It’s even more unsettling when you haven’t made any smiles at all but you feel it’s soon on its way.
“Wotcher, love. I came to see if you’ve picked something out for tonight’s quiz.”
“I can’t get through to the hospital, Lovjeoy.”
“For Mr Semper? Shall we ask the captain?” was all I could think of.
“I’ve faxed the consul in Copenhagen.”
“Good idea. Who gave you the message about his operation?”
“Purser Mangot. He is in charge of us guest speakers, you see.”
He would be. “Look, Lauren. How about you hire some lost-person searcher? You can do it by phone. Tell you what I’ll do.” I realised by now the cabins must be bugged, or at least the phones tapped, but played along. “Tomorrow we’ll raise the Salvation Army. Don’t they have them in Denmark too? They’re good at finding missing people. Then you can fly out. You’ll be in his hospital room by noon, bet you a quid.”
“You’re such a help, Lovejoy.”
I couldn’t take any more tears, so grabbed the three antiques she’d picked out of Henry Semper’s collection of gunge and took them to the light.
They were ladies’ fans. One had sandalwood radii with patterned silk leafing, a copy of an 1820 or so. The next was in ivory and silk, the kind people call “mandarin fans” now, but modern crud. The last was a filigree ivory fan, the radiate blades without silken leafing and made from ivory throughout. It had a coat-of-arms engraved on the decoration. It was genuine, 1860 or so. I was surprised.
“We’ll ask the diners which is the genuine one, okay? And they must guess its price. The winner gets the honest fan.”
She sat dolefully on the bed. “Lovejoy? Henry is all right, isn’t he?”
“Of course he is!” I said, faking enthusiasm. “Danish hospitals are famous. They’re stiff with surgeons.” I babbled on, making it up. “They practically invented surgery of the, er, gastro-fundicular. Good heavens, Lauren, you can’t lose heart now. He couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Please don’t be upset, Lovejoy.”
“Upset?” I wasn’t upset, except about getting killed in the morning or gaoled in the Gulag.
“You see, when we, you and I … y’know? I feel I am being disloyal to Henry, being drawn to you. There! I’ve said it. I shouldn’t be. It is betrayal.”
“Betrayal?” God, how I wanted to leave. “Look, Lauren. You’re distraught with worry. Like me.” I mentally crossed my fingers and fibbed on. “What are friends for? We’re his friends, together working out how to help him. That’s all we do. Nothing bad. He’ll be glad his friends are teamed up.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course, Lauren!”
“You see, Lovejoy, Henry and I were never really really one, meaning together in the sense that we…” and so on.
There was half an hour more of it. I finally reeled out and had to dash to get ready for dinner. It wasn’t a black tie-and-tux evening, seeing we were in port. Posh occasions were for sea days only.
* * *
The talk was all of St Petersburg. Billy and Kevin laughed – he roaring, Kevin tittering – about local customs. I got the unhappy feeling that Billy’s cracks, all derogatory, were aimed at Ivy. She smiled and said little. Millicent had had a marvellous time among the tourist shops, but found nothing much except silver. Holly Sago was replete, her eyes glinting still, occasionally snapping some Churchillian imperative to keep Kevin from showing off too much. Kevin had had a failed day, having tried to buy some antiques to ship to London and finding nobody able to make decisions.
“How the hell they manage their stupid commerce, God alone knows,” he kept grousing. “They kept telling me I’d to see somebody else…”
Ivy said nothing. She was playing her allotted role. I began to get the drift. She was the simple uncomprehending wife who wasn’t worth asking. I looked more and more at Billy’s extrovert performance with Kevin.
The dinner-time antiques quiz was better organised now. After the main course, I’d get up and go to the restaurant manager’s table, check the “antiques”, then give the nod. Lauren and I would simply walk them slowly past the tables, on which stacks of the blank cards were placed by stewards. No delay, no hesitation, no pausing to explain or answer questions. If I noshed fast, and Lauren got on with her meal, we were be back at our seats in time for pudding. Then it was only a matter of collecting the cards with the answers as folk left, and we’d be in time for the evening floor show, the theatre or the latest film. We’d simply take the first correct answer. Fini.
