The Possessions of a Lady (28 page)

Amy sighed. 'God, is it! Most are phoney, but they're going like
gongs. That
Medal News
started it.
Homemades.'

Well, fair enough. I watched her warily. No evidence of her trade
here, though. Less than a dozen years back,
Medal
News
innocently asked its readers
what a Bomber Command medal should look like, were one ever made. So interested
were people, that somebody actually struck one, unofficial. It sold like Friday
duff, started a fashion. Homemade medals became epidemic. A National Service
Medal got sponsored for charity. The Voluntary Service Medal, General Service
Cross, Foreign Service Medal, others, came tumbling into collectors' cabinets
and onto veterans' beribboned chests.

'I like the Normandy Medal,' I told Amy, working onward. I'd given
her enough chances. 'And the Bomber Command.'

'Finding the dealer's the problem.' Amy was casual, but fencing
away. 'Like that Machin business.'

My mind was going. Why mention that?

The Machin business was a shocker. It earthquaked the collecting
world almost into oblivion. Arthur Machin had sculpted Queen Liz's noddle for
postage stamps. Out of the woodwork came collectors, like train-spotters and
bird twitchers suddenly there in obsessed thousands, cheeping for Machin stamps
like hungry fledglings. Dealers flourished, supply the demand, as it were. One
especially rose in swift splendour. Let's call him Al the Machin specialist. He
supplied rare variants, every collector's dream. Each stamp was guaranteed,
reliability his watchword. Philatelists beat a path to his door. Then it
happened.

Al went honest.

The galaxy imploded.

One ghastly day, Al walked into the cop shop, and confessed.
Forgery, deception, special inks, adding dyes, swapping the gum like I used to,
altering the surface—yes, constable, he'd done the lot. Worse follows. Not only
did Al admit every fraud,
he made
restitution. A dealer?
Giving his ill-gotten gains back? Nobody could take
it without psychotherapy. But Al came clean, repaid every groat. The phosphor
strips that sort your letters, can be changed—and Al explained how. The Plod of
Luton, Bedfordshire, had never had it so good, for here was a true-blue
criminal who not only listed his crimes but solved them, wrists out for
handcuffs. It's a wonder Al didn't offer to wax the floors, nip out for a
pizza.

Al's sudden honesty ruined the collecting world. Second of June,
it's 'Good day constable . . .' Third of June, all collecting's down the chute,
dealers waking to the sound of popping ulcers. It was nightmarish. Why did Amy
mention it?

'Who's the chap. Amy?'

There was a photograph on the side table of Amy smilingly
receiving a trophy. I'd seen the celebrity before.

‘I won an award.' She sounded proud. 'Last year's competition.'

'Eh?' I was all innocent. 'What's the banner say?' Lettering, NFD.
'You won? Congratulations. What for?'

She put her cup down, rose in that smooth women's movement. I
stood awkwardly, my man's legs and trunk going through angled sequences to
reach the vertical. 'I'd better show you, Lovejoy. You'll never stop otherwise.
Come through.'

She went to the wall and slid a part of it aside. These terraced
houses are basically two up, two down, that's it. She'd just done the
impossible. Lo and behold, we were suddenly elsewhere.

'You've knocked through into next door?'

'The whole terrace.'

She stepped aside. I gaped. Dresses, racks of shoes, coats, hats
hats hats. I'd never seen anything like it. The vibes nearly knocked me flat. I
calmed my clamouring chest.

'Waistcoats upstairs. Gentlemen's militaria. Boots, riding
garments, uniforms, downstairs back. Ladies' dresses—costume, dance,
crinolines, gowns, accessories—upstairs front. I own all ten houses.'

'That award, Amy.'

'For fashion, Lovejoy.' She faced me, calm. 'Now can't you tell me
why you've really come? And why you've checked up on me?'

It's enough to make anyone bitter. So what, if I look up an old
flame? Somebody must have phoned her.

She finished my thought. 'I heard the minute you copied my address
down.'

'Bloody charming,' I groused. 'Spying.'

