The Sin Within Her Smile

by Jonathan Gash

  She exclaimed in Welsh, and retired. I could hear them screaming with laughter, some bloke joining in as they finally stirred their stumps.

  The waitresses waved us off. I think they’d been pleased to see so many weirdos all in one go. I wouldn’t have minded staying longer. I fancied the laughing waitress. But Luke had his schedule, and we rolled out as the clubhouse clock struck ten. No sign of Sir Winston Delapole or Destry.

  We followed the road, which led down to a watersplash then up along a bare hillside. The country was starting to look strange. It unnerved me a bit. You could see for miles when finally we clopped to the crest. Lean over, look back at Sunderhill, you’d hardly notice that there was a village there at all. It worried me. Civilization is rarer the further you go from houses. And antiques dwindle to zero.

  Trees seemed fewer. Rivers increased, but had shrunk to steep swift streams. The roads became careless, as though they’d forgotten the route. They made inexplicable detours round fields for no reason. We travelled miles for yards. But I liked the air, and the nags’ patience.

  The clubhouse had given us jugs of coffee. We issued it up and down the line. The few cars that passed us were interested now. A couple of folk put heads out to enquire who we were. It was pleasant, really, but no way to live.

  A maniac arrived at twenty past one.

  We were having our nosh. Corinda, our naked lady, joined us dancing some finger-snapping antic, which set the Duchess keening. Meg got them settled and eating the sandwiches the laughing waitress had supplied. Preacher ate a formidable quantity of grub, then delivered a sermon on the mount. Humphrey didn’t show, Boris took his grub and stood with the horses, who’d been ‘shut out’ as we caballeros say. Meg harangued Rita, pointedly sat between me and Phillida.

  The maniac came in an electric-red saloon with whitewall tyres and more lights than Christmas, parping his melodic horn. He stood tall, wide of grin, teeth looking row on row, blond of hair. He greeted us with political bonhomie, slapping shoulders.

  ‘Welcome to Wales!’ he cried, pumping hands, waving to me though I was within reach. ‘Welcome! Calvin Jones says it from the heart and the Brynvach Register and Chronicle'.' He gave a great laugh, more shrill than I expected. He looked a born athlete, with the sincerity of a newscaster.

  Luke said hello. Meg seemed relieved. There was some talking. I didn’t listen. Rita was trying to brew tea on the paraffin stove. I saw Humphrey duck inside. Boris had vanished. I was holding Arthur, ‘All of you in one line! Photo opportunity for the Register!’ Jones shouted.

  ‘I’ll try!’ Meg flew about, knocking on caravan doors. Preacher didn’t stop preaching. The naked lady wanted to strip, but Meg stopped her. ‘Not now, Corinda!’

  ‘How many of you are there? Calvin Jones strolled the camp, a warrior inspecting his band. He stopped by me. ‘The baby crazy as well?’ His laugh was terrific. He glanced round, encouraging us all to laugh at such wit. I don’t often dislike a bloke on sight, but knew this was for life.

  ‘He,’ I said.

  ‘What’s he say?’ he demanded of Meg. She smiled along, an ally at last. ‘Hee-hee-hee!’ Another winner. Meg simpered. Was she buttering the goon up for maximum publicity? She was losing friends by influencing people. ‘Right! Attenntion. He beckoned to his car, and out cringed a girl with a mass of cameras, batteries, tripods, enough for a satellite. My heart sank. He’d brought a smudger along.

  ‘Where, exactly?’ Meg was thrilled, pulling us about.

  ‘Does Tee-Hee understand anything?’ Calvin Jones pointed to me. ‘Olwen. Get that one with the brat across the paraffin campfire. Okay?’

  Olwen came at a run, hurriedly turning lenses the way they do. She crouched, arranged the mugs, teapot, would have arranged me and Arthur. I warned her with a raised finger. She coloured slightly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Is this all right?’

  I shook my head, but she just looked desolate then photographed me in any case, twisting the lens, peering. Not even an antique, I thought disgustedly. I shielded Arthur. I wasn’t having him made a fool of.

  ‘Make Tee-Hee smile,’ Calvin bawled. ‘No sour shit!’

  ‘Yes, Calvin!’ Olwen clicked, a fifth, sixth.

  ‘Lovejoy.’ Meg said. ‘Calvin wants a cheerful picture.’

  ‘Lovejoy!’ Calvin Jones really did fall about, slapping his knee and pointing. ‘Feature, Olwen! Keep him a miserable bastard. Get the brat. Then stand him up.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Chop chop!’