That evening I reported to Lady Vee, took her to see the exquisite dancers – Amy to the fore – and found myself laughing edgily at Les’s full-on routine. Lady Vee admired the dresses, the band, the music. Then a quiet drink in the Monte Carlo Club, where Lady Vee tried to outdo Holly Sago in losing at poker and blackjack, then roulette, then the fruit machines. I finally took her to her suite and said goodnight. She demanded I take her on an outing in the morning – to guess where – the palace where Rasputin got killed.
“I’ve booked our tickets, Lovejoy, dear!” she carolled. “Won’t you stay for another drink?”
“Ta, love. Night.” I was knackered, and left. I made my cabin just as I slumped into oblivion.
Or I would have, if I didn’t come from the shower to hear my cabin door click shut. I sprang to open it, and saw the familiar heel just disappear at the end of the corridor. I could hardly chase after her in my nip, whoever she might have been, so I went back inside to check what was missing. Answer: nothing. On the bed, turned down with tomorrow’s newspaper “Welcome To St Petersburg – Second Day!!” – and the usual three chocolates on the pillow, was a large parcel.
Expecting a bomb, I undid it, head averted in case it exploded. It was a set of clothes. I put all the lights on to see. Clothes? Dark corduroy trousers my exact size, and a black rather worn leather jacket, with one pocket slightly torn. I sat on the bed and looked at them. Dark socks, and grubby shoes? I quickly took the shoes off the bed – it’s a prophesy of death in Lancashire and still gives me the willies. A piece of paper read: Darling, please don’t spruce up tomorrow. Love, I XXX. If it hadn’t been so late I’d have rung Ivy and asked what the hell I was supposed to do with this load of tat, except her Billy would be there.
There’s a fascist in each of us. I had become institutionalised, living like a lord on this grand cruise with its luxury service. And here was Ivy providing me with dross. To wear this gear, I’d have had to shed my clean snazzy clobber, and go about looking like a scruff. That made me think. I found an envelope in the jacket pocket. It held photocopies of my passport, driving licence, boarding card, and two visa cards. I scanned them. I found a small fold of American dollars, ones and fives. Were these clues? If so, in what game?
She wanted me to carry these things, but why? To report me to the St Petersburg police and have me arrested for false pretences? I’d heard stories about people getting slammed in the pokey for not being able to produce passports and boarding cards on demand.
I slept, with my new – okay, old and grubby – clothes folded on the chair waiting for the dawn. They were good enough for me. I made a vow to escape – how many was that? Eight? Nine? In the morning, I’d finally make a run for it, not stop until I reached some border, and never come back. This time I’d keep going whatever happened.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I lost over seven hundred!”
“Give up, love. You’re worse than Holly.”
“Holly Sago won last night, the bitch,” Lady Vee said, with all the caring compassion of a gambler who hears her friend has won.
“She’s better than you,” I said.
“Right!” Lady Vee shrieked, causing heads to turn in the lounge. “I’ll challenge her! Tonight!”
“Go on, waste your money, silly cow,” I said, off-hand. “Serve you right.”
“It’s my reputation…” etc, etc.
She kept on. We were assembling to disembark. I got a small bottle of water. My gear caused smiles. Les Renown and Amy were whispering at the far end, looking at me. Les, always a scream, pulled his lapels to show he found my worn jacket a laugh.
Ivy entered with that Victor bloke. I felt jealous. She sat without a glance, reading some catalogue. I saw with relief she had the same colour of sticker on as we, for the Yusupov Palace tour. The tickets were handed me by Lady Vee’s maid as I wheeled Diamond Lil to the Atrium. In one sock I had extra dollars. My mouth was dry. I felt full of panic, curt with the world, but ready to go.
“You’re not usually surly, Lovejoy,” her ladyship said.
“I put up with you, so I’m a frigging saint.”
She fell quiet, waiting for the exodus. Half of me wanted to leap to the quayside and sprint to the airport, assuming there was one. I had Ivy’s little fold of money and photocopies in my trouser pocket. The other half of me was curious to see what the scam really was. Bannerman and Cynthia were just getting their stickers. He gave me a wink. Cynthia’s stare was compelling but I glanced away.
