The Possessions of a Lady (8 page)

'How much time've we got, Tubb?'

'Some days.'

Then I'd time for a free meal. I dithered for a split second.
Aureole represented grub plus the Berkley Horse, but being a link in her sex
chain was a definite minus. I like to choose where to lose, so to speak. On the
other hand there was the mystery pickpocket Orla Maltravers Featherstonehaugh,
of London's Mayfair, who stole nothing but who promised supper. On the
other
other hand, I had given Aureole my
word of honour. On the
other
other
other hand, had I really meant it? Orla won.

'See you anon, Tubb. My auntie's in hospital.'

Tubb accompanied me. I stepped into the Trinity Street dark.
'Don't talk to her if she's in one of them cubicles, Lovejoy. It's bad luck.'

'It is?'

'Witness, wish, or will through glass opposites what you say!' He
was eager to guide me. 'Look at her through glass'll bring evil. Take care.'

'Er, right, Tubb.' I moved away from the barmy sod. Just my luck
to have Tubb foisted on my promising job.

He called after me, 'And stay away from them green hospital gowns,
okay?'

'Right, right.'

Okay, so green's unlucky. Has anyone ever seen a green nightdress?
I knew this bird once who wouldn't go out wearing green, though the colour
suited her. Tubb carries superstition too far. It was his downfall. He was
burgling a mansion in Lincolnshire. His mate was chewing a hawthorn twig while
jemmying the window—country folk call hawthorn 'bread and cheese'; children
like the taste. Only when Tubb had shone his flashlight had he seen the twig.
Superstition struck, for hawthorn indoors signifies calamity. Tubb let out a
shriek, roused the household. Police caught him less than a mile off lamming
along a hedgerow, which to this nerk proved how unlucky hawthorn is. Bonkers.

'Don't step on cracks, Lovejoy!' floated after me in the gloaming.

Like a fool I actually found myself trying to see the flagstones
in the lamplight. It only goes to show, daftness is catching. I should have
remembered that, and stayed safe. But I didn't so I wasn't. I started down East
Hill past the town hall clock, with Saint Helena and the True Cross, and
Boadicea glowering. Symbols. Tubb'd say they were unlucky, but he's cracked.

Lightning flashed, silhouetting the building against blackness.
The rain descended. Maybe Tubb was right. The downpour stopped me reaching the
Quay. I judged the traffic and dashed across to the Bay and Say pub, arriving
like a drowned rat.

'Wotcher, Lovejoy.'

Sadly Sorrowing was in. He got me a drink, a record.

'Ta, Sadly. What's the occasion?'

'Sold ten this week, Lovejoy. Great, eh?'

Sadly Sorrowing makes fake Regency writing bureaus. They're not
bad, but he makes too few to eke a living. He's called Sadly Sorrowing after a
greeting card rhyme he made up. London firms wouldn't buy it, so he had six thousand
printed—to be rare collector's items, you understand. He sends them out on
every possible occasion, to get rid. So if you get married, win the lottery,
lose a leg or have twins, you get a Sincerest Condolences card with his famous
couplet that begins, 'Sadly sorrowing sinners slowly soaring . . .' We all
joke, 'No, Sadly—we'll wait for the film.'

I told tourists they were Lord Fauntleroy's.'

'Great.' I gave up. Ten was his max. 'Here, Sadly. You know Brad,
eh?'

'Brad the boat builder? Wivenhoe? I live near him.'

'He ashore, or out sailing?'

'In this storm?' The rain was slashing at the pub windows. 'He'll
be out tomorrow down the Blackwater.'

Good news. Tomorrow, I'd not be poor, with Brad's help. Tinker
came in with Roadie. I stood them some ale with the remnant of Thekla's
largesse.

'Frothey went gorilla, Lovejoy.'

Roadie sniggered. 'I told her you'd gone with that posh sheila.'

'What're we after, Lovejoy?' Tinker gazed soulfully into his empty
glass. I got him another two pints, which was almost me cleaned out. 'You've
got that look.'

'Carmel has a sand job. I'm lumbered with Tubb.'

'Gawd, Lovejoy. Might as well phone the Plod. His superstition'll
cock it up. Hear how he got nicked? They were robbing this mansion

'I know,' I said sourly. 'Maythorn indoors.'

