Moonspender

by Jonathan Gash

  "Tinker," I said joyously. "Today we do our friends a favor." And our enemies, though I didn't say so.

  He nearly swallowed his fag. "You off yer bleedin' head, Lovejoy?" Sometimes I wonder about Tinker's cigarettes, those he rolls. They start off as twiggy scraps. So how do they finish up ash a foot long? Spontaneous generation or something.

  "It's unlike us. Tinker, I agree. But it's in the script, see?" I was walking round, upending tables, sliding drawers to see the wear, touching brooches, everting hems of so-say William IV frock coats and Victorian dresses. Among other tricks, always feel in pockets. It's astonishing

  how often vendors overlook documents, coins, rings even, jewels, love tokens, keepsakes. I once found a child's amber pendant in a lady's reticule, down Maldon way. It wasn't mentioned in the catalog, so I offed it and Lived on the proceeds for a fortnight. Sold it to a local museum.

  Nothing free today, though, and the whizzers—auctioneers' assistants who haunt these gatherings like woodworm—seemed especially vigilant, so I got us a cup of tea. We watched the auction blunder on and chatted. An old Victorian harmonium looked likely, so I told Tinker to try a bid. Like I keep saying, buy old and wise.

  "Bid? Where'll I get the money, Lovejoy?"

  Irritably I gave him the bent eye. "Shut up about bloody gelt. I'm fetching it from the bank or something, our usual tale. You've done it often enough, for God's sake." Some days folk lose all sense. I let my eyes roam, checking distances, as if I didn't want any skulking barkers overhearing the next bit. "And let go that I've landed a local bronze, genuine Roman."

  He gaped. "You clever bleeder, Lovejoy. Where'd you get it?"

  "We haven't really got one. Tinker." I thought, give me strength. "We're pretending, see?"

  He cackled, nodding. "What's it like?" Give the old devil his due; once he's grasped an idea, however abstract, he's hundred percent.

  "It's a leopard. Six inches long. Foliage-pattern base."

  "Lovely," he said, admiring it. "Any inlay?"

  Good point. "Yes. Silver. Don't be more specific than that." I'd try for vine leaves.

  "Do we take layers on it?"

  Difficult, this. "Let me think a mo."

  While Tinker rolled another fag to cough himself senseless I worked out pros and cons. In antiques there's a thing known as a "layer," a provisional deposit. It can be real cash, an IOU, or a simple promise. If I said yes to Tinker, he'd start taking layers for our mythical Roman bronze from dealers, a dozen if he liked, until I told him to stop. And all this with no price as yet fixed for the prized object. Sooner or later, though, I'd have to produce the valuable piece, and negotiate with those who'd dropped layers on it. It's first come first served. Unscrupulous dealers make a living out of these penciled deposits. Seeing that rogues outnumber us honest souls by infinity to one, the layer system is fraught with hazards. Whole wars break out when a dealer layers on a desirable antique, then finds that some rival has gone and "bought under"—that is, actually honored his deposit and paid in full, the scoundrel.

  "Better not," I said reluctantly.

  Tinker's face fell. "Shame. Oh. I fetched Fixer Pete."

  "Eh?" My memory couldn't blip so I asked what I'd wanted Fixer for.

  "Dunno. Happen that new tart of Big Frank's?"

  "Hell. Where is he?" The wedding. I'd forgotten.

  "The Ship. Any message?" Tinker's face was wistful at the thought of Fixer getting sloshed unaided.

  "Aye. Tell him to fix cars, photographers, nosh, cards, and that for a Saturday wedding. And a vicar who doesn't count divorces." I slipped him a note as he stared. "Not for me, you silly old sod."

  "How many for, Lovejoy?"

  "How the hell should I know?"

  "Frocks as well? And what's to go on the invitations?"

  I gave him one of my most malevolent gazes and pointed a finger. He went, coughing and chuckling. I felt really worn out. I mean, here was I with an antiques auction going on before my very own eyes and people were always wanting me to wave a magic wand over the entire frigging universe. Weddings. I ask you.

  Momentarily free of the world's cares I went to Joe Quilp, more to calm him down than in response to his frantic signaling. Joe claims to be George I to IV furniture and continental porcelain. His trouble is that he possesses—I use the term loosely—Varlene. Mrs. Quilp is of stupendous beauty, and sails through life with a cool disregard for bank balances and marriage vows. She drives Joe to distraction. Varlene was just arriving outside in a grand hired Daimler.

