had to buy another. I watched the entrance. Nobody I knew. Passengers ambled tiredly. Three blokes stood by platform 6A's steps, waiting for the early newspapers, race addicts, different horses to lose on today.

  Whoever came to meet me here was the enemy. Whomsoever sticks his hand in this pot . . . Except I believe Judas was volunteering, faithful supporter to the last and the churches got it wrong. My foe was the traitor. Okay, I'd somehow got Spoolie topped. I ought to have guessed. Or maybe I really had, deep down, thought, Well it's only Spoolie.

  But I'd made sure he wouldn't ever publish his book that had occupied him ten years, Film Props and Items. It was an annotated list of all the movie gear used since the dawn of time. Even in clink Spoolie worked on it, had the prison arguing what Garbo wore, even about the window glass when Moose Malloy's reflection shows up in Farewell My Lovely and Dick Powell . . .

  Poor Spoolie, the horror of it.

  The tea made me choke, rotten railway tea. I snuffled. The prison governor must've been dismayed when Spoolie got parole and the inmates reverted to crime. If I'd been the chief warder I'd have hired Spoolie as visiting recreation officer. Spoolie, the Film Man of Dartmoor. It'd have made a brilliant story, intercut with scenes from his favourite oldies, better than Burt Lancaster and his bloody spadgers.

  Know what hurt? I hadn't really known Spoolie. Had I just used him up, to identify the rival divvy?

  The traitor came in. I saw the reflection. It hesitated, drew breath, came closer. Stopped.

  'Evening, Lydia,' I said.

  'Good morning, Lovejoy.'

  She sank opposite. Silly me, not keeping my eye on the time. Lydia, Miss Precise. So all that defection business was a fraud. I eyed her, curious. At times of treason you don't see the woman's shape, her luscious form, feel the slightest pull. It was like she was made of sawdust. I couldn't even register beauty. Women are creatures of love and betrayal, somebody once said, or should have, but quotations only work against a backcloth of understanding. Like, somebody worked out that Thomas Hardy used over 900 different poetic metres instead of the usual 300. So? Who knows the significance of that, but some dusty old dons cranking word engines?

  Times like this, I wished I still smoked my pipe. I might have felt in control, instead of a twig floating towards rapids.

  'I've come to apologise,' Lydia said. I watched her lips move and marvelled at my absence of hate.

  'Apologise for what?'

  'I've had a long talk with Mrs. Finch.' She set her lips. Disapproval was coming. 'However, I have to explain something first, Lovejoy.'

  Here it came: I caused death, but in a good cause.

  'Spit it out, love.'

  'There's no cause for vulgarity, Lovejoy.' She steeled herself, went for it. 'I dislike Mrs. Treadwell.' She inhaled, settled. 'There! I've said it. She has far too many frank opinions for one of her station.'

  The server came to steal my tea again. 'Finished?'

  'Mind your manners!' Lydia didn't raise her voice, but heads turned even out in the concourse. Lydia invented a laser voice, and deserves royalties.

  The woman flinched, wiped her hands on her apron. 'He's been here hours. This isn't a doss house.'

  'Did you hear me madam I will not tolerate such insolence . . .' Et Lydia cetera. I waited the storm out, trying to gee my mind to a synapse, make sense. Lydia sounded straight Lydia.

  The woman slunk off trying to look as if she'd won.

  'You dislike Mrs. Treadwell?' I clung to the wisp.

  'She revealed that she advised you to . . .' She took shallow breaths, leapt. '. . . to cohabit with Mrs. Finch. Mrs. Finch's type is the salt of the earth. But she is a middle-aged widow who operates a fish and chip shop. Doubtless she has merit

  Why had Lydia come? If I was wrong about Lydia, then what was I right about? Maybe she'd explain. Owlish, I blinked, waited for her to ... I was going to say 'come clean', but Lydia is testimony to Water Bright From The Crystal Stream.

  She glared at me with the self-satisfaction of a woman having had a row.

  'Now, Lovejoy. What is your problem?'

  'Problem? I thought you'd tell me.'

  ‘I?' She wrinkled her brow. It cleared. 'Is it that Wanda, Lovejoy? I also dislike her.'

  My head sighed. Lydia solves everything by finding some other bird to hate, whereas I find that women are best liked. My difficulty is finding enough time to like enough, if you follow.