  Olwen scurried, Meg scurried, the world scurried about the golden wonderlad. He laughed at his own wit.

  Meg tried to extract Humphrey, but he’d gone. Boris had vanished. I thought, Boris isn’t so dumb. I caught Arthur’s laconic gaze fixed on me. His eyes said, Now, Lovejoy, he’s done nothing, so don’t get mad. Which goes to show that infants aren’t dumb either. I allowed myself to be hauled with the rest. Phillida reached for Arthur but he squealed with rage. I kept him. We formed a dismal line against the backdrop of the dark hills. Olwen flashed. Preacher kept on about the Lord’s smitingness.

  ‘Hey, Olwenf Get that one dancing!’ Corinda was spinning, beginning to strip. Meg dithered, tom between dashing to protect Corinda’s modesty and wanting to please Calvin Jones. ‘Let her strip, Meg.’

  I whispered to Phillida. She looked at me. ‘Really, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Please, Phillida,’ I said dolefully. ‘I’ve no skill.’

  The reporter shouted, ‘I want her starkers! Any of them eat things like grass or manure? Olwen, one along the line.’

  He talked into his machine. Something caught his eye, and he strode grinning to Luke’s waggon. He leapt the steps. ‘Hey, Meg! There’s one in here! Get him out. I want the lot!’ He sprang down. Luke stepped forward quickly. I saw Luke relax when it was Humphrey, not Boris. Luke hadn’t seen Boris slip away. But I had, and knew where to look, at Boris near the boulder by the scree. Clever Boris wore a taupe bomber jacket.

  Meg brought Humphrey. He stood dispiritedly, head down.

  ‘Right! Only the loonies this time.’

  Luke stepped away, and Meg. Luke signalled, but I stayed in the line-up. The reporter shouted, ‘Caption it: Them one side. Us the other!' More merriment. Meg seemed strained. Luke’s gaze on the hillsides, quartering then sectioning the terrain in a mute traverse. Gunners do that, methodical, never forgetting where their eyes touched. He hadn’t worried about Humphrey, only Boris.

  ‘That one. Make him look up!’

  ‘Yes, Calvin!’ Olwen made Humphrey look into the camera.

  ‘Wait!’ Calvin strode over, peered, glanced at Meg. ‘Hey, Meg! Can this one answer real?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he that doctor? I recognize him.’ Calvin grinned, delighted. ‘Olwen! We’ve found a zinger! He’s that doctor who went crazy, beat two patients up, man and wife! Get his face, then the rest gathered round him, okay? I’ll get a Sunday supplement! The glossies!’ He would have capered, but was too graceful. His handsome features chiselled a splendid smile.

  The rest of the visit was unremarkable. Calvin Jones did his stuff. Olwen the smudger photographed her mate seated with and without us. He wanted to hold Arthur (‘Me showing the kid stinks, okay?’) but I wouldn’t let go and he gave up. He prattled into his gadget while Olwen packed. He said so long to Meg. I went to Olwen as they got into their car.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, standing there like a lemon with Arthur. ‘Can you take my picture with little Dwight? And his mother.’ I dragged Phillida.

  Calvin Jones thought. ‘Might be useful,’ he decided. ‘Kid among the loonies.’ He inspected a colossal wristwatch. ‘Nope. Time. Stand clear.’

  I ripped up a bit of grass and stuffed it into my mouth. Calvin braked. ‘Hey, Olwen. Get it! Chop chop!’

  In a flurry, Olwen took me against the car with an instant camera, Calvin grinning from his driver’s window, me with a mouthful of grass, Arthur looking at me because he knew, Luke full of misgivings because he didn
’t.

  They embarked. I went to thank Olwen, opened her door, made a speech of gratitude. Phillida helped Olwen get her things straight on the back seat.

  We watched them go. I took Arthur in because it was blowing colder. In her caravan I waited. Phillida followed, beaming with repletion. She unbundled two cameras, a camcorder, seven reels of film, a handbag, and a belly purse that shops call bum bags for money.

  ‘Marvellous!’ I said. She went shy.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Lovejoy,’ she said. ‘We could make a team.’ I swear it was sexual excitement. Her skin looked like English peach.

  She handed me the camera Olwen had used, hell of a size. I marvelled at how she’d nicked it. But kleptomaniacs are blessed with a skill we do not have. I extracted all the tapes, films, and swapped them for Arthur.

  ‘Would you change him, please, Lovejoy?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure, love.’ I got his nappy bag and wipes. ‘Er, could I have my notebook back again? And my money, please?’ She’d moved in a telltale way, something over one arm, a giveaway.