  "Yes, Joe?"

  "Just look at her, Lovejoy." His lips go purple when he sees Varlene sowing debt for yet another thirty-day harvest of manila envelopes. "That motor costs"

  "I'm not into marital counseling, Joe."

  "Sorry," he whispered as Varlene swept in. "That wheel thing. Scientific, is it?"

  The door clanked its ancient bell. Even that sounded randy as Varlene adjusted her mink and strolled with voluptuous languor among us, silencing the auction. She flounced closer, all of her on the go and only old Mr. Spurrier not noticeably lusting force ten. I wonder if opposites attract in people, like magnets. I mean, here was Joe, a drably thin scarecrow. And here's Varlene, linked to him till death do them part, a luscious pneumatic spender-bender.

  "Lovejoy darling!" she shrieked, embracing me in copious mounds of undulant fur-covered flesh. Freud would have loved her, a mine of symbolism. I sneezed the fur from my nostrils. "And helping my darling Joesy-Woesy!"

  Joe goes all soppy when she's in range. This is what I mean by women sending you mental. He blinked adoringly. "Hello, Varlene."

  "Be a pet, Joesy," she gushed. "Pay the car. I'm exhausted."

  With blown kisses she swept through to the auctioneer's office. Joe bleated, "Er, don't buy anything, dearest, until I . . ." Gone.

  "That wheel, Joe," I said in an undertone. "It'll go for a song. Buy it." It resembled a slender cartwheel, with two brass rods joining its short axle. A rocking-horse handle and a dial at the join completed it. "It's a Victorian pedometer, a distance gauge. Cartographers and the military used them. You push the thing Like a wheelbarrow. That mechanism'll be marked in miles."

  "It's a clock," he said obstinately.

  "It's not got twelve numerals, only ten. Ramsden's manufacture, at a guess." I couldn't stalk across to have a closer look or others would leap to conclusions.

  "Ta, Lovejoy." He sounded miserable as sin. "But I can't now. I'll have to pay that bloody car off."

  "I'll postpone it for you, Joe. Good luck. Oh." I paused, clumsy theater. "Keep it quiet, Joe, but I'll have a Roman bronze in the next auction. Nod as good as a wink, eh?"

  He said a pathetically optimistic so-long as I went and got into the great Daimler.

  "Dogpits Farm, please," I told the chauffeur, adding, "Mrs. Quilp will just have to catch up. This is the second board meeting she's made me late for."

  "Very good, sir," he said. Now if he'd been an ordinary taxi he'd have told me to get stuffed because taxis are mostly straight. It's the self-drive firms that are always corrupt. I Like people who're deep in deception. I sat back, pleased. My loyal old Ruby might as well corrode on East Hill as anywhere else. I wished Sir John could see me now.

  Meanwhile, Joe Quilp trying to form a secret syndicate for a valuable

  Roman bronze was a real laugh. As secret as a three-column spread in The Times.

  The Daimler reached the restaurant forecourt. I signed the chauffeur's paper with a forger's flourish, and stood awestruck at the spectacle. Sandy came trotting.

  "Lovejoy!" he squealed. "I'll not have it!"

  "Lovejoy?" The foreman also came, smoking an urn of black shag. I moved upwind. "I'm Gorham, Ryan's builder. Get this poofter off my neck. I've wagons of brickwork hauling in from six o'clock tonight. And I won't have bleedin' pansies chucking tantrums."

  The restaurant was gutted. Even some of the windows were gone. Doors were slabbed up against trees. Plasterwork, bricks, rubble, those absu
rdly pretentious aluminum struts, all lay in heaps. It looked bombed. Inside, hammers sounded. Concrete mixers battled with trannies. Workmen sang, called, bawled. Planks were everywhere; why? They never use the damned things, only have to burn them when they leave. For the first time in my life I felt nearly sorry for a modem building. It had lasted a day. Served it right for being new, mind you.

  "Lovejoy!" Sandy was near to another collapse. "Your barbarian lout is threatening me!"

  "Lovejoy." The foreman builder had a voice that suited. It carried like a color sergeant's. "This queer's in my way. My orders are to exterior this place in ornamental brickwork. Forthwith."

  I wondered if exterior was a verb. "Look, lads—"

  Sandy shrieked, pointing to a van, all windows. Two men sat at drawing boards. One was on the forecourt with a theodolite. A girl was making rapid sketches of the restaurant facing. "See, Lovejoy! He's already started!"

