The Possessions of a Lady (15 page)

'Morning, Bat. Do you sleep with those things on?'

He had plectrums on all but the last digit. 'Name a tune,
Lovejoy.'

'Give Me A Ticket To Heaven. Know it? By way,' I added, 'of
farewell.'

He strummed a chord, and eyed me. He didn't sing instantly, an
all-time first.

'Farewell, Lovejoy? Whose?' He knew me.

'Tell me, Bat.' Tee Vee was listening hard. Reckoning time had
come. 'How come your nephew looks like a movie monster, yet pulls these
exquisite birds?'

He chuckled. 'You're the same, and pull as much.'

'Here, Bat, nark it,' I said, indignant. I'm grotty, but spotless
underneath.

'And he's got money, son!' Uncle Bat fell about.

Not quite true. Tee Vee has phoney money. Antiques is merely his
cover. He's a foomer—buys only forgeries, and sells as real. Like, he'll buy a
fake Norwich school painting from me, sell it somewhere on the Continent as
genuine.

Uncle Bat, skeletal and toothless banjoist of Norwich's waterside
cafes, is Tee Vee's counterfeiter, brains of the outfit. Tee Vee's his natural
son. Uncle's only 'Uncle' because he was a pawnbroker.

'Counterfeiting going well, eh. Bat?' I felt sad on account of
what I was going to do, but I was getting tired with being bollocked for
nothing. Not long ago I wasn't homeless or penniless. Now look.

'Pretty well, son,' he said. 'I'll have this polyester blot
problem ironed soon. I'm working on a modified shedding screen—image
refraction, o'course.'

'Of course.' As if I understood.

'It re-melds the electronic focus by light resonance, gets the picture
back. I know what you're thinking, Lovejoy.' He was dead serious. I tried to
look like I was pondering electronics. 'That it should be a purely chemical
elution process.'

'Well,' I said, lost, 'first things first, eh?'

'Wrong, son. Sod microscopic techniques. It's got to be image
refraction. Wouldn't work with us—we've too many different notes, see?'

'Good thinking. Glad it's all okay. Toodle-oo.'

'What about your song, son?'

'Sing as I leave. Cheers, Tee Vee.'

'Cheers, Lovejoy,' he said warily, from underneath his bird's
blanket. How the heck he manages to fit in (I mean the bunk) I can't imagine.

Jumping down to the riverbank, I undid the mooring ropes. On
board, I heard the banjo strike up. Uncle Bat's voice warbled,
'Give me a ticket to heaven / That's where
Dad's gone, they say
. . .'

It was two furlongs to the boatyard. Hardly anybody awake on the
river, though a woman splashed a bowl of water over the side of a craft
downstream. I chose a moored boat, sleek with a high prow. It looked tough
enough. I gave its nose a shove and hopped aboard. It started to drift with
that laziness only boats manage. I searched it for people. Fine.

Drifting's quite pleasant. No more peaceful holiday than on a
boat, though tranquillity wears you out before you've gone a mile. This thing
had an engine that promised molto action. It had an easy starter.

The sound of Uncle Bat's plink-plonk came over the water as my
boat drifted close to Tee Vee's barge.

'My Daddy worked upon
the line, but when I went tonight / to take his tea, he lay there . . .'

I sang along, filling up at the Victorian song. There was a great
pole thing. I dug it into the river bed, began slowly to bear onto the Tee Vee.
Even if you slip a longboat's mooring it moves inchwise, even on a river like
the Yare.

Counterfeit's not bad, when you think. I mean, what is inflation
but a secret change of money? We ordinary mortals don't inflate the dollar,
yen, dinar, whatever. Governments do it.

I ran here —I hope I’m
not too late . . .'
I warbled the little girl's plight.

Look at the Donations of Constantine, dated 30th March, AD 315, by
which Emperor Constantine gave to Pope Sylvester the Holy Sees of Alexandria,
Constantinople, Jerusalem, and all the churches in the world. For good measure
the Emperor chucked in Rome, all Italy, and the regions of the west. Saints
were beatified on the strength of it, countries swapped or given wholesale.
Then it was proved a forgery, done by a Lateran priest for Pope Stephen III. It
was exposed by a brave papal aide called Lorenzo Valla in 1440. Its political
effects are with us yet. That's the trouble with forgery; do it big, you can
get away with it. Little, you're doomed.

