Ten Word Game

by Jonathan Gash

  “You takings customer to boarding party, ess?”

  A boarding party storms a ship intending to slaughter everybody and sink her. I made allowances for language and asked why me.

  Tez said, “It’ll get the boss off the hook with Customs, see?”

  “I need to kit Lovejoy out first, a complete set of clothes,” Gloria called down.

  “Feex eem cloves,” Benjo commanded.

  Frollie cooed, “I’ll take him! I love a good shop! You’ll need shirts, shoes, suits…”

  Gloria descended from the clouds and swept in, beckoning me. She wafted past Frollie with poisonous sweetness.

  “I rather think this requires someone with taste, dear. You stay and work. Come on, Lovejoy. We’ve hardly time.”

  Frollie gnashed her teeth. I trailed dismally after. We left the Emporium and headed for the shopping mall. I wondered how things had suddenly changed. Why was I going to a party on the new ship? To do what? Help some old customer aboard, yes, but was I to arrange some last-minute fiddle for Benjo’s dodgy import business? I’ve always been a duckegg, and never see the obvious. As we reached the mall, I’m sure I noticed the lurking motor across the road with Miss Trimble at the wheel.

  Humbly I followed Gloria, hoping she’d explain.

  I thought I was getting away with murder, which was something I’d yet to do.

  Chapter Three

  Women and shopping have a weird relationship. It’s symbiosis, and I don’t get it.

  If I have the money to buy some shoes, I go and do it, end of message. If some shoe shop nerk shows me different shoelaces, colours, styles, shape and decoration, I immediately know I’m in the wrong shop. I simply try a shoe on and if it fits I say, “These, please.” I pay, don the shoes, and exit leaving my worn-out pair. Time? Six minutes flat. Women, though, want their sisters, cousins, and at least eleven friends in a posse who hunt, suggest, disagree, exclaim. This tribe surges round shopping precincts, all for one measly pair. Time? An entire day. Imagine how joyous I was, traipsing after Gloria.

  Those three hours were purgatory. She was in her element, spending money like water. I kept saying, “All this for a sail-away party?” until she told me to shut it.

  I had to be furtive, hiding my face, stoically looking into windows, in case the people hunting me had spies out. She had me measured for shirts. Did you ever hear such? Measured for shirts. Daft, because a shirt doesn’t count as real clothes. Socks, a dozen pairs. Ties, handkerchiefs, three casual suits, two blazers, five pairs of trousers, and shoes. A dinner jacket. When I asked what on earth, she said with a face of stone, “My brother Cal sails on the Melissa tomorrow. You’re exactly his size. He can’t come to choose for himself.”

  Faintly, I began to see. Her brother was maybe coming out of gaol, or was he too on the run? Maybe he was being sent abroad in disgrace, I thought knowingly, banished to a far-flung shore never to be heard of again. It happened in Victorian heart-throbbers – I’d been brought up on those, my gran and me reading Marie Corelli by candlelight, stumbling over difficult words after Gran’s old eyes began to go.

  “How long did he do?” I asked in a whisper.

  She looked at me. “Mind your own business.”

  Fear silenced me after that. He had my sympathy. I’d never done long in clink. I stopped complaining, and even pretended to take an interest. Gloria had just chosen two pairs of cufflinks for her brother when I noticed a small antiques shop at the far end of the mall.

  “Gloria. These are modern clag. We could find cheaper antique ones.”

  “Really?” She judged me, and we crossed to the antiques window.

  The shop’s name was unfamiliar, or I wouldn’t have made the suggestion. I glanced in as a customer left. An elderly lady behind the counter I’d never seen before. My spirits rose. The last thing I wanted was to be recognised by some antiques dealer. There aren’t many divvies. In fact I only knew of two, and the French one had passed away years ago, requiescat in pace. Cheered, I entered with Gloria.

  The creaky old bird smilingly showed us two velvet-covered trays of what she called sleeve furniture. She meant cufflinks. This is typical antiques trade, to call everything furniture so you’ll be impressed and reach for your purse. Earrings, nose rings, and silver tongue studs (ugh!) become “Our special collection of face furniture, madam!” Dealers are less forthcoming about nipple rings and penis rings – both were popular in Victorian times, though it isn’t true that Prince Albert started the fashion in 1851. Trendy dealers sometimes claim that, wanting a royal connection at any price.

