"Peelers, Lovejoy?" He stopped, already halfway to his van.
"No time to be proud. Gunge. Find me at six. I'll look round Connie's place."
"Me, Lovejoy," Luna asked. "What have I to do?"
It was late afternoon. The day waning, birds having a last scour about the garden. She usually went home about this time, after Oliver's tantrum.
"I want you inside, love."
She took my arm. "Don't sound so sad, Lovejoy. What is it? You're so softhearted. I mean, so upset because poor Gunge's lady friend has gone away for a few days. She's having a day or two away. That's all."
"Yes." We started inside. "Draw the curtains, love."
She already had. And the window fastenings were locked. She was slipping off her shoes even as I reached the divan. Like I say, women are miles ahead of us. Still, I don't like women who are mean. Surely everything's not too much to ask? The cottage felt coldish without so many antiques around. It warmed.
Thirty-one
Gunge showed me Connie's miniature shop. Tiny, sparse. Modern chair, trestle table, kettle and enough to brew tea. Nothing else. I wrestled the town library for facts, scoring best of three pinfalls. The immortal I. K. Brunei's Great Eastern paddle steamer, wonder of the nineteenth century, 18,915 gross tons, launched in 1858 at Millwall. She was marked by disaster.
Not her fault. She was just eerie. During her building, accidents multiplied. Workmen died, were maimed. Brunei himself had a stroke as she readied for sea trials. An explosion in September 1859 killed six seamen. Brunei relapsed, died. It was a grim paddle steamer that finally hit the long wet road.
Long before, even her launch was doom-laden. She simply stuck for years, the one in twelve hopeless. Legend says Isambard built a secret model with his own superb hands, tried it out somewhere. Five funnels, six masts, side paddles. Like the pictures Delia nicked from Rye. Those features were on the murky photographs. Was it here that Brunei came? Was his model brooding the river serving Rye's watermill? The part of the river Rye'd sold his birthright to try to buy from Oliver's Council, as Luna said? Or was it a con? A photo of a cloudy underwater model would be easy to fake. Any photographer, blindfold.
The unhappy question came. Connie seemed keen on Rye—as long as he funded her drive into the big antiques league. When he'd offered for the mill and its river instead, she'd turned to me. I was a replacement. Frigging cheek.
Nothing for it. We had to find her. She'd gone missing some hours. No bird on earth assembles a wealth of antiques, then strolls away leaving them for others, does she? I made the Moot Hall in good time.
Every town has an ancient meeting place. The Moot Hall is typical—meaning the Borough Council has let it crumble, and now whines for handouts to restore it. You can see it's been patched by cowboy builders hired for a pittance.
"Oliver's so proud, Lovejoy," Luna whispered as I walked into the hallway. "This is the biggest event of his mayoral year!"
Some year. Luna had to go. She looked smashing—dress midnight-blue velvet, genuine pearls, four-carat diamond ring. A brooch would have been too much, but her Edwardian pearl drop earrings were just right. She was thrilled to bits, of course. I wished her luck.
The hall was once splendid. Now, it's virtually derelict, faded walls hung about with a few oil paintings in a sickeningly bad state. They depict our ancient councilors avariciously welcoming Huguenot refugees—yet more immigrants to exploit—and two unarmed Royalist knights being gunned down (another form of East Anglian greeting) and the like. The place of honor's reserved for Queen Boadicea, who razed the town in Roman days and rewarded local developers by crucifying everybody. Dealers keep wondering whether to nick these paintings. (Big Frank's offered them to a Swiss dealer in Rotterdam. I'll keep you posted.)
The place was filling. It smelled musty. The stage was hollow, every footfall rolling thunder. Dust, the Council's hallmark, lay everywhere. Housewives drifted in, excited about the great radio hero Del Vervain. Commercial fawners were filing in to the front rows, so they could be seen to be worshiping those in high places. A few old winos drifted in.
"Wotch, Lovejoy." An old soak hawked up phlegm and swallowed with relish. "Reckon they'll have nosh?"
"Wotcher, Forage." He used to run errands for me once, but finally couldn't leave the pub long enough. "Doubt it, for the likes of us." The anteroom, the only one properly restored, had busy waitresses laying an enormous buffet.
"Bastards," he croaked, settling in one of the rear seats. "Junketing on our taxes."