Look at sex, I thought, busily poling. There's Aureole, making a
great living from chain dating. Those sex surveys they're always doing say that
men have three times as many lovers as women. How come? Do women underestimate?
Do men exaggerate? See what I mean: phoney truth, fake research, or what
exactly?

I poled my drifting boat towards the
TeeVee
. Remember that Leonardo da Vinci hand-written Codex—72 pages
written in Big L's own lilywhites? It was knocked down to a secret bidder for
over a cool 30 million US dollars. The bidder's identity was kept under wraps.
(It was Mr. Gates, the American computer wizard, but pretend he's still
incognito. It's his own business.) No, pretence is fine.

Unless you don't pay up.

Then things happen. If you have a banjo-playing uncle—a genius
counterfeiter, who works under cabin floorboards in your longboat—to pretend
that you're a lucky antique dealer, then you are vulnerable in ways that, say,
Roger Boxgrove isn't. Or Aureole. Or crazy Faye. Or, even, me. Because some
annoyed bloke like me might nick a high-powered boat, tie your mooring rope to
the stern of said powerboat, and, singing a sentimental Victorian melody,
quietly hot-wire his engine into life.

'The station-master
said, "Come, little one, I'll see you right". . .'

The engine boomed, settled to a steady thrumming. I shoved into
gear, moved forward until my boat took up the strain, then headed into
mid-stream.

Faintly I heard somebody yell. I creamed along as fast as power
allowed, singing the joyous ending.

'Though injured,
Dad'd not been killed! And oh! her heart was glad . . .
Come on, Tee,' I
bawled. 'Join in.'

He was trying to claw his way forward, in his glitzy pyjamas. I
waved, friendly.

'She said, "
If I lose
Dad again, I'll come to you and say . . ."
chorus now, Tee. Show the
townsfolk, eh?'

Houses began to appear. We passed a little school, children in the
playground stopping to wave. I waved back.

'Mister,' one yelled. 'Why's he got jammies on?'

'Er, his mother's not up yet,' I yelled, all tact.

'He'll be late!' they shouted. They love others' disasters. 'He'll
catch it, won't he?'

'He will that!' I bawled. 'Likely from the Excise.'

'Lovejoy!' Tee Vee bawled. 'You can't!'

I carolled back,
'Give me a
ticket to heaven / That's where Dad's gone, they say . . .'
and steered
towards the weir.

With average luck I could maroon his ponderous longboat crosswise.
The hull would crack. Which would call out the fire brigade or whatever. Whose
report would astonish Norfolk's authorities, at the vast array of
counterfeiting machinery.

The river authorities would be angered by 100-dollar notes bobbing
among their ducklings. The Customs and Excise would perforate their morning
ulcers . . .

'Please, Lovejoy! Please

The boat slowed a little when I cut the engine. They don't have
brakes. Ocean liners have to simply go round and round until their motion
peters out, I've heard. The
TeeVee
loomed closer. I'm not scared of boats, much, but didn't want the longboat
running me down. Moving fast, a speedboat's great. Slowed, it's thin-skinned.

'Can't hear you, Tee. Sorry.'

'I'll pay you,' he screamed. His beauteous bird appeared,
screeching her head off. 'Real money!' He waved handfuls of conviction.

Easy to tow a longboat to block a river. A policeman cycling on
the bank called, 'What's the matter?' I pointed to Tee, ask him. The bobby tore
his eyes from Tee's bird, and asked. Tee began some tale. Uncle Bat played us
out as Tee cast off. He handed over a load of zlotniks. I examined them
closely, did a count, waved to the Plod.

'For helping,' I called over.

'Isn't that Donard John's boat?' the constable shouted back,
suspicious.

'Kind old Don,' I answered airily.

'He's a stingy old sod. And why's he still in his jamas?'

'Dunno, constable. Better ask the lady.'

Snapping into gear, I zoomed off leaving Tee wailing. His engine's
been dud these three years. I paid no heed. Honest, people'll have me carrying
the pots and pans. Is it my fault? I rounded the curve, moored the boat, and
started my search for Vyna.

Mistake. I should have stayed aboard, cleared the bar at Great
Yarmouth, and sailed into the sunrise.

