‘I’m at the City Toy Museum. Press and Schools Liaison, till I can get something better. I’ll take that drink now.’ She looked down at the clean but dripping boat, holding it away from her clothes.
‘You’d better let James have that,’ I said. ‘He might be able to save the clockwork. Rust up solid, otherwise.’
She nodded, and gave it to me; a bit reluctantly, I thought. It’s terrible, the reputation dealers have got . . . I don’t really know why, but the public think we’re all crooks.
I gave her a drink in the office where I deal with clients. We sat each side of the desk where I count out the fifty-pound notes, crumpling every one to make sure there aren’t two stuck together.
‘Interesting place, that Wheatstone Pond.’ She crossed her legs; frowning about something else entirely. I liked her for that: her legs were so long and elegant that any other woman would have made a Trooping of the Colour of it. I dragged my mind back into the world of common sense.
‘Pond’s eighteenth century, latish, I reckon. Wheatstone Park used to be the grounds of a stately home . . . the last of the DeStaber family gave it to the public. Shame it’s got so knocked about . . .’
‘Curious, the way things don’t rust . . .’
‘Lack of oxygen . . .’
‘There’s not much oxygen where the Titanic is. But she’s still rusted . . .’
‘Well, it’s our good fortune . . .’ I steered away from the topic; she obviously knew a great deal more about it than I did.
‘It makes you wonder what else might be down there, from the last two hundred years. Be a wonderful place for an archaeological dig. A lot more exciting than the middens round Jack Straw’s Castle . . .’
‘I don’t fancy putting on a wetsuit and having a grope round down there. Not for all the Hornby speedboats in China . . .’
‘But think of it. How many children must have sailed their boats there, in the old days? And how many must have sunk? You could make a whole history of model boats . . .’
‘For the City Toy Museum?’ I smiled a little. Everybody has an angle, everybody’s on the make. It’s just that some people are more subtle about it than others . . .
‘Yes. Why not?’ Her huge grey eyes were suddenly challenging. ‘It’s been done once before. When the council cleaned out the Round Pond at Kensington, I think.’
‘I can’t see this council spending money cleaning out ponds. They can’t afford to clean the streets, for fear of being rate-capped. And even if they pumped the Pond dry . . . that slime would be a death-trap till it dried out.’
‘Oh, there are ways and means . . .’
‘Everybody’s got to have a dream,’ I said, putting on my fake American accent. ‘Meanwhile, another drink?’
‘Just because you can’t stop staring at a woman’s legs doesn’t make her into a fool.’
‘Ouch. Can I take you out to dinner, to make up?’
‘Only if you promise not to keep staring at my legs.’
‘What part am I allowed to stare at, then?’
‘My lips. If you’re deaf and a lip-reader.’
By the time I saw her again, the Scott Flying Squirrel was restored and ready to go to its buyer. James said he’d never had an easier job. The mechanical side was a push-over; even the piston-rings were hardly worn, and the black layers of oil had kept everything shiny-new. The primitive electricals had to be replaced, but he found some new wire that looked like the old wire. He had most bother with the saddle; he had to dry it out very slowly, so it didn’t crack and go iron-hard. It would never be a saddle for riding on again; but that was the new owner’s worry. A young man with more money than sense, but that was before quite a lot of it vanished into my bank account. I hadn’t bothered to wait for Sotheby’s; just passed the word around the right people. Why pay Sotheby’s commission? And their damned buyer’s premium, which the seller really pays anyway?
She was patient with us. Waited while James kicked the bike into life; listened to the antique, long-lost chug of the single-cylinder engine with at least the appearance of interest. Then James presented her with her little speedboat, and she listened to the whirr of the clockwork, and watched the tiny propeller going round with much more interest.
‘If you ever do sell it . . .’ I said.
‘Yes, you can have first refusal.’
As we settled over the prawn cocktails she said, ‘You seen the local papers recently? The fuss at the inquest on Margie Duff?’
