The Possessions of a Lady (3 page)

'Lovejoy,' he said. 'What if Vyna's kidnapped?'

Roadie sniggered. I gave him a look. 'Okay, Tinker,' I said at
last. I’ll help.'

'Ta, Lovejoy.'

The bar curtain that closed off the stairs fluttered, Frothey coming.
I escaped by a whisker, and darted down the alley, the most baffled antique
dealer in East Anglia. Everything was awry, starvation stalking my land. I
ought to decide on swift action and leap to it. Instead, I hide. But now things
had become ultra odd. I had to do something urgently, or face extinction.

As I trotted through the town, I reflected. Life comes down to one
question: 'What did you do in the Great War, daddy?' Like in that haunting
World War I poster, the gaunt man, his little girl. Even if you only ask it of
yourself. The kernel is that terrible
what
.
Not when, or how, or why. 'Why' is motive, and is eternally unknowable—making
love, hates, decisions to move home, gamble on divorce—so why bother asking
'why'? 'How' is only prestidigitation, the way you leave her, which bus you
catch, incidental stuff. 'When' is only colouring in bits of life's picture.
No, everything about everything is what. I was driven to act.

3

‘That fish,' Tinker'd said, was shuffed. Translation: stuffed
fish—don't laugh; it'd buy a new car—at Threadle's junk auction in Long
Melford. I'd told Tinker to bribe it out of its legitimate place (sorry, pun
not intended), whereupon I'd frolic in several thousands profit, a pastime that
usually entails me scuttling clear of creditors until I'd managed to spend
some.

And somebody else had bought it before Tinker could do the dirty
deed. Eeling down Short Wyre Alley I thought, what is this? Who but a stuffed
fish collector collects stuffed fish?

The name is J. Cooper, floreat about 1925. Buy one of his little
gudgeon in a labelled glass pot, you're in clover, for he's supposed to have
done only four. You can still find them, at the odd boot sale. A huge
Cooper-stuffed pike will pay for a prolonged Caribbean cruise. An arrangement of
dace, or a mixture of fishes, will net you much, much, more. So keep looking.
They're out there.

This can happen in antiques. It's below the I-found-a-Rembrandt
sensation, being down at subsistence level, among the scavengers and debris
feeders where I just about break even year by year. Predators are a problem. I
usually am quicker than most, because I'm a divvy and nobody else is.

Yet now I was being out-guessed. It had been going on for some
weeks. I was reduced to living on nowt. Hence I'd had to accept Thekla's
affluent presence. Only temporarily. I'd intended to repay her when my ship
came in, honest. I don't scrounge off women without making a nearly almost
definite promise to refund every penny, and I mean that most sincerely.

Which left me wearing Thekla's husband's posh suit, plodding among
our town's mediaeval alleyways as inconspicuous as a rattling rainbow. I headed
for the Antiques Centre, instinct guiding me wrong as usual. As proof, Aureole.

'Not one word.' I entered, raising a threatening digit as dealers
drew breath to howl derision.

One or two cackled. Most wisely subsided.

A few customers drifted among the stalls. Business looked
moribund, but that's antiques for you. Antiques is like war, one per cent
terror, the rest boredom. The Centre was in stupor mode.

'Funeral or feast, darling?' Aureole cooed sweetly. 'Big Frank
marrying again?'

People snickered. I scented grub and gave a moan. The Antiques
Centre's a church hall that our ancient priory, rapaciously swapping holy
precepts for filthy lucre, sold off to the biggest syndicate of crooks, namely
us. (Us minus me; I was short of funds when the hat came round.)

'Or some other catastrophe?' Aureole went on.

She's a beautiful lass, the Centre's prime mover, coordinating the
local dealers. It's got a dozen booths and stalls, central heating for cold
days, and a tea bar.

'What you got, Lovejoy?' from Basil-the-Donkey, a bloke like a
garden gnome, jutting beard and popping waistcoat. His nickname's the only one
I can think of that's longer than a given, and about it I'll say nothing more.
He's furniture mad, an obsessional keeper of data, photos, auction prices,
who-saw-what rumours. He sells news to other dealers.

The others stilled to hear my answer. I did my shrug, tutted in
disgust.

