The Possessions of a Lady (2 page)

2

Fashion's not only embarrassing. It's a joke, very expensive. It's
the physical equivalent of party politics, simple to the point of imbecility
but barmy. It works like this. You take any material—plastic, metal, wood,
glass even, silk, cotton— colour it, dress some skeletal subnourished bird in
it, then make her prance/strut/gallop along a ramp, to inappropriate music.

Purpose? None. Embarrassment factor? Up through the stratosphere.
I know. I've been and seen. Worst truth: fashion is hype, no more, no less. You
want proof? Joseph Briggs.

Cut to smoky old Accrington's industrial heyday. Stouthearted Joe
noticed some brightly coloured glass things, chucked out, rejected, sheer
dross. Not even worth harrowing to the junk shop, those hacky lampshades,
vases, floral glassware. That vibrancy, those brilliant Art Nouveau colours of
the 1890s and after, were frankly out of fashion. Who wanted such 'ugly'
objects? Nobody.

But Joseph was resolute. Against all opinion he thought, 'But it's
beautiful!' So Joe salvaged every single piece he could lay hands on. The moral?
Decades later, half of Joseph Briggs' rescued glass pieces are now in the
museum at Accrington. He donated them. People come from the world over to
admire the amazing collection of Tiffany glass, for that's what the pieces
were. Every so often, one of Louis Comfort Tiffany's specials—like the thick,
bulbous, almost shapeless vases of so-called 'lava' glass—turns up on some road
show, amid delirious excitement. Without Old Joe, we'd never have known. So
light a candle for him, who stood firm against the tide of fashion, and
virtually saved an art form.

See? Fashion's as near to zero performance as mankind gets. It's
almost always wrong.

The show began with spotlights, and the inevitable
Thus Spake Zarathustra
. strobes to set
off your epilepsy. You're supposed to go all agog. Then some announcement about
somebody who'd studied a million years to achieve What You Are About to See.
and out come the models wearing grunge. They all had ironing-board figures,
coathanger shoulders, spindle legs. I felt sympathy, recognising starvation
when I see it.

Thekla seemed some sort of supremo, giving out orders, beckoning
Faye and saying to bring the photographers and quick about it. She pretended to
be bored, disagreeing harshly and getting an astonishing amount of compliance.
Astonishing because it's my experience that women don't agree much among
themselves. I sat trying not to meet the models' eyes, but they swaggered ever
nearer doing their insolent saunter. They'd evidently heard of my gaffe. I sat
wondering what fashion's for. I mean, anyone ever see a woman on the bus
dressed in a black net bolero, cavalier thigh boots and ostrich feathers? No.
so why bother?

There also were bloke models, admiring themselves in the wall
mirrors, swinging their jackets. They didn't look thin, but I wondered how they
felt. I mean, how did it compare to a real job?

We had to clap every apparition. I dutifully applauded, but was
shamed. I once knew this lass who cooked. Well, that's not quite true because
she was a gourmet, a nosh supremo, the world authority (she said) on pickles.
No, honest. She wrote about meat, fish, sauces—God, did she write about
sauces—in even,' glossy on earth. I was supposed to admire her pickle
knowledge. She won awards for the damned things. It got so I couldn't move in
my cottage for jars of frigging pickles. She'd even tell me new pickle ideas in
the middle of the night, instead of concentrating on other things. We parted
after a flaming row. I'd accidentally told her the truth: Cooking is only how
to fry tomatoes. She went critical, swept out with her pickles, thank God. I
mean, Juney writing about pickles, while half the world starves to death. Is
this reasonable? One more fashion.

Somebody slipped a hand in my pocket. Above, a girl pirouetting in
plastic book-wrappers and strings of gilded hazelnuts, and somebody picks my
pocket in the million-guinea seats?

I know some pickpockets who can pass you on the opposite pavement,
and nick your wallet. No kidding. One subtle-monger in Bolton market could
strip you clean without putting his pint down. That's class. But a woman's long
fingers, painstakingly lifting the pocket flap? I sighed, didn't move. My
pockets were Thekla's husband's anyway, and empty.