'Spying, Lovejoy? You were in the paper. The
Journal and Guardian
quoted your assistant Bran Mantle. You're
going to do the bi-centenary charity auction at this year's fashion show.'

'Bran Mantle?' I said weakly, cornered.

'Yes! You'll divvy all the antiques that everybody's donated.' She
added nastily, 'Free of charge, Lovejoy.'

'Me? I think there's been a mistake, love.'

'Day after tomorrow.' Her smile was sweet innocence. 'For
certain.'

'Look, Amy.' I got up to bluster better. 'If you think I've come
all this way for a charity you're off your nut. I'm due in East Anglia . . .'

She got madder than me. 'Default, Lovejoy, and our newspaper
reporters will hound you to death. I'll make them! That's a promise.' Her last
shot was. 'Think of the antiques, Lovejoy.'

Carrot and stick. Together they make a chain. I could always run
for it, if I got nowhere with Amy.

'This bloke.' I stood in front of her picture. She looked so proud
among the accoutred beautiful people, smiling and applauding. Rodney, who'd had
me thrown out. Thekla next to him, smiling hard at the camera. My heart
squeezed from memory. The bloke, though, presenting the trophy. The same trophy
was here, in a cabinet, with a framed signed photo, 'To Amy the Champion with
love', and an illegible signature. 'I've seen him before. Is he famous?'

'Was,' she said sadly. 'Viktor Vasho's in hospital. Manchester's
most famous fashion designer. He's not mending.'

'Manchester? I thought he was that Mayfair bloke?'

'Fashion is a Mayfair address, but a Manchester business. Poor
Viktor Vasho. I studied under him before I went independent. Antiques and
modern fashions.'

'Are you famous too?'

She shrugged. 'Hereabouts. But not like Viktor Vasho.'

'You won the Northern Fashion Durbar.' I wanted no mistakes. 'And
Viktor Vasho came to present it?'

She sat before the fire. 'Three judges. Rodney's all right.
Thekla's a bitch.' She raised her eyes. 'Isn't she, Lovejoy?'

'Thekla?' I croaked. 'Er…’

'She wants you to phone her. If you happen by.'

Small world, or has somebody already said that?

'Let her mangle somebody else.'

In vague hope I gazed at Amy. We'd been really good friends. I
gave my most winning smile, and was asked to leave.

26

Amy didn't lay a finger on me. I was really narked. Close as any
two human beings could be, and now she didn't even ravish me. So what's the use
of an old flame? She could have had me on the spot. Not even a grope, when I'm
as easy as a grape.

Do women, I wondered, as the soft rain fell on me in the town's
gloaming, long for a man as badly as we feel woman-hunger? Doubt it. A man
deprived is blind to food, weather, work. But women can keep going, blithely
indifferent. I was unbelievably sorry for myself Maybe there'll be sex in
heaven.

Here I was in night drizzle, lonely as a monk. But purity's
stupid. At least, I was no longer baffled.

Wondering, I stood staring at the old car.

Who knew the mill garages, who knew Amy? It had to be Tinker. I
stared across at Sally Up Steps where I used to meet mates, claiming legal
drinking age. Except, if Tinker'd wanted to let me know he'd arrived, why not
stroll over and say so? The town knew I was back—those bits interested, anyway.
So why this trick? It reminded me of Spoolie, who'd watched one old film too
many—actually one too few, but you follow. I didn't want to activate some bomb
as I cranked its handle.

There was a taxi, motor still going, a hundred yards off. A
familiar figure by it. My spirit soared, and I gladly advanced.

'Lydia, doowerlink!' Life was generous after all.

'So it is true.' She was immobile. 'Roadie phoned me your old
flame's address.'

'It's not like that!' I blurted.

'I'm leaving, Lovejoy. Do not communicate with me again.'

'Please, love. I've forgotten how to start the car.'

'Let me,
wack!
’ The taxi
driver was out in a flash, fondling the crate and aaahing with wonder. He had
it firing in a moment, as I stood well away waiting for the uuumph of the
explosion. He said thanks to me. I said ta even more fervently, and watched
Lydia's taxi's lights recede. I stood alone, replaced, rejected.

