Tinker hove over with an empty glass, a continual source of distress to him. "Here, Lovejoy. You helpin' these other wallies for nowt again?” He’s always on about charging for my advice. A wally’s an antique dealer. Funny-odd that it’s general slang for a buffoon. Or maybe not.
“On me, Tinker.” I gave him enough for a couple of refills for himself and Archie to show the matter was more complex than it seemed. "Anybody going by Parson Brown’s?”
“Get you somebody, Lovejoy. Ten minutes.”
A matronly lady later dropped me at Parson’s place in the dark. She was on her way to her sister’s down the estuary. The price I paid for the lift was considerable—I had to admire her crummy modern bejeweled gold infallible Rolex watch for the entire journey. And she coyly gave me her phone number. I ask you. Accept a lift to lend them your company and they want blood.
Winnie was alone watching telly, a game show where the diffhanger’s whether some bird wins a washing machine or a weekend in Reykjavik. We made polite how-are-you-but-don’t-for- Christ’s-sake-tell-me noises. She brewed up, coming intermittently to see the whooping studio audience greet the Second Coming. She still wore her apron, and her a dancer.
“Did Parson leave a message, Winnie?”
“Walter?” She dished tea up, eyes wavering between me and the screen. Contestants were showing elation, running out of the audience, waving both hands. Unnatural and phony. “No. Should he have?”
"When I called. Remember? He said about a valuable crucifix. He’s going to sell me it.”
“Oh, dear. I knew this would happen.”
“Good heavens! She’s won a camera!” To lessen her anxiety. Winnie was instantly back into a smile. “She’ll go for the golden gong. You see.”
We watched the balderdash to its merciful end, then had our tea as the news started.
“He’s never here, you see, Lovejoy."
“Just recently?”
“Oh, years. Weeks at a time, months even.” She indicated her home with a lethargic flap of an arm. “He has such commitments. I sometimes wonder how we had Jules.”
“Been busy lately, I expect.”
“Lately?” She pursed her mouth, rueful. “He’s chasing some scheme, Lovejoy. Always had to have a faster car, snappier clothes, bigger deals. He only wanted me because I was in some chorus line he thought glamorous.”
“We’re all a bit like that. Magpies.”
She eyed me candidly. “We women know. We make allowances. But it can go too far and destroy people, even families. I feel you understand, Lovejoy.”
I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “What’ll you do, love?”
“I’ve a brother in the West Country. His wife’s lovely. They know how it’s been. As if Lavina and Jules had no dad. And I know he plays around. Keep secrets in this village? My brother’s got a travel agency, with a spare flat above it. Just think, a little job. I’d meet people. Walter wouldn’t even notice us gone, probably be glad.”
“And you?”
“Yes. Relieved.” She’d made up her mind, did she but know it. “Is your crucifix really important, Lovejoy?”
To this day I don’t know what made me say it. “And urgent, love.”
“I have a number I can call, Lovejoy. I can’t let you have it, but I’ll ring him as soon as you’re gone.”
“Great. Ta.” I’d known she would have. Police and insurance companies are big on out-of-hours contact for antique shops. I bussed her a so long and caught the country bus from the coast on its last town run for the night.
That’s how it’s done. Execution.
Ever wondered about emotion? It’s dicey, of course; it fluctuates. I don’t mean individually, like you’re sad one minute and happy the next. No. I mean I really do believe we all surge together. We’re all more inclined to be down in concert, or jovial as one. Scientists say it can’t be true, but what do they know? So I wasn’t surprised to find Suki Lonegan with her eyes all red and a hankie balled in her hand.
‘‘Refugee Lovejoy, love. Chance of a cuppa?”
She turned and walked in. Well, swayed. Her house is set back from the road, in town about a mile from the Arcade. I followed warily. No husband, no other visitors. I brightened.
"Hungry, Lovejoy?” She sounded tight, angry.
A table was set, two twisted red candles, floral table center, lazy susan loaded with dishes of bits. Sambals? Curry scented the air. Cutlery receded into the distance. Romantic elegance was everywhere, and somebody hadn’t come.
“Well, if I can help . .
“You bloody well can. Open that bottle.”