‘You mean, the proposal to fill the Pond in?’
‘Yes. I wrote to the coroner. As a concerned rate-payer. And the police like the idea . . . no more suicides.’
‘Cost the earth to fill in.’
‘On the contrary. It could make the council a bit of money. Controlled tipping of builder’s rubble. Tipping space is at a premium . . .’
‘What good will that do you? All your precious boats under a thousand tons of broken brick . . .’
‘It would have to be drained first. And then we might get three months to do a rescue dig.’
‘What’ll you do for money?’
‘Do it during the long vac; using local students who can’t get a vac job, and are bored out of their minds. Living locally, we wouldn’t even have to pay them a lodging allowance. A lot would do it just for the fun . . .’
‘You jammy sod . . .’
She laughed. ‘Our only problem is we’ll have nowhere to store the finds and work on them . . .’ Her great grey eyes were on me. They were peculiarly hard to resist. It was partly her . . . physical frailty. She always looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away. Not an unhealthy frailty . . . but could ankles be so slender without breaking, wrists be so slender yet still have enough strength to take a screw-top off a jar of olives? If Marilyn Monroe was the Eternal Mistress, this girl was the Eternal Daughter, crying out to be cherished, delighted, protected. I’d seen the grin on even old James’s face, when he gave her the speedboat. She must have spent her life being spoilt rotten. She was bringing out the father in me, and I couldn’t have been ten years older than her.
But her mind was far from frail. ‘Of course, we would only be interested in toys. Model boats, mainly. But anything else we found . . . after we’d examined it, we’d have no further use for it . . . I suppose we’d just leave it lying in the storage space, when we packed up and went . . .’
‘That’s wicked,’ I said. ‘Really wicked. You could go to hell for things like that.’ Of course I said it with a grin; but it was to haunt me later.
‘You have got an awful lot of space in that workshop of yours, Mr Morgan. And you did get quite a lot for that motorbike I put your way. I do think you owe us one . . .’
‘You’d better call me Jeff, if we’re going to be partners in crime . . .’
‘Hermione,’ she said. ‘Here’s my card. I’ve put my home number on the back.’ She held out a slender hand. ‘Shall we shake on it?’
I was so keen to get hold of that hand that I didn’t read the card till later. The hand was smooth and cool and dry, and warned me not to squeeze it too hard. Then it escaped as swiftly as a bird, and she sat there primly eating her prawn cocktail, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I felt then she was a bit like a beautiful ghost, that had barely solidified into reality, and might dissolve away at any moment if you tried to get your arms round her. Men would desire her, and then find themselves unable to touch her.
Keats didn’t live far from where we were eating. Keats’s house is in Hampstead. And wasn’t it Keats who wrote ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’? I only remembered one line of it, clod that I am.
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
I suppose I should have been warned then. I should, clod that I am, have lumbered back to my harmless faking and making of money. God knew, I’d had enough women in my short life. Plump, warm women, honest women, easy women. But the one you really want is the one you can’t have.
But you could never have accused her of showing off, for such ludicrous disasters had befallen her in every place, making her out to be such a hopeless fool, that she quite disarmed you. I confess I spent a very enjoyable evening; one of the most enjoyable evenings of my life.
At her door, she offered me one smooth slim cheek before an awkward silence could develop. Then she was gone, before I could expect to be asked in.
That smooth cheek grew very familiar, over the months that followed!
I didn’t like it when the policemen came into my shop, several weeks later. Policemen make me nervous, especially when they’re in uniform. Somebody sees them, and suddenly the gossip is all round the world of London dealers. I’m being charged at Bow Street with receiving the Crown Jewels. Or the VAT man has finally caught up with me. It’s very bad for trade.
‘Yes, sergeant?’ I said, my voice very sharp. I knew I wasn’t in any real trouble. For one thing, I hadn’t done anything, and for another, I could see that their car was a traffic car.
‘I believe you sold a motorbike recently, sir? BCM 120?’