'We broke, Lovejoy?' Tinker asked.

Roadie fell about as I hawked out my last groat. 'Some antique
dealer! Evicted, stony broke.'

'Aureole might have word of your niece,' I told Tinker sourly, but
didn't say she'd been on Aureole's dating agency. Tinker gave a grimace. He
looked shifty.

'Big John wants you about scossing the Yank Museum.'

'Oh, dear. I've just seen him.'

Sheehan must have decided he'd been too giving over that reffo.
Every so often he considers antiques as a career. That is to say, he decides
what antiques he wants, and we're expected to obtain them at no risk to him. To
'scoss' is to strip entirely of spoils, for later division.

'The one in the West Country?'

It's actually the only extant American Museum in the whole of
Europe. Established in the 1980s, it's still worth seeing. A great mansion
filled with old American furniture, patchwork quilts, utensils. Entirely
furnished, ready to inhabit, early New England vintage. Word said it had naff
security. I wondered idly what the USA had done to incur Big John's wrath.

'Tell Big John I'll think hard about it.'

'And Lydia's back. There she is.'

My heart gave a lurch, a rotten sensation. I'm in enough
 
trouble without emotion creeping in. Don't get
me wrong. I'm in favour of Lydia, love, the lot. But travel light goes
fleetest, and Lydia was impedimenta. Women tidy my cottage—when I have one,
that is. Thekla's tender loving care lost me my home. See what I mean? They
tidy everything so my few clothes are untraceable. The arch tidier is Lydia.

Another lurch. I saw her shadow on the vestibule's frosted glass.
Two lads hauled in, laughing, joshing as Lydia hesitated. She'd dither there
until closing time unless I fetched her.

'Wotcher, love.'

'Good evening, Lovejoy.'

There she stood, blushing prettily. Slim, but not too. Dark blue
suit, smart hem, high-neck lace blouse, small matching hat, navy blue handbag,
neat white gloves. My resolution evaporated. I grinned like a fool.

'You're back, then, Lyd.'

'Lydia, please. May I . . . ?'

'Oh, come in. Tinker's here.'

We joined them. Everybody gaped, playing who's-the-looker. Women
gave her the cold eye, working out how to talk her down. They'd have a hard
time. She dulled every mirror. Tinker explained Roadie to her.

'Good evening, Mr. Dill. How do you do, Roadie?'

'Is she real, for fu—?'

Tinker clapped a hand over the youth's mouth and gravelled out in
a whisper audible on the Kent coast, 'Shut your 'ole, lad. There's a frigging
lady present.'

I smiled weakly. 'May I offer you a drink?'

'Earl Grey tea, please. Do they have biscuits?'

She drew off her gloves, knees together, ready for the sermon and
offertory. Body of a sinner, manners of a saint, soul of a nun.

'Is she real?' Roadie was astonished.

This called for my bent eye. He subsided while I went to ask
Prissy the barmaid for some Earl Grey tea and some biscuits. The bar lads
guffawed, but even they knew that Lydia was the classiest the pub had ever had
in its chequered seven-hundred year old history, and just eyed me with envy.

'You joking, Lovejoy?' Prissy asked. She was new, a Walsall lass.
'Tea and biscuits in the saloon bar? How much do I charge?'

'Make a note,' I offered gallantly. 'I'll settle up later.' Like I
say, Prissy's new.

' . . . a divvy can unerringly diagnose antiques, you see,' Lydia
was telling Roadie when I rejoined them. 'So Miss Carmel is particularly keen.
. .’

'How was the course, Lydia?' I interrupted. The less said about
Carmel's sand job the better. Lydia would assume it involved inspecting some
cabinet in a vicarage. 'Learn all about antiques? Porcelain? Wedgwood?
Paintings?'

'Lovejoy,' Roadie said. 'Your shag's telling us about some bint's
sand job.'

'Could I have a word, please?' I beckoned Roadie into the
vestibule. A snogging couple desisted, watched sullenly as I throttled the lad
until he went puce.

'What . . . ?' the nerk gasped when I let go.

