The Very Last Gambado

by Jonathan Gash

As I arrived he was just packing up for the day. One bare bulb lit the layby. The occasional car swished past in the drizzle, lights on against the murk. I parked the Ruby. The caravan’s wall lifts to form a shelter for customers.

  "Wotcher, Lovejoy. Thought you’d be along. Tinker’s been worrying me, dog-a-bone.”

  “Good lad him. Tea, Duffie. And a pasty, please. How’s trade?”

  He served, slapdash and grue. Hot pasties, scalding sweet tea, pouring rain. Paradise. I paid, grumbled about the price.

  He leaned on his elbows. “I didn’t see it happen, Lovejoy. Sam.”

  "Ledger’s busy lads come nosing?"

  He glanced a crooked glance. “Anything ever happens, it’s always the day I stayed at my daughter’s.”

  “Wise old Duffie.” He’s never been a witness to anything. And when the prowl cars call he usually slams his caravan sides and claims he’s just pulled off the road for a pee. “Tell me certs, then possibles.”

  “You know the layby, Lovejoy?” He nodded at the hedges opposite, painting me a mental picture. "Opposite the service station fifteen miles up. I use the lane this side. Posh nosh, petrol, loos. I know the gaffer, rotten sod. Bubbles me.”

  "Has you moved on, does he?”

  “Complains I take away his trade.” Duffie lit a fag, coughed in the general direction of his uncovered seed cakes, hawked phlegm and spat downwind. I could see why he and Tinker got on. “Never groused about Sam’s bloody bus.”

  “Sam? Didn’t know he had a motor.” Ledger hadn’t mentioned one.

  “Not motor, pillock. Bus.”

  I’d misunderstood because bus is slang for an ordinary car. “Bus as in bus?”

  “Mmmmh. Good customer was Sam. Quiet. Deaf as a post. Tell you something secret, Lovejoy.”

  “Yes, Duffie?” I was all eager.

  “Sam had a sweet tooth. Always bought my rock cakes. A connoisseur.”

  “Oh.” Well, Duffie was bound to have a different world view than me. “You ever see inside?” This was queer. I couldn’t imagine Sam, reclusive faker, driving a blinking bus about, all hours.

  “Once. He pulled in close, avoiding football charabancs. I saw. You never seen so many tools in your life. Lights. I could’ve sworn

  I saw a lathe, no bigger than your fist. And a painter’s easel, wood and all that. Lamps down its length. I never asked him.”

  “A workshop.” No wonder nobody had the cunning old devil’s workshop address. His given locations were all temporary drops, post office boxes. From Oafie’s accounts I knew Mrs. Sam Shrouder was compliant. But why had nobody known this? I asked Duffie.

  He chuckled. ‘‘Where d’you hide a brick, Lovejoy?”

  ‘‘On a building site.”

  ‘‘And a bus? You put Special on the front. Park it in odd laybys, never the same twice. Black the windows—”

  ‘‘Spray it obscure colors.”

  Duffie laughed, his laugh a creak behind bad teeth. ‘‘Maroon and green. That was how I realized it was his bus. The colors were a visiting team’s, by accident. Some Ipswich coaches started crowding him. He was scared stiff. Plonked his bus so close I thought he’d ram me.” He described it: a single-decker, oldish, snout-nosed country roamer.

  “You hadn’t known it was Sam’s? You said he was a regular.”

  "He was, now and again. But never with his bus. Maybe I’d notice it pass, maybe not. Occasional like, he’d park it a mile off, no lights. I’d see it along some lane as I passed. Sam’d walk up, have a nosh, walk off."

  "Ever get a lift?”

  “Nar, not him. Though the lads’d offer, like. That was how I placed him, deaf as a post.”

  So that was Sam Shrouder’s life. Up in the morning, drive to some remote area, park his bus, start his fakery work. Occasionally call at a country post office to collect the antique restorer materials he’d told his wife to order. He’d work all day in his mobile workshop, nosh at some roadside caff like Duffie’s. Then home. From Duffie’s account Sam’d been careful not to be identified with his mystery vehicle.

  "Sam’s big day, Duffie?”

  “I’d help you if I’d seen, Lovejoy.” He meant it. "He’d parked near three charabancs, far as I remember. Called for his dinner an hour or so later, took it with him. Y’know, Lovejoy, I think Sam really appreciated me keeping shtum about his wagon. Never said much, but I got the feeling.”