‘Yes,’ I said wearily, wondering who had made the allegations. And wondering, too, if that Inspector with the police diving team would be as good as his word and look after me.
‘In your estimation, sir, was it in roadworthy condition when you sold it?’
‘It had passed its MOT,’ I said, with a little heat. We had taken real pride in its passing its MOT. ‘But of course, it was a very old bike. I mean, it didn’t have disc brakes. It wouldn’t have had the cornering ability of a modern bike. It wasn’t really sold for riding on. Not every day.’
‘Not meant for riding on every day,’ said the sergeant heavily, and it was like an accusation. He made a note in his notebook.
‘What I mean is that it was an antique. Quite a rare and valuable antique. Only a fool would ride it every day. But a little spin round the arena of a vintage car rally would be OK. I mean, a serious owner wouldn’t want to wear it out – wear away its value . . .’
‘A little spin at a vintage car rally,’ said the sergeant, and wrote something else in his notebook. ‘You warned the purchaser of these facts when he purchased, did you, sir?’
‘Yes, I did. But I mean, he knew. He knew what he was buying. You wouldn’t pay that kind of money for a secondhand Japanese banger . . .’
The sergeant glanced round. ‘You’re not . . . you don’t deal in second-hand bikes normally, sir? Not as a regular thing?’
‘I’m an antique dealer, sergeant. I sell antiques. I am not a garage. That bike was sold as an antique. What the hell is all this about? Why can’t you ask the owner this sort of stuff? Has he complained?’
‘He’s not likely to do that, sir. He’s dead. Broken neck. Went out on the bike you sold him at half-past three in the morning. Took a corner in a way that would have taxed a modern bike. Seventy he was doing, they reckon.’
‘Drunk,’ I said bitterly. Thinking about all the trouble we’d taken with that bike. And now it would be a heap of junk. Something unique wasted – by a crazy young pup with more money than sense.
‘No, sir,’ said the sergeant heavily. ‘As a matter of fact the coroner recorded he was stone-cold sober. All he had in his stomach was the remains of a meat pie.’
Chapter 3
‘Well, wotcher think?’ asked James, patting the Regency side-table as if it was his prize pig. ‘Which legs is which?’
I examined the piece carefully. I’d paid five quid for it at an auction held at a sports centre in Pinner. Beautiful walnut top, with crisply moulded edges. But when I bought it, there had only been two legs and a snapped-off stump. Some fool had sat his fat backside on one end and . . . bingo.
I examined the four legs. The turning on the two new ones was as exquisite as the original; James was a genius with the lathe. Tiny blemishes on all four legs, where the feet of ages had kicked them. The soft patina of polish was the same, and the colour . . .
‘The back legs are the fakes,’ I said to James.
‘Why?’ he demanded indignantly.
‘Because only a fool would put the fakes to the front where they’d be noticed.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. That’s what any fool of a dealer would think. They’d examine the back legs extra careful, so I put the replacements on the front.’ He sniffed in wicked and righteous triumph. ‘The colour was hell to match. Know how I got it? Three layers of black coffee, one of lemon juice and Worcester sauce; mixed. Just right, innit?’
I must explain about James. He is an interesting case. To look at, he is the soul of nonconformist righteousness. Silver hair, short-back-and-sides. Six feet three and a back like a ramrod. A red-veined drinker’s nose, red-veined drinker’s cheeks, even red-veined drinker’s ears. Which is unfair, because he never touches a drop. He blames it on his indigestion. In his more relaxed moments, he jokes that he cannot stomach this wicked world. Preaches twice most Sundays, going out in his old Humber as far off as Ealing, where the congregation never numbers more than twelve. Preaches hell-fire. Doesn’t want much mercy on earth for sinners either. Wants to bring back hanging, and not just for murder. For adultery too. People think he’s winding them up at first. Their kind, liberal faces when they realize he’s serious . . .