'Listen. Lydia is not like you or me. We're nigh on rubbish. She
isn't. Keep mum, or I'll break your arm. Understand?' I didn't know if I could
fulfil the threat, being a coward, but I could at least bludgeon him and run.

'What's so special about her?' he choked, feeling his neck.

'She's so special about her, see?'

Enough, in case he decided to fight back. I told the snog-gers
sorry, and brightly returned.

'Roadie's checking the weather.' I eyed Lydia. She smiled shyly
back. 'You're bone dry, love. It's teeming cats and dogs.'

'Mr. Boxgrove kindly gave me a lift from the railway station. He was
seeing off Miss Aureole's friend.'

'How kind,' I said. Lydia talks like an abbess.

'Wasn't it?' She smiled, sun breaking through cloud. 'He gave her
a ticket, a map and everything. He would have introduced but she was in desperate
hurry. She seemed so tired. Just back from Salford, too.'

Deep down Roger's a shagnasty. I wasn't jealous, but didn't like
him giving Lydia a lift. Change the subject.

'Tinker? Aureole owes me a Berkley Horse, okay?'

'Is that an antique, Lovejoy?' asked Lydia.

'Er, no,' I lied. She'd have her notebook out any minute. 'It's,
er, a wooden display stand.'

Tinker frowned. 'You got that right, Lovejoy? Isn't it . . . ?'

'Get another pint,' I bawled, nudging him hard. I smiled at Lydia.
'Tinker always misunderstands.'

Her tea was served on a tray with doylies, if you please. The old
Bay and Say had never seen such elegance. I glanced gratitude to Prissy, who
went red and looked away. She's nice, Prissy.

Something was odd, though. Roger doesn't do kindnesses except for
money. Tinker knowingly caught my anxiety, gave one of his spectacular coughs
as cover, shaking the rafters as far as the Roman ruins, and went for the ale.

'Sorry, miss,' he said, returning carrying five pints. I wish I
could do that. I once tried lifting three, but spilled two. His rheumy old eyes
streamed. He wiped snot into his palm, and gulped phlegm down with relief. 'My
chest's getting worse. I need a drink bad . . .'

'Oh. Please, Mr. Dill. Allow me.'

He swiftly vanished her proffered note into his mitten. 'Wouldn't
dream—ohwellifyouinsist. Ta.'

'Would you care for a cup, Mr. Roadie?' Lydia asked, pouring. T am
pleased about Miss Carmel's new . . .'

'No!' I shot in, then lamely added as everybody in the pub stared.
'He's allergic to tea.'

'Er, yep, allergic'

He was learning. My head ached. I kept sane by asking Lydia about
'Antiques For Trade Experts' in Chichester. Outside, thunder stuttered,
quivering the floorboards. It was a while before the din dwindled and folk
started to come in shaking umbrellas.

'And now, Lovejoy,' Lydia said eagerly, coming to the end of her
diatribe about Georgian furniture. 'Could you tell me of the successes of
Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.?'

Roadie laughed. Tinker looked uncomfortable.

'Well,' I said weakly, 'we've been after

'
Successes
, Lovejoy.'
She frowned. 'I insist.'

I managed to say it seventh go.

'None, love.'

Her luscious lips thinned. 'In all that
time
?

So I explained, down to my present penury and homelessness.

That night I slept on her mother's sofa.

7

That sofa night was longish, as nights go. I'm not one to lie
awake fretting. If you sleep, you sleep. I usually read, or lie smiling at
memories. But not tonight. Mavis warned me (a) not to move one inch, and (b) not
to touch a single thing, like I was going to nick her teaspoons. (They were
only electroplate anyway.) I sighed. I'm what prejudice is for.

The storm crashed and pealed. The living-room fire died. I watched
the embers. Hearing Lydia moving about upstairs made me unhappy. Worse, I was
outwitted.

My sparse living comes from detecting antiques, among the crud of
fakes. I
feel
genuine. They speak to
me, as in Thekla's fashion show with Loon Rodney's antique carpet. We divvies
are few and far between. I've only heard often besides me in my whole life, and
I've searched. The chance of meeting another divvy is logarithmically remote.
Yet here I was being outsmarted, out-started. Reason? There might be another
divvy around.