On the catwalk above, two sandal-shod girls in leather fronds hung
with bones swished past. Thekla led a standing ovation. I stayed seated in case
Fingers Malone wanted to explore further.

'Read it, Lovejoy,' somebody whispered, a woman.

Read what? Nobody'd given me a programme, and I'd no money to buy
one. Thekla ran a tight ship.

'Lovejoy!'
Thekla snarled down
at me.

I rose to clap. The two girls above took their time clearing off,
so we could admire their mauve painted legs. To me they looked covered in
warts. The lights dimmed with cymbals and a thunderous paradiddle. Meekly I
went deaf. The two mannequins were seen in glorious fluorescent colours against
black curtains. The place erupted at such spectacular beauty. I looked behind
to see who was pestering my pockets. The seat was vacant.

Thekla faced me, eyes brimming. The hall was a-chatter, people
swooning at the splendour we'd seen.

'Wasn't that superb, Lovejoy?'

'Er, mmmmh.' Frankly, no. It was crud.

'Those
cherubs!
Carrying
it off!'

'The, er, creations,' I murmured.

A creature, two rings adorning each digit, leaned across to
Thekla.

'Thekkie, you
terrible
angel! You
stole
the
world
!’

'Thank you, Rodney,' Thekla said modestly. 'They were rather
stupendous, weren't they?'

'Stupendous?' This apparition really relished grovelling.
'Globally awesome! Truly, truly!'

'The next are yours, Rodney, I think.'

'My modest little effort? Nothing compares!'

Then it came, my instant nightmare. I recoiled in horror. A stick insect
paraded down the catwalk, jerking and twitching, supposedly playing a guitar
she carried. Her left half wore a sheath dress made of carpet slices cobbled
together with sailor's twine. Her right vertical half was bare, breast, bum and
all.

The roars were deafening. The lass flirted past, spun to sustained
cheers. I felt hate rise, stifled myself. As the riot diminished, I leant
across Thekla. She made room, thinking I was going to be emphatic about what
we'd just seen. She was right.

'You did that, Rodney?' I asked the goon.

'Yes.' He fluttered roguishly.

'You want locking up, you frigging nerk,' I said. 'That carpet was
worth you morons put together.'

My feet didn't touch the ground. God knows who gave the signal.
Two bruisers appeared from nowhere, hauled me upright, dragged me willynilly
down the aisle. They slammed me out through the double doors, across the foyer,
and literally hurled me into Sizewell Street. I didn't know which way was up,
bounced, slithered to a stop.

'Look!' a toddler bawled with that miniature foghorn voice they
have. 'Lovejoy!'

'Wotcher, Tel,' I said wearily, supine.

'Want him!' boomed the infant.

'Not now, dear,' Tel's mother said, hurrying the pushchair past
and ignoring me with that glazed air women assume when hearing an unexpected
belch. Once we'd twice made smiles, last Mothering Sunday to be precise.

Rising, I checked myself for bruises. I felt like slaying Rodney.
The carpet he'd hacked to death was a Turkish nineteenth century Kum Kapou.
These are priceless—well, one costs more than a freehold house, 3 bdrms, 2
rcptns, gdn & grge. This carpet looked seven feet by five, from the snatch
of design I'd glimpsed. Rodney must have simply thought, Hey, nice—and reached
for his knife.

See what's happened to justice? Some crazy fashioneer kills a
beautiful antique, yet it's me gets ejected. Nobody in there gave a single
thought to how that butchered Kum Kapou carpet felt. In life it had been gold,
silver, with a dazzling prismatic sheen. The village is Armenian, near
Istanbul, where the carpet sellers call its superbly fine knotting 'palace'
quality. Look closely, its pattern depicts tiny animals among foliage. You can
travel the world and never see a lovelier carpet. I was almost in tears. I
vowed to remember Rodney, and get even.

Nothing for it but to shed this monkey suit. One thing was
certain, it was goodbye Thekla. I'd tried to be pleasant. It wasn't my fault if
they were all deranged.

No money, me looking a right prune, I went to wait for the bus in
the Welcome Sailor at the town's east gate, hoping to scrounge a groat or
three.