Millicent and Jim waved at us as they joined Billy and Kevin who arrived together, surprise surprise. Delia Oakley came over and said hello. Her pal Fern was going to a palace fifteen miles away, she told us.
“Fern hates all that Rasputin business.”
“He was assassinated in the Yusupov Palace,” Lady Vee announced with glee. “Will we see the bloodstains?”
“Can I help with the wheelchair, Lovejoy?” Delia offered.
“Ta.”
Tour B2 was called. We shuffled down the corridor and through the security bleeps. I felt a pang when passing the Ghurka checkpoint, as if it was farewell. They were slick with Lady Vee’s chair, slotting it into some lifting device on the coach’s side.
“Pass this note to Holly, Lovejoy,” Lady Vee said with sly malice, “seeing you’re silly about her.”
“Shut your teeth, you owd crab.”
Delia looked sideways at that. Maybe it was my tone. Ivy and Victor Lustig boarded last, just as I was getting worried. I had the passengers pass the note along. Holly read it and beamed at Lady Vee, thumbs up. The gambling challenge was on. I noticed Natasha – lo and behold, our courier for the day, summery in a daffodil-yellow suit – pause and read the note, laughing with Holly. Nothing escaped Natasha’s notice.
I couldn’t help asking, “What’s the bet?”
“All debts. Shops, casino, incidental expenses.”
“Don’t come crying to me.”
“You’re our antiques man, Lovejoy.” She plucked my sleeve. “Will you get me Hoyle’s famous book?”
“Edmund Hoyle’s A Short Treatise on the Game of Whist came out in 1742, love, and is as rare as unicorn horn. It’ll cost you a world cruise.”
“That’s ridiculous! It’s so small! I saw one in a library.” And on she whinged, the grumble of a collector wanting priceless antiques for a farthing.
Natasha meanwhile was deafening us through her microphone about Rasputin and his baleful influence on the Tzar and the Tzarina. I didn’t want to hear about killing today, ta very much, so I just looked out at beautiful St Petersburg, where the giant Peter the Great ran naked along the banks of the Neva through the snows after his banya. I was still smarting from my own banya. Perhaps that was the idea, but I’d rather have the toxins.
“The Yusupov Palace,” Natasha thundered through her echoey microphone, “was where Prince Yusupov, the husband of the Tzar’s niece, killed Rasputin. A Flagellant monk, Rasputin taught that holiness comes only through sexual exhaustion. His name means He-who-is-debauched…”
Eventually we passed a market, the next street the Moskovsky. Even I could make that out by saying the letters over to myself. It was at a wide junction with shops on every corner, a smart part of town.
Almost immediately our coach turned off into gardens with a small lake dotted with islands. It looked rural. My spirits rose. The canal beyond was within running distance, say for a fleeing man. From the busy square to the Yusupov Palace on the canal was no more than a couple of hundred paces. I could do that.
And no Amy on our coach, no Purser Mangot, no Les Renown with his tiresome ten-liners. We alighted, my spirits wondering if it was safe now to peer out. I got hold of Lady Vee’s wheelchair, all but shoving Delia Oakley away in my eagerness. Gallant to the last, I realised I could use Lady Vee as a shield if somebody tried to gun me down.
The Palace was exquisite. I wondered about Ivy, but I couldn’t see her or Victor. I couldn’t swallow, my throat gone dry. I tried to gulp a little water.
“Are you all right, Lovejoy?” Holly said, closing in to arrange tonight’s gambling match.
“Yes, ta. Just admiring the, er, gargoyles and that.”
“He’s in a temper because I tell him home truths,” Lady Vee said.
“What about?”
“He’s crazy for you, that’s what.”
Holly Sago laughed. “Better not tell Kevin that,” she said evenly. I wondered what was going on, and between whom.
“Let me, Lovejoy,” Delia said, taking the old lady over. She was good at coming to my rescue. She’d done it when Josh Bannerman went berserk over those pearls. I really liked her. “You’re probably tired from all your exertions,” she added sweetly.
See what I mean about women? I couldn’t stand her. She meant she believed Lady Vee about me and Holly. Here was I in danger of death, and they concentrate on pecking order, when there can’t be any such thing among women, who are all as brilliant as each other. I hung close as we were mustered by Natasha. We trailed after her bright umbrella into the Yusupov Palace. My heart was going like a Maxim. I found it difficult to inhale. No clamminess, though, so it was plain fear and nothing to do with antiques.
