The Possessions of a Lady (11 page)

Aureole also had a pressure cooker. I scraped the ambers clean,
heated some water, bagged selected ambers in a strip torn from her skirt, and
immersed the bag in the pan. While it warmed, I bent her
eyelash-crimpers—horrible things, give me the willies—to make a pressing tool.
She could always buy new. And why'd she muck about with her bonny eyes anyway?

Amber warmed just short of boiling water goes pliable. You just
push bits together. After, heat it to about 180 degrees, maybe less, and mould
it firmly. I borrowed her garlic press, which compresses amber as well as a
proper tool if you hammer a flat piece of metal into its perforated base—
luckily, Aureole had a modern pewter pendant I used for that. Improvised
gadgetry's never easy. I took five goes, and ruined her implements, but you
can't make an omelette without et cetera. So I made a lovely 'ambroid' chunk,
made of smaller pieces. We cheat like this because a large piece is more
valuable than several bits, for antique amber pendants, earrings, necklaces.

You can always tell ambroid, though. Look closely, you'll see
interfaces—planes where the light changes, like that bobbled glass in porch
windows. The only other reliable sign is that ambroid's bubbles become
stretched instead of round.

After all this, I owned one large piece of ambroid, and six
smaller decent genuine ambers. In celebration I brewed up, fried some eggs and
bacon, borrowed her cheese, and finished her bread. She hadn't any puddings,
which I thought a bit stingy. Why invite a friend in, with nothing to eat?
Aureole ought to get her act together.

One niggle. Why did Wonker ignore me on the shore? We're pals. I'd
done him favours. He was making an antique wall plaque for me. Odd.

Worn out, I hid the ambers, lay starkers on the bed and slept the
sleep of the just.

There wasn't much grub left when I woke. I scavenged for calories.
I put the telly on, and found a fashion show. I observed their antics, bemused.

The narrator's words, for instance. Frantic-alloso? Petrificationally?
When he asked his third desperate question, 'Is this black zooish frondelle
actually
happenish
?’ I switched off.
I was in enough trouble from Thekla's mob.

Hanging about almost got me caught. I was barely out of the door
before Aureole's small purple motor came whirring round the corner. I ducked
out of sight through the little park that backs onto East Hill. It was coming
on for dark. The Ship tavern was booming. Mercifully Tinker was in, with Roadie
sulking beside him.

'Wotch, Tinker. Got a sec?'

God, but he stank worse than usual. His grubby mittens looked
crawling. I asked if he'd seen Roger Boxgrove. He hadn't. I told him to scout,
that I was broke.

'Got the amber fancied up, though, eh?'

You have to smile. He's amazing. I've found him sloshed, snoring
in a shed for two days blind drunk, and seen him wake, rub his eyes, and say,
'Lovejoy? Hear about them sofa tables at Beccles? Just gone for a song.' It's a
gift, news by osmosis. I can't do it, or I would.

'Aye. Here, Tinker. What's Wonker up to?'

'Carving you that fake misericord. Why?'

'Not fake, Tinker,' I corrected patiently in case anybody was
listening. 'Genuine antique misericord from an unnamed cathedral. Only, Wonker
saw me on the shore. He didn't come over, not a cheep.'

'That bird, I suppose.'

Bird? I started guiltily, but couldn't remember having done
anything illicit lately with Wonker's bird. She's comely, from Black Notley.
People don't need evidence to blame me, I've found.

'Not you, son,' Tinker gravelled out, hawking up phlegm and
spitting expertly into the pub fire over folks' heads. 'He's lost his bird to
that chain game Aureole runs.' His mouth corrugated in disapproval. He's a prim
old soak.

'Nothing to do with me?' I asked hopefully.

'Nar, son. Ought not to be allowed.'

Relief flooded in. 'That all? Look, Tinker. I want a place to
mount the sea gold. Benjie?'

'Not Benjie, Lovejoy. Turning out Victorian jewellery like Ford
motors for foreigners.'

'Hell fire.' I tried getting a pint for Tinker on the slate but
the bar girls looked askance.

'There's some bird from up home's phoning Antiques Centre.' Up
home to Tinker means north, where we both come from. He cited, 'Stella
Entwistle wants Lovejoy to ring Bran Mantle.'

'Never heard of him. Where can I work?'

'Your own workshop?' he suggested. 'It's only boarded up.'

Not a bad idea. I brightened, found Tellso playing tap room
billiards and borrowed a few quid off him on the strength of having a
collection of antique horse brasses for sale. I promised them by ten the
following morning, bought Tinker enough ale to swim in, and hit the road.

On Head Street by the post office I nearly jumped out of my skin
when a bloke yelled my name.

'Lovejoy! Don't, for God's sake!'

‘What? What?' I screeched, scared stiff.