  "Lovejoy!" A bark from Gorham. "I'm warning you. My men've orders to reface whoever gets in the way." He strode ahead of his smokescreen to the van.

  Sandy started to sway. "I just can't go on. It's . . . over, Lovejoy." He staggered, stretched out an arm. His voice became a whisper. "Today is the end of civilization. Is this how life ends. . . ?" Et tiresome cetera. It's actually from a silent film, Lillian Gish or somebody. Sandy runs them on an old moviola in his barn, mouthing their words. I wonder why he didn't take up melodrama as a career—though maybe he has. I had to nip this in the bud because this particular speech lasts an hour and ends with a near-fatal coma.

  Lies to the rescue. "Doesn't Mr. Gorham conceal his real feelings well!" I heard myself exclaim. "You'd never think he was so keen."

  "Keen?"

  I got up steam. Lies do a lot for eloquence. "Gorham asked if it really was you two who designed the minstrel gallery at the Tolbooth before he agreed to do this job."

  Sandy's fury evaporated in the warmth of self-esteem. "He did?"

  "Mmmmh. You know how it is, Sandy. A leader of workmen. He won't allow himself to be seen as sensitive, with high aesthetic values . . ."

  "He liked my gallery? Really, Lovejoy?"

  "Would I lie? He raved. Out of this world."

  "Of course," Sandy said sweetly, "it was mostly me. I mean goodness to gumdrops Mel was hardly there while I sweated absolute serum everybody said Michelangelo'd have absolutely rejoiced —"

  "Aye, well," I interrupted. "Mr. Gorham is a real fan of your work." I became furtive. "Not a word, though."

  "Naturally!" Sandy squealed, "I'm exactly the same! I mean I'm soft as putty under all this real butch showiness. ... So it's all a front?"

  "He has an artist's soul, Sandy," I said, profound.

  Sandy was in tears of self-compassion. "So much to do. So little time." He tittered suddenly, did his eyes in his handbag mirror. "I'll just pop over and tell Mel."

  Relieved, I crossed to the van. I was sweat through. Gorham smoked in a glower. "Have you got that bloody pansy into line, Lovejoy? Or is it a dustup between his decorators and my brickies? Because—"

  Honesty seemed called for. "I've talked him round. Told him you admired his minstrel gallery."

  "That fucking monstrosity at the Tolbooth?" He spat on the gravel. "So he's the pillock, is he?"

  "Gorham," I said wearily. "Pretend, eh, mate? It costs nowt."

  Mrs. York was inside, in a pink costume with raised 1948 shoulders and high heels. She looked lovely. Pearls for pink, fashioneers say. She had baroque pearl earrings, my favorite if they're done right. She seemed extraordinarily glad to see me, little girl at a party.

  "You heard about the gothicky brickwork?" I asked.

  "Amazing, Lovejoy! It's absolutely thrilling!" Her lovely eyes were

  shining as she drew me by the hand, showing me how the flooring would be replaced tiered, where floodlights would dangle and sprout.

  "Great," I said. "I'm not big on technology, love."

  "But you are on finance?" Major Bentham came beside us, spoiling my day. He was in his benign phase again. Really odd. I'd met him four times: one attempted horsewhipping, one prayerful talk, one attempted rundown in a Land Rover, and today's casual chitchat. What motivated the bloke?

  "Oh, Christopher!" Suzanne said crossly. "Don't spoil it! Lovejoy has everything in hand."

  "I'm sure." He smiled after an inward wrestle. "Could he explain it?" He tapped a riding crop against his calf. Nerks like him are born Sturmbahnfuhrers.

  "Okay," I said. "The brickwork's free. The rebuilding's financed by Mrs. York plus Sandy and Mel. Repayment to Suzanne's on the drip-feed from takings and tax on the restaurant takings. Sandy and Mel get exclusive commission rights on antiques sales here."

  Another desperate smile. Candice had appeared at his shoulder, in a simple knitted dress, waistcoated to show fetching innocence. A simple diamond clasp emphasized differences in local poverty levels.

  "Doesn't that assume the restaurant will actually have a clientele?" Bentham asked with that dangerous smile.

  "I'll get it a clientele."

  "Like you did before?" dearest Candice quipped.

  "Stop it, Candice," Suzanne commanded. "I won't have all this bad feeling. Lovejoy's trustworthy."

  Obviously a genius as well as bonny. I smiled a trustworthy smile as Mel came to the rescue with a complaint about food. Suzanne was all instant concern.