His mates muttered agreement. Marmalade Emma's the second of Forage's trio. She's mostly in black, with a black lacquered wicker hat and two bobbing cherries. The My Fair Lady prototype. Grimes is her bloke. Stays stout on booze, God knows how. I’ve never yet seen him awake. Moving about, yes, but that's not the same thing.
"Forage? Sit at the front," I suggested. "It's warmer."
"They can chuck us out easier from here, Lovejoy," Forage said. "The door guard is Grimes's cousin's lad Andy."
"Oh. Right." They'd embarrass him all right.
I sat down with them. Marmalade Emma was reminiscing. She makes me wistful. I don't know why. She sings outside pubs— inside, wherever she's allowed—and does a shuffling clownish dance that makes people laugh. They throw pennies to make the drunken old lady show her tattered soiled knickers. You can imagine what an admirable and merry scene it is, in this rural corner of Merrie England. Our village social club hires her to do her dance. They pay her in booze. And critics say wit is a dying art.
"There used to be big chandeliers up there, Lovejoy. See?"
"I don't remember them, Emma." I looked.
"Ooooh, yes. Very grand. People say they wuz real gold. You're too young." She quavered a few bars of a waltz. I lalled along. My Auntie Alice was a great laller. She could turn any melody, Handel's Messiah down, into lal-lal-lal.
"Did you dance here, Emma?"
She demanded indignantly, cherries bobbing, "Did I dance here? Lod, Lovejoy!" She nudged Grimes, who chuckled in his sleep and said Lord too. "Lod above! I danced to dawn, in this very hall! With the mayor! Old Alderman Adamson. Very grand." Slyly she checked that Grimes was kipping. You could have heard her whisper in Harwich. "He kissed me. After a polka. Under the painting of the two girls with lanterns. My favorite." Her rheumy old eyes searched the walls to point it out. There was no painting there. I thought. Odd.
"Lovejoy." Forage nudged me. "They're calling you. What you done, son?"
A red-coated Master of Ceremonies was bawling for attention. People were still filing in. "Nothing. Yet."
"Lovejoy." A custodian tried to prise me up but I wouldn't go. "On the stage. The mayor said."
"Tell him no thanks." Andy, embarrassed after all.
A number of dignitaries were slowly filling the chairs on the podium. Oliver and Luna weren't yet in, nor Del, Joan. Arriving audiences always create a hubbub.
"He won't like it, Lovejoy.”
Emma cackled. "Lovejoy'll worry chronic, Andy.”
It was quarter of an hour before the proceedings showed signs of starting. Emma talked nonstop, tales of ancient goings-on amongst the nobs of yesteryear. She must have been quite prominent in her day. Grimes hadn't been prominent at all.
"Here, son," Emma asked as folk hushed and had a last cough. "It true you're shafting the lady mayoress, is it?"
"Mind your own business."
She fell about at that. Grimes laughing along in his slumber. Forage looked frosty. He disapproves of immoral talk.
"Lovejoy, we loikes you, booy. Even not local. But shafting carriage trade makes for bad blood."
Other people didn't like me, I noticed wryly. The four of us were in an island of space. A school of children was in the body of the seating. Shoppers gossiped in the back row. The hall was about two-thirds full. Blokes adjusted microphones. I was disappointed. You'd think radio would need spectacular wiring, tons of transmitters. There'd been just one radio van outside. That was it. Televi
sion's better value. No wonder Del Vervain was worried sick about ratings if this was radio's only technology.
People quietened, the children enjoying making shushing noises, making such a racket they had to be silenced separately. I was glad Therla Brewer was in. She and Josh were sitting closer than teachers ought. I sighed. That's life.
"Ladies and gentlemen. The mayor and mayoress of the borough!"
Recorded fanfare, barely making it. People stood, some applauding. The line of dignitaries beamed. Oliver and Luna entered. He wore his chain of office; she was merely beautiful. Lights held them as they took their places. People sat, scraping the floor. Why do people do that? There's no need. You just sit down, for God's sake. But have you ever heard an audience sit quietly? I never have. It's a queer world.
"Pray silence for His Worship Mayor Carstairs!"
Oliver rose, to feeble clapping. Councilors and front-row fawners were ecstatic. Luna's eyes were shining as she clapped longest of all. I wondered if remembering how differently those hands had behaved at my cottage was jealousy or something, but gave over and listened to Oliver, resplendent in his regalia.