'Everything's handies these days. Makes me sick.'

Basil-the-Donkey lost interest. Handies are pocket-sized antiques.
Ladies' chatelaines, theatre glasses, jewellery, miniature enamels, anything
you can lift unnoticed. Aureole and others became alert. I strolled about.

'What sort of handies, Lovejoy?'

Somebody had just had a toasted tea-cake, the selfish swine. Its
aroma teased the air. I went giddy from hunger. I breathed through my mouth,
trying not to scent other people's calories, that cruellest of all perfumes.

'Eh?' I was near Alf’s Alcove. 'Oh, some crappy Bowie knife.'

More of the dealers went back to their nefarious chitchat. A lady
was being captivated by a mid-Victorian hourglass on Tick's 'Tockery For All Antiques'
stall. Everybody was taking bets by signs on whether she'd buy it. I knew she
wouldn't, because she was aligned at forty-five degrees to the stall, her head
on the tilt. Women never buy when they stand like that. I spoke softly.

'Bet you she doesn't, Alf.'

He signalled across to Gumbo—'African Ethnic Genuines To The
Trade'; Gumbo blacks up like a black-and-white music hall minstrel. My heart
sank. Alf’d just bet Gumbo that the customer wouldn't, on my tip. 'Bowie knife
you say, Lovejoy?'

'No good, Alf. Made in Sheffield, looks too new.'

And off I wandered—to be hauled back by a suddenly frantic Alf. I
looked at him coldly. I'd teach him to win bets on my say-so, and me famished.

'Get off my new suit.' I shook myself free. 'It cost a fortune.'

'Sorry, Lovejoy.' He gave his most ingratiating smile. It was
ghastly, as bad as watching Tinker eat. 'Only,' he added casually, 'I've been
looking for a, er, fake Bowie knife. In good nick?'

History's joke is that the old Wild West's Bowie knives were
mostly made in Sheffield. Alf was jumping to the conclusion that I didn't know
this. In antiques whole fortunes are founded on improbables that suddenly
become front racers.

'Mint,' I grumbled. 'Rum inscription, though.' I glanced at the clock.
'I'll be late.'

'Got time for a cuppa, Lovejoy?' He did the gruesome trust-me grin
that hallmarks the antiques crook. 'Only, I've not seen you lately, wanted a
chat . . .' He strove to think up something he wanted to chat about. ' . . .
er, Tinker's missing lass.'

'Okay, but I've not long.' We went to the tea bar and sat at a
table. Fake iron gardenware, not antique and therefore superfluous to
civilisation. 'You take the blame if Thekla comes hollerin' her head off.'

'Right!' He got some teas.

Aureole came across to make sure that he put money in the till and
took none out. When the Centre opened, dealers nicked the gelt, so Aureole took
it on, paying herself a fifth of the takings. There was a row, of course, with
Katherine—Stall No. 12, Edwardian jewellery, writes haiku poetry that gets
nowhere, hates Aureole for a number of things I'll mention if I get a minute. I
like Katherine. I want Aureole too, of course, but that's not the same thing as
liking, is it? Aureole rules.

'You want, Lovejoy?'

My throat cleared itself. Aureole's double meanings are famous.
And my chest suddenly bonged like a Mandarin's gong from something on her
stall.

'Some tea-cakes and a slice of that, please.'

'Nothing more?' She started on the grub behind the little counter.
She has a woman's knack of being able to cut rolls and butter scones without
looking at what she's doing. My Gran could do it, even when telling me off.
They're born with the knack.

'A couple of jam butties, please.'

She strolled about, set the toaster going. Aureole does a lot of
strolling. It's just a means of showing off, not going anywhere.

The hidden agenda, as folk say these days, is that Aureole runs a
chain-dating service. It's our town scandal, the sort nobody's supposed to know
but everybody does. It's notorious, as is Aureole. She'd not done a single deal
with any female dealer in living memory. The trouble is that sin pays, like
crime. Aureole's worth a fortune. She just likes the heady excitement of
antiques, scoring against odds. About antiques, she hasn't a clue. About
people, she's cannier than most.