13

Taxi numbers chalked up in rural phone boxes mislead. Jokes,
malice, company rivalry, take your pick. The first I tried was a frosty lady. Second,
a temptress wanting to massage my exhausted frame. I was narked, not having
exhausted my frame yet. The third taxi number was a taxi number, a first for
Norfolk. It took me to a supermarket.

They detect dud money by clever pens—stroke the watermark, it goes
black and you're under arrest. I went in synthetically angry.

'Look,' I told the manageress when they dragged her down from her
office slumber. 'I paid good money for, er, goods. You forge-changed me.'

'Allow me, sir.' She wearily subjected my note to a trillion
tests. 'It's perfectly good. What goods did you buy, sir?'

Suspicion is unfair. 'You sure? Okay, then.' I marched out. Tee
Vee's payment was genuine. Norfolk was on the mend.

The antiques game has gossip like others have weather. You know what's
happening, like you know if it's raining. I phoned Chessmate, an intinerant
gossip-monger in bric-a-brac who works the 'attic' circuits. He told me there
was a beaut, this very day. So it came to pass that I taxied to the august
Thornelthwaite family mansion. Attic debris, please note, is where human hate
and love combine. (Skip this next bit if you're sensitive, because it's exactly
what will happen to all you own, right down to your pot teeth.)

Many folk resent fame, fortune, and nobility. I rage against
nobody, except people who kill antiques. What law says the rich, the ex-rich,
or the would-be rich, must be saints? Add those up, we're all in there. The
viewers ogling the Thornelthwaites' possessions were of two sorts, antique
dealers and sour locals in various stages of glee. I was the only one
a-sorrowing, because house sales break my heart.

An auction viewing day is a psychodrome waiting to happen. When
the auction starts, it's 'Game On!' for psycho-drama. The entire psychotic
arena fills. Carnage begins, and with it triumph for the lucky few touched by
the stars. For the rest, dismay.

As usual, the auctioneers had rigged up a marquee. Somebody was
unfolding chairs, setting a dais and podium, microphones, phone sites, the
paraphernalia of a flog-off auction. When a family is submerged in double-entry
accounting and sells up, the attic dealers—a right circus—home in on human
misery. They're not so bad—walnut brains, looters' morals, but dealers are
dealers. The ones I can't abide are the gloaters, the ghoulish grinners who
only come to jeer. They don't buy, only finger and sneer at crumbling aristos.
Who the crumbling family is, was, doesn't matter. The ghoulists park their
motors and saunter in, copycat conquerors. They snigger. We all do it, you, me,
emit that serves-them-right cackle of the jackal and the carrion bird. I'm
ashamed of us. Then I think what saints people are. It's a paradox. Same with
religion, really. I believe in God, but His earthly sales force is crap. I believe
in antiques, but people. . . ? Sensible answers, please.

For an hour I wandered, feeling the ancient house's pulse. It was
a lovely if faded Queen Anne mansion, but essentially undamaged. They had loved
it, those old folk whose portraits hung on the stairs. Dealers were pricing
furniture, carpets, Sheffield plate, cruets—don't know why, but to me cruets
are saddest, truest symbols of a death-sale sell-up.

As I ambled, a middle-aged lady without a coat was near more often
than chance allowed. So? On I went, sensing the loveliness of age. I recognised
the odd dealer. Chessmate soon arrived, a short ambitious Geordie 'of climbing
habit' as gardeners say of plants too aggressive for their own good. I gave him
the bent eye and he cleared off. The last thing I wanted, him seeing what I
divvied as genuine. I felt on holiday, scouting on my own with gelt in hand.
Yet it also felt odd, a betrayal. Tinker was ultra-loyal, right? But every time
I sent him for an antique he returned empty-handed. This was new. I put it
firmly from my mind.

You drift anywhere in a house sale, as the marquee's trestle
tables stack with household items. The house is always open to viewers, in
hopes that they'll come with wallets and purses a-bulging. The nervous coatless
lady stalked me ineptly. Security agent? Paintings—ancestors, Italian scenes
from the Grand Tour, nothing special but old. I smiled with pleasure, the
antiques warming my soul and them smiling back. A brass-banded walnut case,
size of an elongated fag packet, beamed at me. The wood had 'C.C marked on it.
Nobody was about. I found it in my pocket, a lovely feeling, beautiful. I felt
seventeen again, brilliant, in love.