Where, as tragedy would have it, I met Tinker and his Australian
cousin's nephew. When you're sliding downhill it's difficult to stop.

They were both sloshed as a maltster's wasp. I crossed to join
them, coughing as my lungs tried the fug's carcinogens. Tinker actually doesn't
smoke, having no time between ale intakes, but everybody else does except me.
And Tinker's cousin's nephew, Roadie.

'Smart arse,' the apparition said, eyeing me.

'Eh?' I'd forgotten I was gorgeous. 'Sorry. This bird . . .'

Normally my conversations are just the odd word, the rest being
obvious. Roadie grappled in an ugly moment for Tinker's beer, lost on a
pinfall, sulked.

'What bird what?'

Roadie communicates, or fails, most of the time. He's a sharp
sixteen, attired in black leather with alchemic jewellery and barbaric slogans
in lettering with so many serifs that you can't read it. Still, if my talk ends
in dots he's every right to end his in spikes.

'Son,' Tinker explained, 'Lovejoy's been dressed up by some lady.
Pint?'

'Sorry, Tinker.' He was asking me to pay, not offering. I went to
the bar. Frothey was working the pump handle in an erotic manner. She
fascinates me. Fair, fat and forty. I could eat her. Womanlike, she knew I'd
come a-begging.

'Hello, Lovejoy.' She judged the glass she was filling, and leant
forward to exploit symbolism. 'No.'

'Not even in my posh gear?' I smiled, exploiting forgiveness, tat
for tit, so to speak. 'I'm at the fashion show.'

'Fashion?' Almost everything came to a stop.

I sighed. 'Dolled up, nobody to go with.'

'The regional?' Her lovely eyes got rounder. 'You've got
tickets
?

'Aye.' I sighed again, though I often find you can overdo acting. 'I'm
late. Can you get off work?'

She breathed, 'Those tickets are
gold
, Lovejoy!'

'I've a relative. Er, Rappada . . .' I'd forgotten who I'd
invented. 'Still, another time, eh, love?'

Somebody called for service. She ignored him.

'Wait, Lovejoy.' She was agog, working out how to defect. Women
are past masters at ditching their tasks. I watched her mind crunch
possibilities.

'Well . . .' I'd have looked at my watch if I'd got one.

She pulled a pint to keep me there. 'Five minutes in the car park,
okay?' She was whispering.

'Right,' I whispered. 'Can Tinker have one?'

'Yes. Be sharp!'

Women are beautiful, unless they're wearing fashion. Life's really
weird. Here Frothey was, gorgeous in her black dress and phony pearls, actually
wanting to see other women garbed like space aliens. And she would honestly
envy those models' overpriced tatters, their showy anorexia.

Not only that, but she was urging me to get a move on, when I was
the one ready to scoot. It's something to do with their certainties. For a
bloke like me, everything is simply unknowable. To Frothey, everything is
obvious.

'When you're ready, doowerlink.'

She rushed off. I carried the beer to Tinker. Neglected boozers
clamoured like angry infants.

'Ta, Lovejoy. No news.'

'There's another pint, if you're quick.' That made him chuckle.
Like urging a ski racer to hurry. 'News?'

Roadie's missing sister Vyna was the reason he was here.

'Oh, aye.' She was seventeen, had slipped her cable three months.
Her parents were frantic. Roadie wasn't. His grudges got in the way of
practically everything. 'You try what I suggested?'

'He's an idle git, Lovejoy,' Tinker explained. He hawked up a gob
of phlegm into his empty glass, a man with a hint. 'Does nowt but sponge and
sup all day. Pillock, see?'

'Aye, well.' Clearly a family trait. I'd best be off, seeing
Frothey would be down soon. I lied, 'Tell Frothey I'm waiting outside, Tinker.'

'Right.' He was already shuffling to the bar for his pint. There'd
be an argument with the bartender, seeing I'd not arranged anything. 'Lovejoy?
That bloody fish. Been shuffed from the auction.'

'Eh?' I was aghast. Not again? 'What's going on, Tinker?'

'Dunno, mate. You're the wally.'

A wally is trade slang, an antique dealer, in theory the moneyed
gaffer who knows. Some theory.