“If you’d asked me, I’d have … well, you know? Maybe another time, eh?”
Gloria called down, “Ready, Lovejoy? That old lady wants you to wheel her aboard. She’s in the Terminal.”
“Why me?” I called, trying to disengage Frollie.
“Do as you’re told!”
Women make you respond to orders. “I’d best get over there,” I told Frollie.
“One thing.”
“Yes?”
She looked so sad. “Here.” She gave me a piece of paper with a phone number. “Nine o’clock, any evening. My chap’s always at the pub. I know I’m nothing to look at, but I’ll help if I can.”
What could I tell her? I couldn’t say I was going to keep on running in case they left me floating in some dark canal, could I? Maybe I’d shacked up with the wrong woman, Gloria instead of Frollie? Except Tez was tougher than I’d ever be. Look at the way he shifted crates. Mistakes about women can never be altered. I’ve learned that.
“Ta, Frollie.”
“Just push her through the Terminal,” Gloria was shouting.
“What about your brother’s things?” I called back.
“Tez will bring them on board.”
So her brother was actually going on a cruise? I didn’t blame him.
“Right.” I stepped to the door and lied half-heartedly, “Be back in a minute.”
“Tara, love,” Frollie said, sorrow in her voice.
Hurrying across to the Terminal I joined the throng. I don’t know if you’ve ever been among passengers boarding a cruise, but it’s a rugby scrum. I’d never seen so many different shapes and sizes. One or two were already swigging hard at the bar, some definitely reeling, the rest greeting friends with “Remember the last cruise when we…?” to shrieks of laughter. I found my old lady attended by a squat annoyed nurse of cuboidal shape.
“You’re late!” the nurse snapped. She shoved me at the wheelchair and marched ahead.
“You?” I said to the old dear in the wheelchair. It was the lady who’d bought the garden illuminators from Benjo’s Bargain Emporium. “You’re going on a sail?”
“Be quick or I shall miss the boat.” This set her off into peals of laughter. “Did you follow my pun? Miss the boat?”
“Very humorous.” I shoved her to the gate.
“Just give the officers the folder. Follow the nurse.”
I complied. Embarkation is a grubby, shop-soiled business. You’ve to mob successive desks while uniformed aristocrats, very snooty, talk of luggage and tickets. The nurse did all that, thank God, while we were waved through. They wanted my passport. I obliged, some security thing I supposed. I was honestly glad to leave the hubbub of the departure lounge.
A uniformed officer greeted the old lady, obsequious and smart. He gave her priority. It actually crossed my mind, but very fleetingly, that if the old lady had so many people willing to shepherd her through the various gauntlets and barriers, why on earth was I there? I was too thick to realise something was wrong.
“I can’t,” I explained when this officer geezer gestured me through the gate. “I’m waiting for someone.” Gloria hadn’t got here yet. I’d done exactly as she said.
“Good to see you, Lady Veronica,” he said to the crone, taking the folder. I asked after my passport. “Returned when you leave the ship, sir,” he said. “Go through.”
I pushed the wheelchair under an arch thing. There was a lass with a camera, just my luck.
“Smile, please!” In time, I looked to one side and hurried on past. However Miss Veronica’s snap came out, my photo would be a blur.
“This way, please!” A stewardess wafted us through a corridor and into a lift. We seemed to be priority.
“Have I got long?” I asked nervously. “I’m due back any minute. When does this thing sail?” The previous day I’d imagined escaping on this very ship. Now I had visions of my picture on TV News At Nine with zany newspaper headlines, Stowaway Forger Caught in Typhoon At Sea. I stood a better chance back where I belonged, in towns with railways stations and cars where I knew my way about.
“Very soon, sir.” The stewardess couldn’t help glancing at my dishevelled appearance, which narked me because I’m always clean underneath, even if Benjo’s Emporium smudged me up a bit. She could keep her rotten ship and her posh white outfit.
“State Room 1133,” Lady Veronica chirped.
“Here it is, your ladyship.”