  "That whipped half-cream again?" She uttered a soft cry, gave me a quick peck in farewell and together she and Mel rushed away. Between Candice and Bentham I felt in a plastic wallet. Togetherness time.

  "Lovejoy." Candice had her hands together, as if about to treat us to a soprano solo. "What exactly is it you want?"

  "Me?" I stared blankly. They waited with the hard faces of dealers. "Nowt."

  "Come, Lovejoy." Bentham even took my arm, friendly. "This place of Suzanne's isn't much, really. A few acres, ponds, a river. Land that's no longer arable. Grazing leased for a herd or two. I could make it a

  viable proposition—if Suzanne could be persuaded to stop this ridiculous restaurant scheme. Naturally there'd be a financial . . . shall we say, consideration, for whoever gives Suzanne the right advice."

  I shrugged my arm free. "She's worth ten of you two," I heard myself say, and thought oh hell, that's torn it. "You're right, of course. Major. Dogpits Farm's none of my business. And God knows I could do without the hassle. I'm helping because she's a woman struggling to do something lovely. Whereas you two are like everybody nowadays— you'd do anything to change the numbers in some bank. It's a sickness."

  "Is that why you 're East Anglia's greatest failure, Lovejoy?" Candice, sweet as ever.

  For almost a full minute I pondered while they seethed hate. Only one answer. "Aye, love." And walked off.

  Into a shoal of messages and orders, the most interesting of which was that Goldie was at the Red Lion, wanting to see me "without delay." I thought, about bloody time. Women always take an age to come, when you're in a hurry yourself Ever noticed that?

  19

  "Mister Munting?" I was at the comer in the dark. The thickset man stopped. Blokes were leaving the pub, shouting goodnights. "I'm Lovejoy. Chance of a word?"

  "Walk with me. Where's your scruff?"

  So he'd spotted us that time. "Tinker's gone." We fell in step. "Any tips, like, how to make a farm solvent?"

  We crossed the road by the flour mill. It was coming on to drizzle, the night breeze stiffening. "You're in antiques, Lovejoy, so you know. Everything's income."

  "Manor Farm's not got enough, eh?" I gave us a few paces before adding, "Unlike others locally."

  He paused us on the river bridge to light his pipe. Cars passed with nocturnal sluggishness. We put elbows on the parapet staring upriver into the darkness.

  "Land's beautiful," the elderly man reflected. "Its simplicity's God-given. Take a farm, lad. An acre of good-hearted ground costs so little, yet she'll repay care for generations."

  I yawned. He chuckled.

>   "But money men don't think so, Lovejoy. They see land—cared for over three thousand years, like Manor Farm—as a commodity. A money man isn't interested in its spirit. He only wants a license to cover that precious land with offices."

  "But the council ..."

  He punctured the night with a match puffed at his bowl. "You've guessed, Lovejoy. The council gives building licenses. Councillor Ryan would have no difficulty."

  "They daren't give building permission for a farm."

  "No," he agreed. "Only if it's losing money."

  I thought, he thought, we thought. "Could it be solvent?" I asked finally.

  "Easily. It was solvent before Ryan came. We had an unholy row, so he slung me out."

  "So Ryan's doing it deliberately? I hate asking."

  "What would you do, Lovejoy?" I didn't know how to answer. He snorted and replied for me. "You'd sack your manager, and instead hire a dud: you. You'd buy a local building firm and keep it handy. You'd get elected to the council. Ryan's done all that."

  "That's still not proof." I had to be sure because lives hinged on it, mostly mine.

  Sad now. "There's two proofs, Lovejoy. One is to put forward an efficient plan. You'll be fired."

  That wouldn't do; I had to stay in situ. "The other?"

  Even more sad. "Let Ryan get on with it."

  There wasn't anything else. Much. "These lassies who come to the wood. You let them?"

  He shrugged. A motorbike swept past, a roaring searchlight. "They're Like Tom Booth. They're part of the land. Always were."

  "Witches? Part of the land?"

  A chuckle. "Come, son. Nobody believes that. Ritual's in church, in play, in politics. So a few girls, women, sing funny flower songs in the dark of the day. Where's the harm 's long as they don't set the wood afire?"

  If he said so. "But you did mind the treasure-hunters?"

  "Aye. I always gave orders to run them buggers off."

  We talked more, just this and that. I felt quite rested now I'd found the enemy. I trusted Munting, and believed his interpretation. As we separated, he said something on that curved bridge.