  “What’s happened to this bus, Duffie?”

  “Saw nowt, heard nowt. First I knowed, the lorry lads were on about a bloke getting smudged. Wasn’t until the local paper I knew it was him.” The local advertiser, next morning. “His bus was still there when I went home. It was standing on its own.”

  “Ta, Duffie. I owe you.”

  “Then pay me, you mean sod.”

  We parted, amicably. Friends have to do without payment.

  On the way home I made a detour, a million miles out of my way. No bus in the service station. I stopped and walked round among the parked cars. There was an ugly scrape of damaged brickwork on the garage wall. Gulp. Which raised the question where Sam’s bus was. No wonder Tinker had been pleased. For this I’d owe him beer now till New Year.

  So it was that, in command of more info than anyone, I chugged my Ruby homeward in a feeling of high jubilation. Toward its final doom. It was making its last journey on earth, in its present existence.

  The garden was drenched, its grass marked by tire ruts. A great car stood askew before the cottage. Ben Clayton was emerging from the—my—porch. Seg stood, watching me arrive. He posed as a mad gorilla does, itching to batter.

  “Wotcher, Ben. Okay?” I cut the Ruby’s clatter to stillness.

  “Come here, Lovejoy.”

  My path was suddenly twice as long. I plodded up it, heart- sunk.

  “What did I tell you, Lovejoy?”

  “Er, when exactly, Ben?”

  Seg belted me in the belly. I folded, vision blurred and retching. God, nausea’s terrible stuff.

  “Don’t leave marks, Seg.” Ben was in high good humor. “Lovejoy’s in deep with Mr. Ledger and his nasty plods these days. We don’t want him running telling tales, do we?”

  God, but I hate the first person plural. Teachers, bullies, psychotic crooks exacting vengeance—hear it, you know fascism’s singled you out for torture.

  “What’s up, Ben?” I croaked, hoping some lie might cavalry to my rescue.

  "Wait.” While I tried to recover he went to the Ruby, felt around, brought Lydia’s catalog. "Recognize this, Lovejoy?”

  “I can explain, Ben, honest—”

  Woomph, thud, thud, thud. I assumed my retch-and-spew kneeling position, head on gravel, arms hugging my heaving belly. Sweat broke out of every pore. My skin crawled in pain.

  “Who sent his popsie to the exhibition when I’d said not to?” Ben paced a step or two. “Right, Seg.”

  That plural made me brace myself for more kicks, even harder blows. None came. But something smashed, metal on metal and glass shattering. Skewed, I looked up, hoping it’d be something else not me. Seg was at the Ruby with a massive sledgehammer. Did the maniac travel ready prepared for demolition, tools and everything? He did in the lanterns, doors, screen, crashed the steering wheel onto the grass. The bonnet, boot, the engine. Hugely elated, muscles bulging and a-gleam, he was an extraterrestrial from some science fiction film. Maybe ten minutes later he rested. I hadn’t moved.

  “Here, Seg.” Ben tossed him the catalog. “Burn this. We don’t want Lovejoy to waste his energy, do we?” Oh ho. Plural.

  Seg lit the catalog with a match, dropped it by the driving seat. Smoke and flame spread instantly. Seg had been thoughtful with petrol.

  “His cottage, Seg,” Ben said, admiring the flames.

  “No! No! Ben, please.” I groveled, crawled, screeching pleas. "My budgies are inside. Please, Ben.”

  He beamed, really shone down at me with delighted fascination. "Not burn, Lovejoy. Only . . . shuffle things a bit.”

&n
bsp; Seg went inside. Crash and bash. Windows shattered outward. He made merry to the sound of my ignited motor’s crackle.

  “See, Lovejoy, it’s like this.” Ben sounded so patient. “I’ve an interest in that Russki exhibition at St. Edmundsbury. It’s a lot—repeat, el mucho—of gelt. Out of your tinpot league, Love- joy.”

  “I’ve done nowt, Ben. Honest to God.”

  “Correction, Lovejoy. You will do nowt.”

  The crashing stopped. Crunching glass fragments, Seg appeared in the porch. He nudged the splintered door, which fell with a crash. He was carrying my budgies’ cage. They were fluttering in fits and starts.

  “What’d I do with these, Ben?” Seg called.

  He thought a second. “Leave them, Seg.” He shone his hearty face at me. “We’ll have pigeon pie when we torch Lovejoy.”