  'I'm not sure, love.' I found her shape had reappeared a bit. Warily I watched her mouth, can't be too careful. 'I'm lost.' But not so lost that I couldn't prompt her into revelation. 'Tinker's cousin's girl Vyna. I'm trying to find her. I'm worried about the poor child getting into bad habits.'

  'Go on, Lovejoy.'

  A glimmer of mistrust still, not enough to justify stopping. I showed a bit of mannish loyalty, those irrelevant sentiments that Lydia knows simply don't exist. I worked up to it.

  'It's my childhood, Lydia. I grew up in a northern town. Tinker's the same, a generation ahead. He knows what it was like.'

  'So?'

  A shrug. Apologies go a long way with Lydia, especially if they're for nothing. 'Tinker had to stay in case Vyna showed up in East Anglia, see?'

  She hesitated. 'All the antique dealers know about Tinker's relative, Lovejoy. Vyna should have stayed studying fashion.'

  'Fashion?' I said. This was supposed to be me, explaining. 'Vyna?'

  'Of course. She'd been touring fashion exhibits in museums.

  Didn't I say she'd been to Salford for that purpose? You don't listen. But you haven't the resources to find her, Lovejoy.'

  'No, love.' I was patient. 'I went to the police. Cradhead's doing nothing. People won't give Tinker the time of day. And the girl could be anywhere.' Noble, I girded myself. 'You might not be aware, Lydia, but a teenage girl is still a child.' I waxed lyrical about me, the brave rescuer, battling to save a forlorn maiden. Lydia halted me.

  'Hasn't it occurred that she might be evading you?'

  'Lydia!' I went stern. 'No cynicism. Until this girl is rescued . . .' Straight out of Richardson's Pamela. Lydia was miffed. She regards bollocking as her own personal ploy. 'I feel responsible. Tinker is my friend,' I ended. Maybe, my sluggish cortex cautioned me, the spy is somebody else, not Lydia.

  'Why here?' She looked about, swept her fingers along the table surface with disapproval. The server woman hated it.

  'I was to meet somebody here at ten last night who would say where Vyna had gone.'

  'Who?'

  'Dunno. I was late. They didn't show.' I looked at her. I've never known her lie without blushing. 'But you did.'

  'My secretary rang round all the dealers.' She coloured slightly. 'I still have your address lists.' My ex-apprentice. 'Chessmate, Mrs. Finch. And my firm has the Mercia franchise for hotel foyer displays. The Braithwaite, Mr. Boxgrove. And that gentleman I simply do not trust.'

  'Who, exactly?' I thought I'd been invisible.

  'Tubb, they call him. And Carmel.' She leaned c
lose, a secret in the offing. 'Tubb works for Carmel.'

  'And Spoolie?' Hard to stay casual.

  'Certainly not, Lovejoy.' She bridled. How Lydia manages to do it I can't fathom. 'Break off all contact with him. He has been in gaol, Lovejoy.'

  She was innocent. I stopped acting, just nodded. Anybody could have traced me. Or had I deliberately left a spoor an anosmic dog could have followed?

  'If you have no idea who was to meet you, Lovejoy, then there will be a message.' She went to the counter. Voices rose, Lydia's laser. She returned, replete as ever after a scrap or sex. 'Come, Lovejoy. Aldridge street market, eleven a.m.'

  'Eh?' I looked at the server. 'Get some grub.'

  'Not here, Lovejoy.' Lydia swept out, head high. I'd have tried it, but would have fallen over the chairs. She told me when I caught up, 'That woman thought you too unkempt for an antique dealer, Lovejoy. The description of you—via a newspaper vendor—was imprecise.'

  We breakfasted at a greasy nosh place round the corner. Bread fried in fat, eggs and bacon, stale bread a foot thick, porridge stiff as glue, tea strong as sludge, rock-hard marmalade, black puddings you could bounce. Thank God some places know how to cook. Lydia didn't eat, must have breakfasted on the train.

  'Vyna,' I said in the Braithwaite. 'In fashion where?'

  Lydia's lovely lips thinned. Her luscious figure had returned.

  'Little minx,' she said, holding her hat on one-handed. 'Supposed to be studying at Viktor Vasho's. The fashioneers have a student register.'

  'Well, it must've been hard for her.' I set the great Braithwaite booming uphill, heading for Walsall.

  'Everybody has difficulties, Lovejoy!' Lydia said sharply. 'That's the trouble today . . .' etc, etc. Now, Lydia's not quite twenty-four, and was gunning away at a lass not much younger.