"Councilors! Members of the Social Promotions Committee! Broadcasting fraternity! Last but not least—ladies and gentlemen of the borough!"
This drew a roar of laughter from ingrates. Housewives tittered, with that anxiety women always show on posh occasions, hoping all will go right and nobody will be ashamed.
"He always was a smarmy bleeder,'' Emma whispered shrilly.
People looked round. Oliver pressed on, delighted with the sound of his own voice and a multitude.
"A famous local radio personality and his lady are gracing our ancient town tonight. Even as I speak, this event is being broadcast live on Radio Camelod!''
Thinner applause. Oliver raised his hands, quelling a riot of adoration.
"His dad was a ram,'' Emma confided. "All fingers, he was. His wife left him. No bleedin' wonder." She plucked my sleeve. I bent close, though I'd have heard her if I'd been out sailing. "His father shagged half his wife's pupils." She cackled. She had about three teeth left. I wondered vaguely why she didn't have a good false set. "Headmistress, at Colney Varr." She gathered herself for a joke. "Wish I'd gone there, Lovejoy!" Colney Varr was a posh girls' academy somewhere, once famous.
"Silence, please!" Some uniformed guardian on tiptoe.
"Sorry, mate," I said. God, but Emma ponged. I began to wish I'd sat further forward after all. Grimes snored and twitched. He always does. In solemnity Forage now wore his spectacles, one lens a cracked bifocal, the other missing. I wondered vaguely why he didn't have proper glasses.
Our mayor was waxing lyrical. "This evening is a Council initiative, to raise funds for the restoration of Council buildings such as this noble edifice in which we currently speak. We are displaying Council regalia and"—he twinkled, signifying impending wit—"baubles, hahaha!"
A few grovelers tried to get applause going, failed.
"All the borough wealth—portable variety only!—is out for inspection. Under guard, of course!"
He was sweating heavily. Forage nudged Grimes, for snoring. Emma was on about some soldier she'd known. I felt myself nod from the warmth, came to when the celebrity of the evening was announced.
"... Del Vervain!”
In he strode, laughing, shaking hands all the way down the hall. Bouncing onto the stage and grabbing a hand microphone. He was made up. Astonishing. He looked about twenty years younger.
"Here we are! Radio Camelod, in the oldest Moot Hall in the known world!" He roared with laughter. Everybody roared with
laughter. The mayor and the councilors roared with laughter. I looked about. What gets into people?
"Here, Emma,” I asked. It was narking me. "Why have you no proper teeth? Or Forage specs?"
"Shhhh, son. I like old Del. Used to be a pub singer."
Del Vervain was babbling, striding. "Folks, this is your opportunity! You’ll hear the dulcet tones of my gorgeous wife, Joan! Come own a-here, honey!"
Applause. Oliver went forward gallantly, escorted Joan. Del was being poisonously jocular. God, having to do that for a living? Broadcasters think imitation New York accents entitle them to instant fame. Lunatic. You'd spend your life wondering why people do what they do, if there was hope of an answer. I was getting narkeder and narkeder.
Joan said hello and how marvelous and everything. Excited, brilliantly dressed in lime green, flouncy skirts a little youngish but delectable. Del displaced her in two sentences.
"We're here, listeners, by popular request. Our first outside broadcast! No phone-ins this time. So save your pennies, haha-haha!"
A bloke seated at the rear of the stage signaled. Del grabbed Oliver and grinned at us with aggressive confidentiality. The show was on. One measly microphone.
"My first guest is His Worship Mayor Carstairs. Oliver, how does it feel, mayor of this ancient borough?"
Snooze time. Oliver intoned his feelings. Del quipped hearty quips. Excruciating. Emma occasionally whispered bits of slander, Oliver's randy dad and fading family fortunes after Oliver's mum slipped the traces.
Between gossip and guests, I really did nod off. They were electric. An octogenarian who'd once known the prime minister. A historian with theories about Normans. Somebody else—the coast was eroding, we'll all get wet. Yawn city. Del Vervain made me wonder how boring blokes like him get to be broadcasters in the first place. He was hopeless. He'd need a miracle to revive his fortunes, not a pathetic outside broadcast in a dingy old hall. People had come because anybody on the air is still a wonder to behold. But radio doesn't have the appeal of television. Not half so degrading.