Wine, in a sloping basket. A corkscrew. Uneasily I walked round the lovely supper setting. Romance was called for. She’d drawn the short straw, scruffy battered Lovejoy instead of Sir Gawaine.
“You mean this wine, Suki?”
“Get on with it!” Dishes clattered, an oven door slammed. Women get madder in kitchens than bed, even, which is saying something. Suki had already started on hooch out there. Obediently I popped the cork, replaced the bottle, stood waiting like a spare tool. I decided on light chitchat.
"Er, Suki? You can still get one of those antique dusting brush corkscrews with a side lever, patented, for less than a hundred quid. Why don’t you—?”
"Lovejoy!” Suki flung back the kitchen door with a crash so loud I winced my ribs into stabbing pain. She stood there, glaring. A wisp of hair was loose onto her forehead. “I want to hear nothing—nix, zero, bugger all—about antiques. Understand? Mona Lisas, Virgin of the Rocks, Venus de Milo. No antiques.”
I swallowed. For romantic elegance read fury. “Right.”
She advanced on me, threatening. She was dressed lovely, long skirt, white lace blouse, bishop sleeves, a pique-bead necklace sweeping below her frothy lace throat. She clutched a wooden spoon.
"I love your necklace, Suki,” I said brightly. "That’s tortoiseshell, isn’t it? Gold and silver, too, unless I’m mistaken. It’s usually only paper mashie—”
She screamed, “Shut fucking up!”
I backed away. “Sorry, love. I was only—”
“Sit down!”
“Er, thanks. Only I can’t stay too long—”
She slammed me into the carver chair, head of her pretty table. Two goes to light the candles, but she did it. I sat in worried silence, eyeing the distance to the door.
Breathless from sheer rage, she quavered, “Now, Lovejoy. Move one fucking inch I’ll hunt you down and kill you. Please pour.” And she swept into the kitchen, slamming the door.
I’d come for sanctuary and found Castle Perilous. Crashes sounded from without, just like me and the cottage while Seg demolished my home. I was just working out which was worse when she yelled, “Lovejoy? Have you poured?"
“Yes! Yes!” I scrabbled, poured shakily, got the bottle back in its basket without a drop spilled. My prayers answered, the first time ever. I sat some more, thinking hungrily of her pique necklace. Ivory or tortoiseshell beads, inlaid with gold and silver points, leaves, star shapes, are called “true” pique, and usually date from before 1855. Later stuff was made of any old rubbish. Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Taiwan turn out fakes—bits of gilt and foil in blobs of resin you can spot even without a hand lens. She entered, flung down a tray of stuff, swept out, returned, did magic pointing with a remote control to start a seductive Vivaldi from the wainscoting, served us vichyssoise soup, rushed dizzily to the mirror to adjust her hair, hurtled back.
“Now, Lovejoy,” she panted, composing herself. “Cheers.”
“Your health, love.” We toasted with the best grace we could manage in the circumstances. “And thank you for your kind invitation.”
“Not at all, Lovejoy. My pleasure.”
“You, er, look beautiful, Suki.” Well, it’s standard but it often works.
“Thank you, Lovejoy.”
"I’m sorry I’m not classily turned out. You deserve better, love.” I’d thought that safe too because it’s true for
all women, but mistake. Tears ran down her cheeks. We continued in a silence broken only by her chokes and sobs.
“That was luscious. Any chance of some more?”
She paused, nodded, rose and did the woman’s second-best giving. Second course dressed globe artichokes. She didn’t finish hers, so I helped her out. I find women don’t eat much. We got the main course, curry, the rice properly done, to my delight. It was great. She partook very little, finished up drinking us into a second bottle, elbows on the table, fingers laced pretty beneath her chin, just watching me. “Wild strawberries those, Lovejoy,” were her only words, used when serving a strawberry and chocolate roulade.
“Never mind. Just as good.” Maybe the shops had run out.
She almost reached a smile at that for some reason, but didn’t speak until the coffee. It was done in a complicated gluggy thing, very American.
“Lovejoy. You have women. But why haven’t you got a woman? Or have you?”
Dangerous talk. I got served some more. She resumed her stare. I started worrying in case I’m a noisy eater, which is repellent.
“They don’t think I’m up to much, love.”