In case you've not heard of it, chain-dating's the rage. Law—that
retard in scholastic clothing—is unsure whether to declare it illegal.
Moralists fume and councillors rage. The town's two grottie news rags thunder,
and reject Aureole's advertisements. Aureole? She swans on, indifferent, making
a mint.

In chain-dating you simply register with Aureole. A fee changes
hands, from you to her. Then, on dates you've specified, you are contacted by
Aureole's assistants. Everything's clandestine, contact by pigeon post if need
be.

You turn up, meet the lady (or gentleman,
mutatis mutandis
—also one of Aureole's clients) and enjoy your
evening. Everyone rejoices. Okay?

Yes, because a week later, the same thing. Except this time the
partner is different, for Aureole's chain has moved down a link. Every
encounter counts one link. It's the miracle of chain-dating: you never, never
ever, meet the same lady again. And no lady ever meets the same gentleman.
Everyone slips, link by link, along the dating chain. See the consequences?
Novelty is all. It's the modern way, disposable dating. In fact it's so
frigging modern it's redundant. Me? I think they're off their heads.

East Anglia can't decide whether Aureole's a whore, a madam, or a
social service ministering to the emotionally disadvantaged.

'Alf? The till, please,' Aureole called.

'I put in!' Alf gave back indignantly.

'Two teas, when I'm doing Lovejoy all our supplies?'

‘I’ll get it.' Alf went, grousing.

Aureole strolled over with some apple pie. I started to wolf it.
She laughed, ruffled my thatch.

'Never not hungry, are you, Lovejoy?'

It's all right for Aureole, who doesn't eat much. I can never work
out why they admire appetites so. My Gran used to admire me eating, like I was
some carnival. She used to say, 'Better than a repast, watching him go at it.'

Aureole checked Alf s progress as he scoured his stall for usable
coins.

'You want in yet, Lovejoy?' she asked quietly.

‘In?' I was guarded. I'd finished the grub and she'd not yet
brought the rest. You can't be too careful.

'You heard. In my chain.'

That again. 'No, ta.'

'Why not?' She spoke softly, enticing. 'You invented the whole
system. Remember? Plant the orchard, you deserve some fruit.'

She wasn't far out. I'd been telling her, a year or so back, how
some Birmingham tea-lady had been injured in a set-up car crash for stepping
out of line. (A tea-lady's a dealer, either gender, who works for pin/beer
money on the side.) Our town has a couple of tea-ladies, who dispense sexual
favours to make up their lack of cash when buying antiques. It's fraught,
dangerous, but you can't warn folk who don't heed.

Foolishly, I'd been explaining the tea-ladies' scheme to Aureole.

'Say a customer wants an Ince corner cupboard,' I'd said, making
it simple. Aureole listened, wide of eye. 'The woman dealer hasn't got one to
sell. A Brighton dealer, however, has. No deal, right? Now, she guesses that
the Brighton dealer, who has the lovely [nee furniture, fancies her. So she
meets him one dark night.'

'What happens?' Aureole's eyes were like saucers.

'The Brighton dealer sells her the valuable Ince cupboard, cheap.
Because . . .'

'Because she's given him sex!' Aureole cried, ecstatically
inventing the wheel.

'Correct. The lady sells the exquisite pale heartwood Ince
cupboard to her customer, and the world wassails. Everybody wants sex, see?'

'Of course!' she'd squeaked, dazzled.

I should have said nothing more. Except, bigmouth, I'd gone on.

'Beats me,' I'd said, 'why somebody doesn't set up a list of
people. Sort of a chain, go down a partner each time so you'd never get anyone
twice. You'd think,' I'd continued, gormless, 'it'd be dead obvious.'

'Wouldn't you!' she'd breathed. 'But how, Lovejoy''

'You'd need a phone, detailed computer records, and you'd have the
world's most regular clientele. Safe as houses. Folk would fill over themselves
to join.'

Her gaze triggered hope in my mind. I remember saying, 'You've not
got an antique Ince cupboard?'

'No, Lovejoy,' she'd said. 'Just something on my mind.'

That week she founded the Aureole Halcyonic C-2-I) Agency. It's
the town's honey money infamy. I've even met folk overseas who say, 'Hey, isn't
that where chain-dating . . . ?'