The place was tranquil. No Russians about, except for two ladies at a stall near the hallway selling tourist trinkets and brochures. Nice amber, mostly the white amber so favoured in the Baltic States. For a moment I delayed, wondering if some small antique on the stall had caused me to dawdle. The lady became quite animated, offering me this and that. I smiled weakly, said my thanks and hurried after the B2 passengers. We looked a right motley throng. I’ve been in better retreats. Still, I felt safer in a crowd, so I eeled to the middle and trudged along as Natasha explained about the restoration of the Palace.
“The steps are very narrow!” she cried through her microphone. “We proceed one by one.”
Here it comes, I thought, checking the exits. No sign of Purser Mangot, nor his aides. Where was June Milestone? With her boyfriend Mangot, that’s where, drinking white Ukranian wine on the lawns of the Summer Palace, knowing I was for it anyway.
“No turning back!” Natasha screeched. My ears rang. “In sequence please!”
The rooms we entered looked as if they were deliberately left in a state of dinginess. It was a series of tableaux. Wax figures in authentic costume were disposed about behind glass. Prince Yusupov was there with the gun, and Rasputin seated, legs asplay, at the table where he was actually shot.
It was a bungled affair, Delia explained as I edged along down the narrow wooden stairs, peering in the weak light.
“They poisoned him first. He didn’t die. So Prince Yusupov – this is his palace – shot him. He still didn’t die. So they dragged him out across the snow and shoved him into the river where he drowned. Rumour says he still didn’t die, crawled out of the river and back up these very stairs … are you all right?”
“Fine!” I said, perversely determined to appear the opposite of what I felt. Maybe it was a dim memory of what Henry Semper told me, to tell everybody wrong. I’d not done it so far. I’d been as honest as I could be. From now on, I would appear and say the opposite of everything I felt and thought. “I’m choking laughing.” They sounded nearly as efficient as me.
We emerged into an open hall with a grand sweep of staircase. One thing, you have to give it to St Petersburg. When they set out to restor
e a place, they do a perfect job. The stairs, carpets, gilt chairs, banisters, walls, mirrors, chandeliers, everything was spectacular. It was hard to imagine the place shelled to rubble, or whatever happened to it in the Great Blockade. If this was an instance of Russian restoration, they are masters of the art.
“Now to the Yusupov Theatre!” Natasha boomed. We were standing next to her. I think she saw herself as stage performer aiming for Number One in the video charts. I wondered if there was a way to fuse her microphone to shut her up.
“Did you see the blood?” Lady Vee hadn’t been able to manage the narrow stairs, pretending in her wheelchair.
“Buckets,” I told her. “Blood everywhere.”
“And poison?”
“Buckets of it.”
“I wish I’d seen it,” she said wistfully.
“I’ll buy you the film. It’s gory.”
“Is it?” Her eyes shone.
“This is the Yusupov Theatre!” Natasha bellowed. Gold and white doors were flung open onto the most stunning auditorium I’d ever seen.
The walls were spectacular. Velvet seats, all bearing the Prince Yusupov crest, were arranged for an audience. The carpet was plush and deep. Overcome, we tiptoed in and meekly took seats in turn along the front row. Natasha had the usual slanging match with some cuboidal lady guardian who insisted on counting us over and over. The whole theatre was brilliantly restored. We needed these Russian workmen to do our Tate Modern, the new gallery Londoners call The Tat Modern.
“This theatre was the scene of many performances by Russian performers for the Prince’s invited audiences.”
She signalled, and the splendid curtains swished back to reveal the stage. Instantly I felt rough, yet the scenery was only crude modern village mock-ups, the sort you’d see in any amateur drama company’s pantomime season for Christmas revelries. They’re what am-dram folk thespians call flats, daubed canvas and hardboard on plain wooden supports, with scenery poster-painted on. I’d done scores myself, for our village’s mid-winter pantomimes. This scenery was Jack-And-The-Beanstalk tat. The glue and size has to be poured on hot, and stinks to high heaven. I could detect the aroma from where I sat gaping up at the proscenium.
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