We made a door that opened onto a spacious room with an unbelievable spiral staircase and a balcony overlooking, it seemed to me in that instant, the whole of Southampton’s docklands. A piano, a lounge, a dining area leading off, and three other doors standing ajar. I was surprised. I’d thought ship’s cabins were just closets with a bunk bed and a shared loo. I noticed a beautiful pair of pedestal vases, each as large as a breakfast bowl. Only decorative, but the most gorgeous pair of Blue John rarities I’d ever seen. The two together would buy a sizeable freehold house or a Grosvenor Square rental for life. Fourteen types of Blue John exist, eight of them from Derbyshire, although not all kinds are gem quality. Blue John is called that from the anglicized old French for blue-yellow, bleu-jaune, its principal colours, the best from the Castleton mines if you’re feeling lucky.
My palms itched. The thought didn’t honestly cross my mind, of nicking them and scarpering ashore. I tore my eyes away. Posh ship, this.
“Now, young man, you deserve a drink!”
“I am Marie,” said a small uniformed lass, taking over from the welcome party who dashed away to bring yet more folk aboard. “Drink, your ladyship?”
“Cocktail of the day, Marie, please, and a beer for this restless soul.” Lady Veronica’s bright eyes gleamed up at me. “Isn’t that what you require?”
“Haven’t time, I’m afraid.” I was supposed to be helping Gloria’s brother with suitcases. “Ta, though. Have a pleasant, er …” French bits in our lingo always sound pompous when I try to say them. I can manage cul-de-sac, but “Bon voyage!” sounds made up, and names of wines are death. I always go red and never believe what I’m saying. I nearly told the old dear to have a pleasant flight. “A pleasant sailing,” I finished weakly.
She twittered, “We always have a drink on arrival. It’s tradition, isn’t it, Marie?”
“It is, m’lady,” carolled the slim lass, busy with drinks at a grand-looking bar. I guessed Filipino, maybe Indian.
“I’ve not got long,” I said. “They’ve still got my passport.”
“Gloria will call for you here. You like our Blue John vases?”
“Er, yes.” Cunning as ever, I added casually, “Is that what they’re called, Blue John?”
“Castleton stone,” Lady Veronica said. “Especially rare. Do you like this suite, Marie?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Close the curtains.” Lady Vee accepted her frosted glass. “I can’t stand brightness.”
Brightness? It was still grey and wet out there. I could hear a band. The old dear told me to be seated so I perched somewhere while tons of luggage arrived. Marie sent the cases through into a bedroom. No tips, I saw with awe, stewards smiling and cheery. Well, going on a cruise they would be happy.
Music drifted from hidden speakers. I sipped at the beer to be friendly though it gives me a headache. I’d have murdered a cup of tea. Marie fetched little cakes, the sort that barely fill a tooth. I wolfed them all except for a coconut thing Lady Vee got to first.
She began to speak wistfully of cruises she had known, ships she loved, parties and dances in tropic climes. The band outside played on. I felt lulled and safe. That should have warned me. A stupid they’d-never-find-me-here conviction seeped into my mind. I tried hatching plans to ditch Gloria on the way back to the Emporium, saying I needed the loo, dart to a taxi to reach the motorway, maybe get a lift north …
Lady Veronica was still yakking. I felt she ship rumble slightly. I caught myself almost humming along to the tune the band was playing.
>
“Champagne, m’lady? Sir?”
“Not for me, thanks.” I stood, placed my drink on Marie’s tray. “Better be away. Bon trip, love.”
“It’s traditional,” the old dear told me, accepting a champagne flute and raising it.
Lots of tradition on these ships. It came to me of a sudden. Too much, maybe? I walked to the curtain and pulled it aside.
The ship was rumbling all right. The shore was twenty yards away and gliding. People on the top deck of the departure building were waving, throwing coloured streamers and filling up with tears, like you do when a ship leaves harbour.
I swallowed, turned, looked back at Lady Veronica.
“Here,” I said, in a voice that tried to strangle. “The ship’s moving. I can’t …”
“Don’t be silly. What’s to keep you at that terrible old shop? Your cabin is F188, Lovejoy,” Lady Vee said, smiling. “I’m told it is quite acceptable. Not a suite like this, of course, but it’s best if appearances are maintained, don’t you think?”
“Cabin?” I looked outside, opened the balcony window and stepped out. The cabin’s height was ridiculous, miles in the air. I could see whole roofs below me, cars below and people waving. The band was hard at it, playing Sailing, We Are Sailing … Like the duckegg I am, I’d hummed along. I always miss clues.