“Including your smarmy little cow?”
“Lydia? With her morals? The pope might stand a chance, not me.”
“But you have plenty of others, haven’t you?”
“Best ask them, love. Not me.” It’s my policy.
“I’m glad you don’t gossip, Lovejoy. I’d heard so.” She refilled her glass. “What about me, Lovejoy?” Now I knew she’d definitely had too much. “Am I attractive? Truth.”
"You're what blokes dream about.” It was true.
“Then what stops a man from coming, Lovejoy?” Tears started. She led us to a couch, Vivaldi still giving out sensuous living. No lights, just candles. She blotted her eyes, sat with her glass. This was all getting too much. I was replete with grub, but a lovely bird in these surroundings makes for new hungers. “I mean, a man shows interest, it’s wonderful. Then he falls off, doesn’t arrive on time, gets ratty.”
“Work’s often the trouble—”
"When work’s going superbly?”
She meant Parson Brown. “Then he’s worried about something.”
"Don’t try to be kind, Lovejoy. It’s another woman.”
This is the way a woman’ll behave. She’ll tolerate her bloke’s wife, work, his family attachments. But let him flirt elsewhere and she’s Murder Inc.
"Ever since this film thing started he’s been off his head. It’s that Lorane bitch. She shoved herself at him right from the start.” Who? "She’s not a patch on you, love.”
“Isn't she?” Suki held my hand. "Truly, Lovejoy?” “Couldn’t hold a candle. Is it Parson you’re on about?” “Walter, yes. We were friends all year.” Bitterness crept in. "All those special jobs I did for him. Crazy artists in London, arranging silly bloody post offices all over three counties, signing anything he shoved at me—”
I bit my tongue. She was Oafie’s telephone contact? She did the arranging for Sam? “Maybe he’s just got some special job on tonight.”
She shivered. There was a gas-log hearth. Her face gilded in the firelight. She spoke looking into it. “I’m scared, Lovejoy. A woman knows when a man goes mindless.”
“Wasn’t he, well, big with Sam Shrouder’s wife, once?” “Her? Oh, Walter explained all that. Only business. He had to have these things made that only Sam could do. And he was never away long. Always came back to me, where he belonged.
She’s bedridden, you see. That was why Walter’s had to drive up there so much.” She gave a half-smile. "I keep telling myself this crazy film can’t last for ever.”
Bedridden was a laugh. Sort of. "He’ll be back, love,” I reasoned. We held hands, absolutely only reassuringly. “He’d be daft to pass you up.”
"Oh, Lovejoy. You’re so sweet. Having supper. Listening.” Well, it’s true. And I’d saved my own life in the bargain, for she’d have killed me if I hadn’t.
From there matters intensified in a time-honored way. I daresay some folk might blame me, say I was taking advantage of a sorrowing tipsy bird seeking solace. But I don’t see it that way. I’d no home to go to, no means of going. And I too was alone and sorrowing. No. I definitely see it as helping out in a compassionate and caring way. And if it’s passion that is eventually the driving force, so what? I learned something more, too: If Parson ditched Suki Lonegan for Lorane, or any other bird I could think of quick, he really was off his trolley. She was worth any ten of most.
As a precaution I locked the door. Didn’t want Parson arriving for his delayed tryst while Suki and I were swapping compassion. I had to be in good nick, for tomorrow we filmed.
During the night I found myself awake in a lovelock yet thinking of Lydia’s notebook with its disturbing details of the film people. I’d always thought that filmmakers depended on their track record, like football teams—you’re only as good as your last game. A dozen successes followed by one dud means you’re a has-been. Ten flops followed by a smasher means you’re God’s gift.
"Yes, darling?” Suki misinterpreted my fidgeting, which ended abstruse contemplation. Ecstasy called. But a film team made up of deadlegs plodding through the undefined screenplay of a failed writer is heading for certain ruin, no? Unless it’s really not. "Yes, doowerlink,” I said.
Y
OU see, Ray, a balloon’s logical. Everybody can understand it.” He listened, wheezing and forever poking his hom-rims up his nose.
Broad daylight. We were in the little tree-lined square in Malet Street, looking up at London University’s mini-Kremlin, Senate House. Cars drifted hither and thither, hub-deep in traffic wardens. The occasional student strolled past scratching dozily. It was all happening.