  ‘You must have dropped them, Lovejoy!’ She returned them. I noticed on the bunk shelf a plastic medicine bottle with Doc Lancaster’s name on it. I don’t know if it was Phillida’s kleptomania, but I felt decidedly odd. Maybe it was the new worries I’d acquired. I said so long to Arthur and left for safer territory. As I went to watch Luke shut in the horses, I noticed a wooden case slung under my waggon. Very neat. I smiled, pleased that Major Destry had been so quiet about handing over the Page’s water clock.

  We moved on after the horses had rested. Boris reappeared and followed. I was last, Pulse hauling. Boris walked about two furlongs behind us all the way. We camped about six o’clock.

  Which brought me to the ancient Chinese tea ceremony.

  We drew up in Luke’s laager style and were settled by seven, half a mile from a tavern, the Tudor Arms, by a steep hillside, small freshets rushing to a burn, an old bridge crossing the confluence. Sheep hung about. A collie dog stopped, looked, came waggily to join us. It didn’t bark, tongue dangling. Luke tried to shoo it away and failed.

  ‘You from the Tudor Arms?’ I asked it.

  It woofed, settled down, belly in the road. Corinda emerged unclothed. Meg did her blanket dash. Drizzle began. The lead caravan disgorged Preacher, who went determinedly towards the pub. Duchess began beating her head with a fist. Luke tethered the nags, started fetching water in pails.

  ‘Lovejoy?’ Luke paused. He had a bag of brushes. The damned nags already shone. ‘That pub any use?’

  ‘We’ve insufficient resources!’ Meg shouted. She seemed to hold the purse strings. ‘The charity’s not for freeloaders!’

  ‘Right!’ I called affably. ‘Come on, Tudor.’ I followed Preacher. Boris slipped into his caravan. I wondered about Boris, but then my mind had done a bunk days back.

  The tavern was smoky, eight people in. The Welsh silenced. Preacher had vanished. I asked for a glass, two pasties.

  ‘No pasties, love.’ The lass weighed me up.

  ‘Right.’ I could see pasties behind her. ‘Sandwiches, then, please. Flour cakes, Cheshire cheese.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She was as calm as a lake. ‘None of them either.’

  ‘Then just a pint, please.’

  ‘No dogs, love.’ She had lovely colouring. I could have eaten her. ‘It isn’t mine, see. Just followed.’

  ‘Came in with you.’ She was so sure. ‘Landlord’s rules.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I paused, not moving. ‘Incidentally, miss, did an old

  bloke come in a moment ago?’ There was a small teapot in a glass case on the wall, with a blunderbuss, a curious combination, and a small brass plaque.

  ‘Yes, love.’ She leaned forward, deliberately provoking. ‘Old frock coat, prayer book? I sent him packing.’

  Somebody spoke in Welsh. Chuckles rippled. Somebody capped it softer. Everybody laughed.

  ‘And the old lady with him?’

  ‘He come alone.’ I waited. ‘Alone, wasn’t it, Ieuan?’

  If I knew nowt else I knew country superstition. ‘He believes he walks with a lady. Long dress, poke bonnet, black shawl. Calls her Rebecca.’ Smiling, I shook my head inviting dissent. She’d stepped back a pace.

  ‘No. Definitely alone. Nobody with him, was there, boys?’

  ‘I think he came from the ruined cottage on the fell.’

  The barmaid became frankly agitated. ‘There is no ruined cottage.’

  ‘Sorry. My mistake. Thought I saw a stone slate-roofed place. Even smelled odd smoke.’ I turned and saw the cased blunderbuss and teapot. ‘You got the flintlock back, then. The old man’ll be pleased. Tudor?’

  ‘Odd, bach? a man asked. He wore a suit, smoked a pipe. ‘Well, a peat fire.’ I was offhand, going anyway. ‘Still, nowt as queer as folk, eh? Night.’

  ‘Wait, bach.’ The barmaid’s words halted me. She must have had some signal. ‘Here it is! Two pasties, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Ta, love.’ I opened the door on the wet. ‘But I couldn’t give my friends offence.’ Friends I made plural.

  Falling over Tudor, I trotted after Preacher. He was marching up the road, talking to the air, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, I think. I walked with him, nodding sagely. At camp, Luke quizzed me with a frown.

  ‘Well, you lose some, Luke.’ I shrugged.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lovejoy. I’m boiling stream water.’

  As it happened there was no need. The Tudor Arms sent sandwiches, cheeses, a ham, an urn of tea, milk, a dozen eggs, butter, nine loaves. No fishes.