  He jerked his head, got into his saloon. Seg chucked the cage onto the grass, the budgies spilling out. Seg trudged over, took the driver’s seat. I watched them go. Tarry smoke swelled into the sky, mercifully away from the cottage. I got myself upright and started making my tweeting noise. It’s a half-whistling sound made with my lips padding rapidly together.

  Nock was cheeping in the apple tree nearest the cottage. Egg had decided laziness was the better part of valor and stayed where he’d fallen in the grass. I got their cage, removed its floor by unlatching the clips, and hung it in the tree.

  “Home time, lads.”

  Nock came onto my finger straight away. Egg, always trouble, was half an hour in the catching. Wouldn’t come on my finger, strutted away every time I came close.

  “I’m in frigging agony here, you burke,” I groaned, crawling after him. Finally a couple of village children caught him, visiting to be awed by the burning Ruby. Nock nodded off but Egg was pleased with himself at his escapade, cheeping and showing no remorse. I showed him my fist.

  “I’ll smash your teeth in, you little bugger.”

  “Ooooh, you sweared!” one of the kiddies said, Elsie.

  “No I didn’t. It’s budgie language. It means bless you.”

  Six children came at the finish, sweeping up and generally making the cottage more of a mess than Seg but taking longer about it. Some loon had called the fire brigade. I sent them away in a temper, yelling had they never seen a car on fire before. The

  ·

  children were thrilled by everything happening, burning car, smashed-up cottage, fire engines, the budgies, a row with the fire brigade. I could see I was famously entering village legend. I wasn’t sorry when they cleared off.

  Alone.

  Some of Lydia’s supplies were intact, though jam, flour, frozen stuff, a cake, mostly were smeared on the broken furniture. My divan bed was in smithereens. Shelves dangled, table delegged, chairs were fractured. Still I managed to brew up and fry some bread and a couple of slices of apple, ready for a long think. I sat on the floor to dine. By now I needed light because dusk had fallen. I found two candles.

  The trouble was armies of merciless helpers were homing on me like bomber waves. This disaster was a typical example. I’d started this particular adventure sitting peacefully in Doc Lancaster’s surgery. Nurse Anna then helped me. Then Lydia helped, several times. Then Lorane, by giving me a film job. Then the countess, with tea and sympathy. Then Big John Sheehan, paying me for that burglary. And here I was, still on fried bread, but further sunk in abject poverty with my motor in meltdown, my cottage marmalized, and myself bruised every inch. The fact I didn’t look injured was no . . . hang on. I rose, gasping, found a sliver of mirror, peered at my face. Beautiful as ever. "Don’t leave marks, Seg.’’ Why not?

  Ben didn't mind the world—well, the village—knowing I’d been done over. He didn’t mind that the fire brigade might be called. He didn’t mind frightening me to death.

  But carefully, meticulously, he did mind two things. One, he minded me seeing that exhibition. Two, I was to remain as pristine and unsullied as ever. My usual disheveled self stared in puzzlement from the bit of mirror. How very odd. After all, I’m no film star. All right, I don’t go short of women, but that’s more good luck and their barminess than any magnetic charisma I possess. Hang on. What was that? No film star?

  Well, well, I thought. And went back, finished my nosh.

  An hour later I’d done what I could—clearing up’s faster unaided—and got my jacket. I nailed bits of wood across the windows, but left a two-foot gap at floor level for the badgers to come in. They’re born scroungers. They’d nosh anything within reach, save me more of a job.

  “Come on, you two. We’ve a long way to go before morning.” I’d parceled the budgies’ spare seed, millet sticks, cuttlefish, and half-emptied their water dropper for the journey. I have a green cloth for night cover, and draped it over their cage.

  Jacko wasn’t too pleased being hawked out on a chill wet evening, but I made him. He drove me the hour to the Alconbury layby on the Great North Road. I said nothing the entire trip, just sat thinking, carrying the cage. He always sings light opera when he’s driving anyway, so talk’s not worth much.

  Another twenty minutes and a huge night-hauler’s headlights saw me standing in the rain, arm raised. It slowed and pulled in ahead of Jacko. A pleasant stoutish bloke leaned out of his high citadel and called had I a job.

  "Aye.” I ran, fetched the cage, climbed, and handed it up. He was delighted, couldn't resist peering under the cover at Nock and Egg.

  "Budgies, eh? I breed canaries.” He was grinning as he took the paper on which I’d scribbled my cousin Glenice’s address in the north, and joked, “Hardly show birds, mate.”