For a lunatic moment I imagined leaping off the balcony, swinging from one of the derricks to a gangplank and making it to some night-running lorry on a fast run into Salford. For a mad instant I thought I saw Miss Trimble among the crowd, but surely that must have been imagination.
“You’ll find it all quite pleasant,” the old woman said amiably. “Never been on a cruise before, I take it?”
“Not really.” Hong Kong’s Star Ferry didn’t count.
“You’ll love it. Everyone does.” She smiled, enjoying herself, one up on the male of the species while that male sweated in fear.
My face felt grey and my skin prickled in terror. The ship was a floating prison. I could see that now. What had seemed a brilliant mode of escape was nothing more than a trap. Had she worked it with Gloria? Was Gloria on board? Who’d run the Emporium? And I’d been abducted.
“Will they put me ashore? Look, Lady Vee, this isn’t my fault. Will I get fined? Does the boat stop anywhere?”
“No more of those thoughts, if you please,” she said blithely. She was thrilled with herself. “We have to go to the lecture on life-jackets and ship safety. They will remind us never to jump overboard. Attendance is compulsory, isn’t that so, Marie?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Did Cal get left behind, then?” I knew pilots went ashore in a little boat once big ships got clear of, what, coral atolls, sand bars? My nautical lore came from pirate ship stories in Boys Own Annuals.
Or was Cal a copper, also after me? I realised you could easily lose a person overboard, if that person wasn’t very, very careful. I moaned aloud.
“You’re really not very bright, are you, Lovejoy?” Lady Veronica said testily. “There is no such person as Cal. It was a ruse. Please go to your cabin. I’ll send for you. How long do we have, Marie?”
“Thirty minutes, m’lady. Your steward and luggage are in your cabin, sir.”
“Thank you,” I said mechanically, then thought, here, hang on. Luggage? Cabin? Steward, for God’s sake?
“Please remember your life-jacket. F Deck is down, centre lifts.” Marie handed me a card for Cabin F 188.
I found myself saying thanks, like I was here for the duration and everybody wanting to make me welcome. I could hardly feel movement, but when I looked out of the window – was it a porthole now? – it seemed to be going at a hell of a lick. I blundered about a staircase, quite lost, until a steward ushered me into a cabin.
“I’m Emil. Anything you want, sir, it’s that button on the phone. Life-jacket talk in twenty minutes.”
The cabin was a mere nook compared with Lady Veronica’s. Shower, bed, cupboards, drawers, a little television, a miniature armchair, a place to write, and a safe. No Blue John fruit bowls here. I wondered about Embarkation. I hadn’t seen the forms or documents in that folder. The grim nurse had done it all.
“Champagne, sir?” Emil beamed at me. “It’s traditional.”
Them and their bloody tradition. “No, ta.” I sat on the bed. The suitcases I’d seen Gloria buy stood there, rainbow ties on them labelled F 188.
He handed me an orange life-jacket, telling me he’d wait outside to take me to the muster station for safety practice.
They’d finally caught me. Fright made me feel queasy. It wasn’t from bobbing on the briny. Some tannoy system made the ship quiver, warning about life-jacket practice. I took my orange thing and trooped among a cast of millions to a lounge. There, pretty stewardesses taught us to strap ourselves into the cumbersome things and told us to blow a whistle if the ship sank. Everybody in the crowd was laughing. I felt silly. No sign of Gloria.
After the talk, we dispersed. I went to the cabin and fell on the bed and slept. I dreamed horrors.
Chapter Four
The worst dreams are real ones, dreams of what’s actually happened. I knew I was dreaming, even felt the ship thrumming slightly, but couldn’t stop.
* * *
Dawn broke over the Fenland. I was dangling from a gargoyle praying the night would last until I got clear. Robberies always make me sweat. I hate doing them. Other blokes in antiques never feel half as frightened.
In the gloaming below, I could just make out Belle’s huge four-by-four vehicle, a toy with a glittery roof from this height. The sky’s early pallor reflected in the ornamental pond, showing me which way to run if I ever made it down. I had tied the stolen painting round me. In theory, women should be the best burglars because they have a waist. I’m basically cylindrical. The painting had started to slip.