  Luke looked at me when the two lads from the Tudor Arms had gone. I didn’t return his glance.

  ‘Selfish sods,’ I grumbled, as he got to work on the grub. ‘Not a single pudding. It’s not a lot to ask, for God’s sake.’

  It was nearing midnight when I walked down to the Tudor Arms. The bloody dog was under my feet. Twice I went headlong, so finally I grabbed it - no collar, just when you need one to threaten - and hissed, ‘Tudor. One more word out of you, I’ll do you, hear?’

  It followed chirpily, looking up, tongue lolling.

  People were saying goodnights, ‘Nos da! Nos da!, with wise cracks. A motor started, turned down the road. I knocked.

  The quiet besuited man came to the door, stood. I was under the porch light. He peered up the road.

  ‘Evening,’ he said. Some bird called behind him from behind the bar curtain. He reassured in Welsh.

  I said, smiling, ‘Just me, saying thanks.’

  ‘You are welcome.’ The silence hung about a bit. He ahemed. ‘I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression, see.’

  My smile lessened. ‘I began to wonder, Ianto.’ His name was above the door, licensed to sell wines and spirits. ‘I could joke that I’ve come for my gun, for the gates.’

  ‘The gates?’ he said thickly.

  ‘Indeed.’ I quoted from Preacher’s bible that I’d consulted, ‘Verse sixty, chapter twenty-four ... “Let thy seed possess the gates

  He completed the quotation in Welsh. I smiled, entered on his bidding. ‘Come, then. Sit you. Will you have one?’ He sounded apologetic. Tudor sat at my feet.

  He poured some brew. It almost lifted me off. ‘I apologize. Your health, iechyd da.'

  ‘lechyd da!' He started off in Welsh. I flagged him down.

  ‘I apologize for pretending. I’ve come to repay.’

  ‘Apologize? Repay?’

  ‘Rebecca, the cottage ruins, the smoke. All made up.’

  ‘I guessed as much.’ He was unfazed, poured more of the deep plum-coloured brew. I guessed sloe gin. Last winter had been a blackthorn winter. ‘No harm. Taught us our manners.’ He was calm id no mistake. ‘You know history?’

  I’m Lancashire,’ I admitted. ‘It was us throned Welsh Henry.’

  He laughed. ‘Let’s say you made a contribution, bach.' We meant Henry VII. ‘The Rebecca rioters are still famous here, how they dressed in women’s clothes and burned the to
llgates.’

  We talked over a few points of history about the uprisings, Ben Ludd, the Scotch Cattle.

  But I had to get to antiques. ‘Your blunderbuss, Ianto.’

  ‘Ah, many’s the offer I’ve had! Why, a Llandeilo dealer offered a hundred pounds! I’m tempted, I can tell you!’

  Christ. I nearly fainted. ‘Glad your willpower was up to it, Ianto. The gun’s worth much more. But nothing like the teapot.’

  ‘Teapot?’ He actually got up and switched on lights to gape. ‘I’ve nearly thrown it away a time or two.’

  ‘Don’t, Ianto.’ I beckoned him to the chair by the fire, and started to earn our keep.

  Making tea is easy. You wet dried shreds of tea leaf, and that’s it. The most popular drink in the world. Simple, refreshing. Of course, marketing people make rules, Wait exactly seven minutes. Much they know.

  Go back a bit, and suddenly it’s not simple. How come that the ancient peoples of Asia, the Americas, Africa all developed their own indigenous teas? Today we all follow China’s Ming Dynasty method. You steep tea leaves in hot water, decant and swig. The good old Ming more or less invented our present teapots, lids, handles, spouts. There’s nobody more crazed than a teapot collector. Before you start deriding these obsessed folk, please remember money. And human skill.

  Because, just as among painters there’s Turner and Rembrandt, and just as among furniture makers there’s Sheraton, Hepplewhite, Chippendale, so to teapot collectors there’s a Rolls-Royce of tea- · pots. For the Yixing - as it’s now written, instead of Chinese ideograms - county of Jiangsi Province produced dazzling works of genius. Antique dealers call them ‘Jisha’ pots.

  They differ. Greenish, reddish, blackish, purplish, with painted or cut decorations, they have a sort of sandy look - hence that ‘ish’ on the colours. They usually carry a potter’s mark, and are astonishingly small. And there once lived the greatest teapot make of all time. His name Sha Dabin, a name to be burned in t

  memory. He lived in the late sixteenth, early seventeenth century, the Wanli period. A tribulation to underlings. Rumours still persist: elegant, something of a dandy, austere, made few friends, the lone genius. Boss.