  We dithered over some silver Art Deco cufflinks (I hate Art Deco, all those stark shapes, like nobody could be bothered doing a decent design), and a pair of Edwardian onyx efforts in gold. The really good pair looked like ancient Egyptian scarabs mounted on London gold, 1930 or so. I always carry a loupe, but didn’t use it to examine the hallmark in case it set Gloria wondering. The old dear knew what she was selling, and smiled when I picked them off the tray.

  “They’re very expensive, young man,” she warned. “I can tell you like them. Are you all right?”

  I felt a bit queer and had to sit for a second on the customer chair. I pointed to a set of six enamelled stud things.

  “D’you think those could be made into cufflinks?” I asked innocently. “They’re shirt-front things, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t like them,” from Gloria. I could have clouted her, stupid cow.

  “Yes, dear, old shirt studs. My husband could change the style for you. I think they’re maybe gold, but don’t have a hallmark.”

  “Not bad,” I said casually to Gloria. “Why not get them for Cal? Can you afford them?”

  The studs were small, blue enamel on gold stems, set in a phoney modern leatherette case.

  Gloria hardly glanced at the price tag. It was only pencilled in.

  “A lady brought them in late yesterday,” the proprietress said. “I really should wait until my husband gets back, but I’d hate you to be disappointed and miss a good buy. I think they’re lovely.”

  A real antique dealer’s wife, she put it the right way round. Not, note, that she would be disappointed missing a sale. She probably bought them from some old dear “for a bite and a button” as the antiques trade says enviously of anything cheaply got. Most dealers never, never ever, use the expression “going for a song”. Dunno why.

  “Look at the time.” I tottered to my feet hoping I’d make it to the door. “I’ll start the car.”

  Outside I stood against the wall to recover from the divvy giddiness as people thronged past. A bloke playing a mouth-organ came along. I gave him a coin. He gambolled on. An infant clutched my leg shouting, “Dad-da! Dad-da!” until its embarrassed mother hauled it away and strapped it in its push-chair, apologising profusely. Some students clowning in fancy dress frolicked by. It was all happening in Southampton. I checked inside where Gloria was still at it. I sat in a nosh bar a few shops down, eyes closed. I had a headache. This is what happens, like in Benjo’s shop with the illicitly imported African tribal antique.

  Shirt studs mostly came in sets of six, and were sold in cases five inches or so long, always round at the corners. Very highly sought by collectors, and are copied by modern (meaning rubbishy) designers lacking ideas of their own. The ones Gloria was haggling over were made by Lalique, enamel on gold. A genuine set, even not in their original case, will buy a new family motor car. If I’d time, I would have bought a fake original case – they’d cost only an average day’s wage – and have a Lalique label forged by Sally Salva in Long Melford. They would look superb.

  “Hello, Lovejoy.”

  “Wotcher,” I said mechanically, then started and squinted up. “Er, no, afraid you’re mistaken.” I invented in a panic, “My name is, er …”

  “Don’t come it, Lovejoy. It’s only me, Pennel.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I’m a stranger.” I went into an abysmal French accent, and tried to move
off.

  Pennel answered in perfect French, something about wishing me well. I said feebly, “Lovejoy’s my cousin, lives in East Anglia.”

  “Hungry, Lovejoy?”

  I surrendered. “I’m starving, Penno.” So much for principle. He bought me a plate of chips, three eggs, a slab of madeira cake, a stack of bread and butter, a pint of tea, a couple of pasties for afters and a whimberry tart. I wolfed them in random order. He sat opposite and watched.

  “You always did love your grub, Lovejoy. Good to see somebody eat.” Pennel has four daughters, two of them trying for anorexia. “Been in Dumbo’s?”

  That halted me in mid nosh.

  “That antiques shop belongs to Dumbo Chesterton?” The sign said Hartwellson Antiques.

  “You’re safe, lad. He’s at Weller and Dufty’s antique sales in the Midlands. Not back till tomorrow.”