Belle’s pale face looked up from in the box-hedge maze. She never shuts up. She was endlessly whispering on a cell phone.
“You okay?” she kept saying. I should have lobbed her damned phone into the Koi carp pool. It kept pinging like a death knell.
The painting belonged to the Marquis of Gotham. (Please don’t write and complain; it’s a real place in Nottinghamshire, not just Batman’s nickname for New York.) It wasn’t an Old Master, simply a forgery done by my own lily-whites. A superb work of art, though I say it myself. I shouldn’t have been in this mess. It was not fair.
I clung on. The Marquis’s mansion was an enormous baronial hall, with barmy Tudor brickwork chimneys, really a mini-Hampton Court, all parapets and mullioned windows. Skeggie, a night-stealing cat burglar, had walked the building for me on a Public Open Day, taking photos, pretending to be a mature student from Norwich. Skeggie mapped out every inch. In these lord-of-the-manor places there’s no real security. They can’t afford it. Trouble is, cranky old retainers tend to have old-fashioned notions of right and wrong, and use double-barrelled shotguns before asking burglars to please vacate the premises. I’d taken advice from night-stealers before. I was ready. Forging antiques isn’t half so much trouble.
The reason I was in peril was Drogue. A drogue is actually a sea anchor, a canvas thing you throw overboard to keep your boat from drifting. Drogue’s nickname is a joke. He maims people with a walking stick he carries. Friends say there’s a sword inside, but if you’re near enough to worry about such things it’s too late. I’ve seen Drogue batter a bloke senseless. It’s got gold and silver mounts.
Once a boxer, he looks a real gent and wears a monocle, very Brigade of Guards, waistcoated, suit, George boots, a toff. He hires thugs, never keeps a bodyguard, and trusts no one. He said he’d pay me if I stole my forgery back, and punish me if I didn’t. Different words, of course.
The pub was crowded, football night.
Drogue rents his smiles out to women of a particular character. At me, he frowns.
“Break in tonight, Lovejoy. The Marquis is at a London premier. Two old retainers, no gamekeepers, it�
��ll be a doddle. Off-season, see?”
“I’ll take Belle.” She had a Land Ranger, good on rustic roads.
“Best time’s four in the morning, Lovejoy. Do it right.”
“Okay, Drogey. You paid Skeggie? He did a good job, maps and everything.”
“Use the cran in Dragonsdale.”
A cran is a place – hole in a wall, hollow tree, a disused bell-tower in some old church – where thieves leave stolen goods until fuss has died down. It’s common practice among people of low repute. (I don’t mean me, or even you, only everybody else.) The lady at Dragonsdale runs an Olde Englishe Tea Shoppe. She lets the antiques dealers use her chicken coop for a small fee. I like Hyacinth because she gives me bags of tomatoes when I’m short of money. She offers me chickens too, but I haven’t the nerve. You have to throttle a hen to eat it, and who can do that?
“Fingers crossed, Drogey.”
“No, Lovejoy. Fingers broken!”
He left, chuckling at his clever play on words. I chuckled along because I’m an ingrate. Women smiled at him all the way to the door. If he’d beckoned, any of them would have brushed off their skirts and made after him.
Blind Elsie came over to finish Drogue’s drink. She empties glasses from one end of Suffolk to the other but is never tipsy. She runs antiques from here to the Kent coast. Ugly as sin, heart of gold, she’s not really blind, just pretends because the myth helps her to sell mystic fortunes with the assistance of a toad in a bottle called Ape (the toad, not the bottle). She feeds it flies if it has a good run of clairvoyance. I can’t watch her do this. She carries Ape and a tube of bluebottles in her handbag. I think she’s a fraud, but other people say she’s a mystic who really Has The Eye. Claptrap, of course, though 60% of people believe in psychics.
“Find Belle for me, Elsie.”
“Is your robbery tonight?”
Everybody knows my business but me. I nodded. “I need wheels.”
“She’s just back from Llandeilo. Her cousin Stephen’s boy’s been ill.”
Gossip in the Eastern Hundreds is like weather, everybody shares. I sighed. If word had got round this quickly the police would be forming a queue at the Marquis’s gate revving their Black Maria.
Ten Word Game Page 4