But I had wheels. I drove to the Royal Infirmary. They couldn't
refuse me entry, relative of a patient at death's door, could they?

The main carriageways had changed so I had to keep an eye on the
signs. Salford, then Central Manchester. Daft to have Salford in another city.
Salford City, c/o Manchester City sounds barmy.

The hospital had free parking.

‘I'm here to see Viktor Vasho.' I tried to put on a camp air, but
the receptionist smiled.

'Viktor V. Vasho? The second visitor!' She clattered her keyboard.
'Relative?'

My feeble artiness was sussed. 'From his firm.'

'Name?' She entered my fictions, phoned. 'You can go up, Mr.
Mantle.'

'Ta, love.' I hesitated. 'Who else came?'

'Confidential,' she said, glad to refuse.

'Ta, love.' I followed the baffling signs. No wonder hospital visitors
all get lost.

Hospitals are horrible. It's their preoccupation, nurses rushing
while you blunder, the pong of disinfectant telling you more about mortality
than any number of gruesome diagrams.

The intensive care unit was set aside. The gloomy dungeonlike nook
was crammed with scary instrumentation, screens made only for cartoons trailing
lines, bleeps threatening imminent silence and termination. Tubes drip,
corrugated cylinders gasp and collapse, things inflate with a ghastly sucking.
And the object of these glowing lights and miniature tides lies somnolent in a
plastic capsule, face wedged in a transparent cup. It comes to us all, this
last wretchedness. My frightened heart went out to this Viktor V. Vasho I'd
never known. I stood there, one foot to the other.

'Er, hello, Viktor?' When I'm being stupid, whatever I say comes
out a question, though he wasn't going to say much. Can you talk with a mask on
your phizog? Where would the words go? His corrugated tube led to a glittering
machine. I went closer, nervous of somebody who looked a goner. I didn't know
if he was, but he wasn't going to marathon for us in the Olympics.

'Viktor?' I found myself whispering, began again louder. 'I'm
Lovejoy. Just a . . .' How to describe myself to a famed fashioneer? 'A
layabout, really,' I said, rueful. 'Antiques.'

My hopeful pause got no response. I ahemed, watched his eyelids.
Shut. Was he registering? Can you hear, if you're cocooned like that? Doctors
tell you nothing. Why wasn't there a notice saying,
It's hopeless trying to chat with the bloke in this thing
, instead
of those daft warnings about cleaning babies' belly buttons and renewing deaf
aids?

Disheartened, I forged on. 'See, Viktor, I was shacked up with
Thekla.' Nothing. 'I met these loonies . . . er, I went to a fashion show.
Thekla ditched me because I didn't understand.' I was thirsty, dripping with
sweat. Hospitals are hellish hot.

Two nurses zoomed past, neither looking in. Fine, I thought
bitterly. What if this poor sod croaked while they swanned off to their coffee?

No response, Viktor still as a board.

'Viktor? I'm searching for a missing girl. Vyna. I thought she was
nothing to do with fashion, see?'

Christ, but it was stifling. The special unit was more of an alcove,
no doors. The sister's desk was obliquely across, nurses checking drugs. I
looked away. Whatever they're doing can't be good for you, can it? Ampoules put
the fear of God in me.

Was it worth saying any more? Was he secretly listening? He might
be all glad in there, first chat for days. I felt such a prat.

'It's dawned on me that I've been led,' I told him. 'You know why
I was asked to chase her? Because I didn't take the bait. An auction in my home
town, coupled with a fashion show. I got a pal to help. Spoolie. He got
topped.'

Viktor Vasho didn't stir. Could I lift the edge of the plastic
tent? You never know what's right in a hospital. Anything could be vital.

‘I don't know what's going on,' I told the still figure. 'An old
girlfriend's running a fashion show. You know her, Amy. I'm hosting the
auction. A double thing.'

Maybe he was thirsty? How could he ask, when he couldn't move?

'Look. Are you okay? Want some tea?' I went across to the nurse's
desk.

'Excuse me, sister. About Viktor Vasho.' Even his name sounded on
the blink. 'Might he want something? Only, he's lying, er, stillish. Not saying
much.'