  “They’re thoroughbreds,” I said upward in the rain. “Too good to go on show.”

  He looked at my face. “Course they are, mate. That’s what I meant. To Lancashire, is it? That’ll be one frog. I’m to Edinburgh.” “All right. Ta.” I paid him. A frog’s a transfer of the illicit parcel, load, whatever, to another long-distance wagoner who’s going nearer the destination. Each such shift costs extra, since every leg of the journey requires a new lorryman to risk his job for carrying unauthorized clobber. “Be good, Nockie, Eggie. And don’t give Glenice any trouble. Okay?”

  “I’ll watch them,” the man said kindly. “So long, mate.” “Thanks. So long.” I stood while the vast lorry snorted onto the wet roadway, blew my nose, and went back to Jacko.

  “Home sweet home, Jacko.” I raised a finger when he drew breath to start one of his notorious grumbles, and we departed, not peacefully, but in peace.

  Now, on that return journey I pulled out Lydia’s tidy little notebook. While Jacko bawled selections from The Desert Song and Cavalcade and his one functional windscreen wiper threshed hypnotically, I read her meticulously classified notes by the dashboard’s faint gleaming.

  It was something I should have done yonks ago. By the time we hove into the village I was a far, far wiser idiot than I had been since my trouble began. I’d been thinking antiques. I should have been thinking movies.

  T

  INKER found Three Wheel Archie an hour before they shouted last orders in the White Hart. I got a lift from Margaret Dainty, who owed me for divvying a porcelain fire mark—these wall plaques identified householders as insured by particular fire brigades, 1830 onward, and are highly collectible. Pricey at an average month’s wage, it was genuine all right. The trouble was it belonged to her and not me.

  Three Wheel never grew much, though his head’s the right size. On account of being a dwarf, he travels on a canopied tricycle. Tinker proudly showed him to me, then complained he’d had to buy him a pint to keep him in the tap room till I'd arrived.

  ‘‘Cost a frigging fortune, Lovejoy.”

  “All right, all right.” I gave him a note, raised a finger warning him not to (a) spit phlegm into his empty glass, (b) not to spit over me, and (c) not to bawl gravelly-voiced questions about whether I’d found Duffie or not. He went cackling in glee to drink his silly old head off.

  “How’s t
he new motor, Archie?”

  "Beautiful, Lovejoy.”

  “Much on the clock, now?”

  He grinned at my sobersides joke. His new car's actually old, never having burned rubber. Or petrol either, for that matter. It’s housed in a palatial garage and gets trundled out for serious cleaning in sunny weather. I can’t see the point because he can’t reach the pedals, but Three Wheel Archie can so that’s all right.

  “How do I get the measles out of an Indian paper print, Lovejoy?”

  "Gawd, Archie. Be careful.” Measles is trade nickname for foxing, those brown spots—actually a microorganism—that trouble books, prints, and watercolors. “If you’re sure it’s Indian paper it won’t like water. Shake some ether with hydrogen peroxide—you buy it about four percent. The ether takes the peroxide out of its water, floats as a layer. Then you use that, with a cotton tip.” “What if I do get some water on it?”

  “Chuck in pure ethyl alcohol, fifty fifty. It cuts out most of the water attack. Remember me when you sell the print. Anything interesting, Archie?”

  He gazed levelly at me, not easy for a pint-size on a pub chair. "Not as interesting as your proposition, Lovejoy.”

  To business. "Do you like open spaces, Archie?” For all I knew a titch might have ingrained aversions or something.

  "Take or leave 'urn, Lovejoy.” He was puzzled.

  So far so good. "What about confined spaces, then?”

  His brow cleared. “An oliver? It'd depend what for.”

  An Oliver’s a robber’s trick named for Oliver Twist. In the course of burgling, you pop a small being, usually a kiddie, through a fanlight into a house. The little quietly trots around, opens a door from inside, and lets in his team of burglars.

  "There’s gelt, Archie. It might be two hours, cramped up. Dry land throughout.”

  “And who lets me out?”

  “It’s your hand on the lever, start to finish.”

  “Straight up, Lovejoy?”

  “As God’s my witness, Archie. You can step out any time and home you go. I give you a story to prove you’re innocent, in case.”

  “Okay, then. As you tell it.” We sat in silence for a while as the pub reveled all about. "Ether and peroxide, eh?”