  Thank God for that. I resumed scoffing. Pennel weighed me up. He’s a pleasant oldish bloke with false teeth that keep clicking together when he doesn’t want them to do anything of the kind. You can get sticky stuff for that. He used to be a buyer for Gimbert the auctioneer. Like most antique buyers he can’t keep secrets, so my safe sojourn in Southampton was doomed. Pennel collects car mascots, those ugly figures on radiator bonnets of motor cars. I’d once done him a favour, showing where he could find a Spirit of Ecstasy, that gorgeous flying lady Charles Sykes designed for Rolls Royces in 1910. He’s not a bad bloke, sticks to honesty. It’s a saying in antiques: stick to honesty – should all else fail.

  “Who is the pretty bird, Lovejoy?”

  “A shop lady. Her brother’s done porridge, just out. She’s buying him posh gear.”

  “They haven’t caught up with you, then.”

  “Would I be sitting here if they had?”

  He sighed. “I’m glad I’m old, Lovejoy. All this aggro, no sense anywhere. People don’t think antiques, only gelt. I blame money. Everything changed when ram raiders came in.” He eyed me, rheumy old eyes wise and woeful. “My advice, Lovejoy? Do a moonlight. Bad enough having the trade hunting you without the Old Bill after you too. One or the other’s bound to catch you.”

  “You going to tell on me, Penno?”

  “Sorry, son. You know the game. If they heard I’d clocked you and not bubbled you to them, they’d come down on me. So would the plod.”

  “Does that mean yes?”

  “Sorry, Lovejoy. I’ll give you a week. Okay?” He stood. “Last week I bought a Vulcan Motor Company mascot, genuine 1903. Mint. Best and first of them all!”

  He’d bought cleverly, and most expensively. (Tip: never, never ever, buy automobilia gadgets if they’ve been repaired. It’s throwing money away.) Pennel must be doing all right, spending such large sums. I wondered who his friends were, and why he was here in Southampton, gateway to the world. He comes from Luton, a long way off. Was he hunting me? I ate faster.

  “Anyway I can help, Lovejoy?”

  You can always tell when betrayal comes to a friend’s mind. Their eyes focus on some distant advantage.

  “Aye, Penno. Tell me what you’ve heard.”

  He grimaced, glanced round as if at spy school.

  “Common gossip, that’s all. You robbed the Marquis of Gotham’s place in Northamptonshire.” He raised his hands when I looked up, narked. “Not saying you did, Lovejoy. It’s just what folk say. The marquis and two other lords hired David Buddy to hunt you down. The bounty hunter.”

  “They say that, do they?”

  “Lord Featherstonehaugh and the Marquis of Wells. They’re paying David Buddy a third each for your capture. And the police want you too.”

  “Is that all?” My joke fell flat.

  “Christ, Lovejoy, isn’t that enough?” He tapped his nose, to show he was speaking about prison. “Dave Buddy did nine years of porridge in Durham clink for nicking Rembrandts. He knows the trade.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. Wish you good luck, son. So-long.”

  “Cheers, Penno. Ta for the nosh.”

  Off he went with his satchel slung over his shoulders. Pennel is a typical collector, and would sell his wife for a trinket. I’ve nothing against them. I really do admire a bloke who’ll steal, beg and borrow to complete a collection of antique chimney pots, porcelain fingernails, old Vogue posters, or specimens of dinosaur dung. I’ve met them all. But morals, who collects those? Penno had promised me a week. I divided that by my truth factor, which ranges from three to ten depending on the degree of terror, and judged that he’d give me until the day after next unless there was something in it for him. So I had to leave today. I was tired of running, but not when it’s the only way to stay alive. Time to go. I melted among the shops, checking I wasn’t being followed.

  * * *

  I’m like every antiques dealer on earth. We look grotty, but we harbour a dream. It’s the dream of miracles. In truth, one miracle in particular. Every antiques dealer calls it The Epic. It’s the big one, that truly world-shattering discovery – an Old Master on a street barrow, the long-lost Diary of Will Shakespeare, the burial place of Christ, or the Grail – that will make their moniker a household name for ever and ever. Then (the dream goes) will come the knighthoods, presentation at Court, fanfares, sexy harems and riches beyond imagination. And, as dreamers say as we wake to bitterness, all that jazz.