But in the matter of restoring antiques, he’s the best liar in the business. He says he learnt all he knows in Italy, in 1945. The soldiers hadn’t a lot to do, once the War finished. But he found a little Italian who was making a good living gathering brass off the battle-fields – cartridge-cases, shell-cases – and melting it down to fake small classical statues. And ageing them a lovely green by burying them for a month in the urine-sodden straw from cow-byres . . . he reckoned that Italian’s work was still on view in the V&A to this day.
How he equated the tricks he pulled on antiques with his religion, I could never quite work out. Except that we sold, not to the rich, exactly, but not to the poor either. And he never ceased to rail against the habits of our Wheatstone rich; the wife-swapping, which he still maintained went on in our local wine bar (though why he was so certain I have never been able to find out); the divorces and remarriages so that some men could boast three wives and ten kids; the teenage sex of the latchkey kids who came home from the comprehensive at lunch-time to make love in comfort in their parents’ beds . . . there was no point in arguing with him, because once started he could go on for hours. Of my good working-time.
I had tried sharing my unease with him, about the young man who had died on our motorbike. All he could find to say was that what he had been doing must have been wicked, simply because he was doing it at half-past three in the morning, a time when God-fearing people had been in their beds and asleep for hours.
He had even vouchsafed an unhealthy interest in the wreck of the bike. If we could get it back, perhaps we could restore it again for another good profit . . . He gave me a look of utter contempt when I shuddered and closed the subject. But I wasn’t having anything to do with death-bikes.
And it still worried me, in quiet moments. If we had not saved that bike, the young man would be alive still. Maybe there was something we had missed . . . that even the police vehicle-examiners had missed. I’d never killed anybody before – it’s quite different from swindling someone.
Just then, young Lenny came in, wild as a kid with excitement, to say they’d started pumping out the Wheatstone Pond. There was an appliance from the local fire brigade up there now, and the water they were pumping out was running past our very door. We all went ou
t, to inspect the novelty. Wheatstone Park is uphill from us, and our gutter was flooding five or six inches deep, with little pools forming on the pavement. It reminded me of those French towns, where they sluice the gutters every morning, to clear away the litter. Except it wasn’t so pleasant. The water from the Wheatstone was black and opaque, and it smelt vile. I wondered how far it would run downhill; but it wasn’t running far. Every drain-cover was sucking it in. A hundred yards on it was no more than a trickle. We have good drainage on that slope.
We wandered up to view the proceedings. The firemen seemed to be enjoying themselves, but they had to stop every so often, to clear the dense masses of green slime out of their filters. And the Wheatstone seemed as full as ever.
By lunch-time, though, it was four inches down, and by tea-time, a good foot. The reed-beds were drained, the bottom of their stalks fattened to an inch with slime, and the poor trapped bobbing plastic boats were stranded. And some watching urchins were starting to go after them, stepping out gingerly, holding each other’s hands in lengthening lines.
We were just turning away, back to work, when there was a sudden scream and flurry, about fifty yards away. We turned to see one of the chains of boys scrambling ashore. The last one in the chain was black with mud up to his knees . . . serve the little sods right.
And then I saw with horror that that boy had not been the last in the chain. One boy had been left behind.
I had not noticed him at first, because he was already up to his chest in the black slime. All you could see was his frantically waving arms and bobbing head, which did not look quite human.
I think we all ran. All gazed in horror at that milk-white face, with its staring eyes, and the lapping black water reaching up for the mouth; at the way the head strained upwards, to avoid the little waves, and in doing so, sank another perceptible inch. It was the child’s look of disbelief, as he stared at us standing in perfect safety only yards away . . .
It was lucky that the fire-crew were better men than we were. There was a rattle of aluminium ladders, a fireman crawling with a rope tied to the back of his belt. Another fireman joining him on the other side. They lifted the child a little, so his muddy gaping mouth was pulled clear. And then we all took a hand on the ropes, and pulled like men possessed when we were told to. And, with a loud sucking noise, he was safe, just screaming with terror.
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