People started to drift out, fed up. I was almost on the point of joining them when Del Vervain struck.
"Now a special treat, listeners! A famous antique dealer. Love-joy by name. And by nature, hahaha!"
To my alarm here he came, actually walking down the aisle at me, grinning, his microphone a staff of office before him, our modern totem. The prick. I wondered what to say.
''Er,” I managed. My mouth was dry.
He posed, winking at the audience. He was drenched in sweat. No wonder, if this was the best he could do. He ought to leave this sort of thing to the BBC. They've been doing it for years. Better. "Isn't it true that you have the gift of . . . divvying antiques?''
"Er, well. Sort of."
"No?" More winks. He was leaning confidentially on the seat in front of me, grinning round. Smarmy sod. Just how deep my dislike went I only just then discovered. Maybe I disliked Joan too. Why didn't he look at me, for God's sake? Maybe broadcasters are trained not to. "This divvying. What is it, actually?" Twinkle twinkle midget star. Somebody sniggered. He spun towards the sound grinning hopefully. "Do I have to slip you a fiver to find out? Hahaha!"
"Well," I said, looking nervously round. "Well, you touch an antique. And it lets you know if it's genuine."
"Is that it?" He strode about the aisle. "Hey, folks! Challenge time! Trial by antique! What say, hey?"
He paced threateningly, chatted up elderly shoppers, got an indistinct ripple of applause.
"Bring out those baubles!" Del commanded. He addressed the microphone. "By kind permission of Mayor Carstairs—my good friend Oliver! Hi, Mayor? Okay up there? Hahahah!—we can test the regalia of this great and ancient town!"
His voice had sunk to a sepulchral hollowness, clearly deeply felt reverence. He grabbed my arm. I shook him off. He tried to pull me up. I wouldn't go.
"Bring the Great Mace, please!"
Sweating heavier. I thought, what's the big deal? Okay, I admire it—huge, gold and silver, a John Flaxman design. Paul Storr, one of the greatest precious-metal smiths, made it about 1838. Not long, as antiques go, but weighing heavy, adorned with gems. Too ornate, but that only makes it more praiseworthy. How can you fail to admire . . . ? I watched the mace-bearer come. A stout old military bloke, decorated from a million battles.
He
stood at attention in his grand livery, the Great Mace on his shoulder. There's a proper way of holding them.
"Here it is, Lovejoy."
Del Vervain, his awed gravedigger's voice.
"Listeners. Honestly most sincerely! You should see the majesty
of this great emblem of authority, nay local civic pride!'' His voice caught. "Most sincerely. The atmosphere is electric. Lovejoy, the, ah, divvy man, will prove that the stupendous array of silver plate, jewelry and golden, ah, emblems, which we so admire, nay, applaud, are truly genuine repositories of this ancient borough!''
"Er, Del," I said. He was talking codswallop.
"One moment, Lovejoy." He was milking this. As on edge as any bloke I'd ever seen. Too sweaty, in fact. "This, listeners, is a moment to savor. Lovejoy is one of those special people—I mean that most sincerely—will enter a mystic trance—"
"Er, no, Del," I tried. He raised a restraining hand.
"Lovejoy. Take your time! Listeners. You should see Lovejoy's intense gaze as he enters that zone of ineffable mystery, where the spirits roam in search of the splendors of antiquity ..."
Emma was chuckling. Grimes was snoring. Forage was nodding behind his spectacle with Episcopalian gravity. Del Vervain was going on and on, however I tried to interrupt. Pillock.
He posed, frowning. "I'm sure some might think Lovejoy is pretending. After all, they say antique dealers try confidence tricks. Even robbery. But here in this ancient building we are privileged to see a trial of the truth ..."
The bearer was holding the Great Mace. I looked at it again, but only for show.
These things are usually precious, often silver gilt, emblems made to signify authority, whether royal, parliamentary, whatever. Essentially a posh stick. Each town has one. No use, of course. Symbols. Which really raises the question of what a genuine symbol is trying to be.
"... Lovejoy seems ready, folks! Finally willing his mind into that great abyss where the answers to life and death lie hidden. He will now, at this moment in time, touch the Great Mace, live! And will know whether this vital, nay holy, emblem of this great town's historic past, is genuine."
The Lies of Fair Ladies Page 25