'The cracks! Have you no sense?' Tubb caught me up. 'You want bad
luck on the sand job?'

We'd not need bad luck, with Tubb bawling about the secret
robbery.

'Why don't you just send the Plod a frigging postcard, you noisy
sod?'

'Keep our luck, Lovejoy, and we'll do a grand job.' He made a
thumb and finger sign, both hands.

'Like your last robbery?' I cut back, then wished I hadn't because
his face fell. 'Sorry, Tubb. Having a bad spell.'

'Spell? Portenta's a friend. Reversal of fortune's her speciality
this equinox. She hexed the elections. . .’

'No.' I knew Portenta, all spells and heather.

'Definite dosh and date for the sand job, Lovejoy,' Tubb said,
loud enough to alert the coastguard. 'I'll call Portenta.'

Hearing that Carmel'd given the go-ahead was all very well.
Portenta always uses Hedingham Castle's cauldron, as secret as our fire
brigade.

'Better not, Tubb.' I invented quickly, 'Er, I've got a lady who's
the best. I'm,' I added with daring, 'her nephew.'

The bus was on time. It'd never been on time before. I don't like
unreliability, and played hell with the driver Diana all the way to the
village. She took not a blind bit of notice. Women never do. Coming home was
like old times.

Notices bragged of the law's assault on my insulted home, planks
nailed over the windows, hefty wire mesh on boards barricading my porch. Stern
penalties threatened anyone removing (a) seals, (b) notices, or (c) anything
else.

Sad, I walked among the weeds and brambles. The thought of other
people ransacking my cottage makes me feel sick. Bailiffs, burglars, it's
always the way. International fraudsters hive off fortunes, pull the old
bankruptcy dodge, and get millions in what's laughably called 'legal aid' to
live in Park Lane. Your ordinary bloke gets his cottage boarded up.

Houses are really odd. I stood gazing in the wet garden. If I'd been
on holiday, the cottage wouldn't be different. What I mean is, it would still
look lived in. Now, though? I'd been evicted barely hours, and already it
looked abandoned. It's as if a home actually knows. I shivered.

'What's the matter?' some woman asked behind me.

'Mind your own frigging business, missus.' I didn't look round. I
wanted fewer people, not more.

'I'm sorry, Lovejoy. I tried to stop them.'

'Oh, aye.'

I'm never cynical, but calamity makes you wonder. Everybody
'really tries' to help, wishes you well, sends love, says they're thinking of
you. Yet you finish up in the mire just the same. There'd probably be a shoal
of good luck cards on the mat. Even Portenta's hocus-pokery is more sincere,
and she's sham through and through. At least she believes something.

'Want a lift to town?'

'No, ta. I'll stay.' I went to the, my, cottage.

Her worried voice said, 'You'll get arrested.'

Start at the beginning, I suppose, would be best. I used a sapling
lathe—'pole' lathe, they called it anciently—in the undergrowth. It wasn't hard
to find, just a couple of saplings and a string between, with a treadle and
holding ropes. I searched the weeds, came up with a rusting hammer, a saw, a
battered plane.

The sods had boarded up my workshop, only a garage converted to
proper use. I savaged the planks, broke the law's seal and entered the cottage.
I had the wit to knock up a mediaeval rope hinge for the planks once I'd nailed
them back together. That way, anyone on the lane would think it still barred,
while the planks became an improvised door. I put the saw where I'd found it.
It would get me in by winkling it in a gap I deliberately left.

Lord of my own domain, I'd done a thorough job. Nobody outside
could see a glim. Electricity, water, gas, phone, everything was cut off. I
found my oil lantern, and lo there was light and the light was good, so they
could get stuffed.

My workshop didn't need defences, because its door faces away from
the footpath. I started work.

Amber is hell to cut, bonny to carve, and ecstasy to polish. My
trick is to warm it in my mouth—it shatters less, and doesn't flake. I have an
old dentist's drill, worked with my foot, and use burrs and bits for fine work.
Unless you've a lifetime's experience, always fake by copying. Wedgwood's
designs are best. For heaven's sake, though, use a piece of felt glued to your
smoothest burr, and don't miss out any surface depressions except the deepest.
I did an arbor, an urn, and added a Greek goddess because I liked her shape.
Took two hours. Then I felted—polished—it by hand.

'Tea's up, Lovejoy.' Same voice.

She must have waited for me to finish before interrupting. Women
persevere, that's for sure.

'Can't be. I've got none.'

'I've bought in, and a camper's Primus.'

Curious, I looked. It was Faye, lone lovely who'd got ribbed at
Thekla's fashion show.

'Ta, love. Bring any chips?'

'Appetites later, Lovejoy.' She smiled. 'I've a sheaf of messages.
A smelly old man says that Kent the Rammer sold the tigers. Does that make
sense?'