  The trouble with dreams is that they really do happen – to someone else. Like those workmen in Cambodia who started repairing that old temple in 2002. They discovered thirty-one statuettes of the Compassionate Buddha. No big deal? Well, yes, because twenty-seven were solid gold, three were pure silver, and one bronze. And that’s when greed – yours, mine – hits the fan. All an antiques dealer needs is a pencil drawing of some miraculous find, plus a vague idea of scale (if pushed, he’ll do without either) and he’ll create a dozen fakes to flog to collectors.

  Of course, it doesn’t matter if his forgeries don’t look genuine antiques, because who’s seen them except forgotten labourers in some deep jungle? As he sells them, he invariably mutters that his are the real Cambodian statuettes. And, nudge-nudge, he begs you to keep quiet about them because Interpol is everywhere… He’ll swear he smuggled them out of Cambodia before the United Nations tore in, et fictional cetera.

  In the trade, dealers call this by the impossible term “the Not-A-Word-To-Betsy”, after some famous old radio catch-phrase. The most exalted instances are the Portrait of the Duke of Wellington, once stolen and ever since reproduced for secret sale by a zillion fakers (“Honest, guv, this is the original, but not a word, eh?”). And the long-vanished Stone of Scone – I’ve seen nineteen of them sold to tourists, and that’s only in East Anglia. You could rebuild Edinburgh with the number of Scotland’s Genuine Unique Coronation Stone of Scone fakes sold off lorries on our motorways, all with sworn guarantees. And practically every Corot painting, and Modigliani sculpture …

  For any forger, the great risk is forgetting what fakes you’ve made. Once, I came close to bidding for one of my own forgeries at an auction, would you believe, and made myself a laughing stock. I almost fell for Yank Impressionist pointillism paintings by Shaw, who was said to be a friend of Vincent’s, no less. It was at Gimbert’s Auction Rooms (why is a single room always plural?) and only drew back when I recognised the frame. I’d painted, and framed, the Japanese garden scene a year previously. It was a different forgery that had set me running for my life.

  * * *

  We’d left Gloria’s purchases at the mall’s security desk. The service is free to shoppers. Gloria still hadn’t emerged so I went to collect our shopping. I didn’t intend to vanish with the expensive clothes Gloria’d bought, honest. But thoughts of escape were on my mind. If I hopped it, I’d save on sad goodbyes. I was hurrying out to the taxi stand when Gloria caught me up.

  “Leaving so soon?” she asked sweetly.

  “Just being useful,” I lied. “Taxis are hard to find at this hour.”

  Gloria looked at the ei
ghteen taxis queuing for custom. “And you found one! What were the chances of that?”

  “Lucky me,” I said weakly.

  We loaded up. As we left the mall, I was sure Miss Lacy Trimble was walking casually along the pavement, a blue saloon car drawing alongside. She was wearing dark sunglasses – in drizzle? – and smiling to herself. Pennel was by the public telephones fumbling for a coin. Nice place, Southampton, but goodbye.

  On the way back Gloria made the driver pause at a leather place, and bought her brother a set of suitcases and a travelling satchel. I envied him. At least he’d look legit even if he was an ex-con. I wondered what he’d been in for.

  The Melissa was still boarding. I’d heard Tez say she sailed later today, something to do with tides. I wouldn’t be here to wave her off. I’d be over the hills and far away like in the song. Except, I remembered uneasily, that ancient ditty was about lads leaving for some impossible wars where they were to die. I carried Gloria’s shopping upstairs, and went to help Tez with his loading. The blue saloon parked across the road, Miss Trimble inside talking into a mobile phone while her bloke stood on the kerb looking at the weather. As secret as Derby Day.

  We stopped work for a cup of tea. I worked out how much money I’d got. I had digs round the corner, but it would be daft to nip back there. I only had an old raincoat, one extra pair of underpants and a plastic razor-blade. I usually nick soaps and shampoos from bed-and-breakfast places. This time I’d have to go without, in the interests of speed. I’d left my lonely cottage with my passport, little money and no credit.

  Half-three, Gloria called me. I shouted up that I was loading with Tez, ready in a sec. She was evidently on the phone. I heard her say, “Yes, well, our new man can wheel you on board. Are you there now?”

  Frollie came to me, Tez in his lorry ticking the documents. She embraced me round my middle. Frollie could have gone into a pint pot. “Look after yourself, Lovejoy.”

  “Thanks, love.” Was it so obvious I was leaving?