‘‘It seems a lot taller than it really is. The Bolton architect who designed it had delusions that matched the times. I mean, he also made Hanger Lane tube station. Just like God would have built the Vatican, if only God’d had the money.”
‘‘The gang fly from there onto the museum?”
“Aye. Hot air balloon. Simple.”
“How do you get them in?”
“The story is, they register as bona fide students, assumed names, false photo cards. Once you’re in you're in.”
“Max had all this in a screenplay I rejected.” He spoke accusingly.
“I know.” I exuded confidence. “So a couple of points, Ray. There’s a canteen in Senate House, third floor. Seats a couple of hundred, more. Even the public go in—coffees, dinners, teas. Access no problem.”
“Winds, noise, night ballooning?”
"Noise—it’s raining, see? Night ballooning’s not difficult if the balloon’s tethered. And wind? Cinch.” I pointed into Russell Square. “Montague Street’s got hotels, right? Here’s my story.” I was being really patient. I’d already given him a written outline, damned near filling a whole postcard, but these film people couldn’t read. “If the wind’s in the right direction, okay. If it’s not—and my story says it’s not, more dramatic, see?—then your baddie takes a room at one of the hotels. Goes to the roof. Has a child’s balloon, shop-bought, one of those advertising balloons shops give out, anything—on a string. He lets it out, until it’s over Senate House.” "Got it.” Ray was looking up. “The balloonists are up there. They catch hold of the pilot balloon, pull in a stronger rope—”
“—And your hotel baddies simply haul the balloonists over the museum!”
“How much power does it take?”
“Plenty,” I admitted. “A gas balloon can lift several blokes, so some winch thing would be needed. The hotel baddies hold the guests and managers at gunpoint.”
He liked that. “Real real real!”
“They’re disguised as workmen, take in a winch once the hotel’s commandeered. Max can write in bits of tension with a guest awaited at some assignation—”
“A Cabinet politician shacked up in a hotel bedroom!” “That’s been done, Ray,” I
said tiredly. I didn’t want it ludicrous. “And remember Senate House was used in Day of the Trifids, so watch it. I reckon better a Rififi picture than a League of Gentlemen. Don’t you?”
He was more pleased. “Awareness. Insight. A-okay, Lovejoy.” “What if the wind’s southwest, Lovejoy?” Gabriella, now in
uniform, stood beside us. We made greetings as if popping up everywhere unannounced was her normal means of arrival.
“Then you use a hotel along Bloomsbury Street instead. You can even use two.” I’d looked it up. “It’s called resolution of forces. Pull the two bottom corners of a triangle, its apex moves down in a straight line.”
“It’s good.” She smiled at me. “Lovejoy’s right, Mr. Meese. A balloon is logical. And everybody can understand it.” An exact quotation of me. Somebody was recording every word. Thank goodness.
“And once the baddies are over the roof?” from Meese. “They land on it. Break in any old how. Pull the snatch, There’s a gunfight—which you said has to be included. The thieves try to escape. Stef Honor and Saffron Kay, the goodies, thwart them, save the priceless McGuffin. The thieves, shooting away, get to the balloon, cut its tethering cables. Disaster. It crashes into some building. Horror, flames, bodies falling. Tata!” I made a trumpet sound.
“I like it. I’ll call in the stunt arranger. Max in on it?”
"I’ll see him this afternoon.”
"One thing, Lovejoy.” Gabriella was at her charming best. “What exactly is it that the baddies are going to steal? Only in the story, of course.”
“Tell you later today,” I said. I can be as charming as she any day. “Only in the story, of course, Gabriella. Can’t be done in real life, can it?”
Between boredoms, an assistant called Hal brought me an antique. Water in the desert.
He produced this dirk. Imagine a big knife sheathed in a decorative blackish scabbard, with two tinier hilts protruding lower down. I was delighted.
“The boar badge of the Campbells. Well, yes.” I pulled out the smaller weapons. “They’re knife and fork, see? But genuine silver, 1881, no later.”
“That’s a genuine precious stone, isn’t it?”
The Very Last Gambado Page 13
