The Grace in Older Women (29 page)

'Dame Millicent. What are the chances of buying Juliana's
forgeries?' 'Juliana is in the unfortunate state of love,' she said, acerbic.
'I'm never sure these days about that condition. Is there now such a thing?'
'I'm lodging a bird who was loved,' I said. 'I think.'

'You see, Lovejoy? We do not know. Possessiveness comes into love.
Quite terrifying, how far one will go to keep the loved one.'

'If I wheedle her into thinking it's for her priest?' I put my
feet on the dog. It snored, contented.

'Like a shot. But she's a bright lady. She must be convinced.
Which raises questions, Lovejoy.'

'Does it?' Her old eyes glinted in the candlelight.

'Indeed. Like why are you really here. Why, when you are the only
divvy, the best forger, do you need Juliana Witherspoon? You haven't fallen for
the girl yourself?'

'No,' I lied. This lie's easy, because I fall for them all. 'I'm
forced to help the Battishalls. They're pals with a Mr. Sheehan.' Best I could
do on the spur of the moment. She nodded. 'I'm scared of Sheehan.'

'This exhibition. I heard,' she said to my face, 'from Mr. Geake.
He stopped by an hour ago.'

And well off the premises by now, I prayed. 'It's an exhibition of
fakes, forgeries. Replicas, even copies. Have you got anything I could put in?'
Clever Lovejoy.

'In this place? I sold everything long ago, Lovejoy.'

'Well, if your country set pals want rid of silver, anything
antique, let me know.'

'I promise, Lovejoy.'

The conversation went from there to reminiscences about her old
affairs, splendid parties, her old lover who'd been admired throughout the
land. . . Only one candle was burning by the time I rose to say my good nights.
I'd given Chemise enough time to steal the roof, let alone a dressing table.

She was waiting where I'd told her, a furlong down the road. We
couldn't get the dressing table in the car, so I had to tie the damned thing on
the roof with rope.

'Lovejoy!' She was elated, but disliking what she felt. ‘I’m a
burglar!
’

'Hmmm?' I was disturbed, because she'd nicked a fake. It didn't
feel like any antique I'd ever sussed. 'Well done, lass.'

'You don't understand, Lovejoy.' She turned to me, solemn. 'I mean
I am a
burglar
. I actually robbed a
lady's
house
."

'You've done what everybody else on earth's done, does, is doing.
Now for Christ's sake stop boasting.'

'I'm not boasting, Lovejoy. I never knew I could.''

This always brings out the sighs in me. 'Everybody does it, love.
You're just a late starter. It's like love - me and Dame Millicent were talking
about it. When you make love, you actually make the stuff. Including nuns and
priests. Celibate, perhaps, but read some saints. Nicking things is the rule,
not the exception. Forgery's the mortar, antiques the bricks. Together, they
are the building, love.'

'Why are you not excited? I thought you'd be ecstatic!'

‘It's a forgery, love. Was it the only piece there?'

'Exactly as you described, Lovejoy.' She started to cry, sniffing
again. I'd suffered this evening. 'There was no other furniture, just a bed and
a wardrobe.'

'You did well, love,' I said. 'I'm proud of you.'

'It's strange, Lovejoy. You know what is most disturbing?'

Well, I did, but you have to say you don't. 'No?' I said in a
puzzled kind of fashion.

'It's that I'm thrilled. It was exhilarating. And worse.' She
looked defiant. 'I'm delighted you're pleased.'

'It's how it always is, at first, Chemise,' I said. She took my
hand, laid it on her knee, and me driving between hedgerows struggling to see
the way.

'Look, love,' I said, nervous. 'About you staying. Sooner or later
I'll have to go back to the Battishalls.’

She took some time replying, then said, 'It's all right now,
Lovejoy. If it's all right with you?'

Well, I thought piously, I deserved recompense for the fake Danish
piece. I'd done her a favour by letting her take the risk instead of me. And
taught her a new trade. Fair's fair.

Except breathing heavily and all but ravishing her there and then
in the motor as I turned in to my garden, I couldn't. The way was blocked by a
large limousine. The lights were on in my cottage, and music split the night.
Laughter, corks popped, glasses tinkled. And there was a delicious aroma. The
Americans had come, bearing gifts. Party time at Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.

'Who
are
they, Lovejoy?'
Chemise was outraged, almost as if she'd actually wanted to -

'American friends.' I recognized faces moving past the window.
'Love. Suss out Father Jay, okay? '

We advanced, musing. Once, chance; twice, coincidence. But a third
time it's a Genseric the Most Terrible.

26

'Hey, Lovejoy!'

The whoops began before we were in the door. Mahleen was first,
followed by a shoal. Gwena, slightly less frolicsome, was pouring the vino and
dishing cakes. I brightened, joined in.

'What's the occasion?' I asked. 'Is anybody welcome?'

Hoots of laughter, during which people eyed Chemise. The women
marked her down and wrote her off. They can handle ugliness in others, quite
like it in fact. Beauty means she's a bitch, in the old comedienne's music-hall
joke. Chemise was no threat.

'So you're our ally, Lovejoy!' cried Hilda, though she was
immediately silenced by a few, 'Hey, gal!' cries. 'Sorr-ee!' she screamed,
unrepentant. It was only supermarket sixpence-off wine, but who knows the
difference? Like most things in life, labels rule. I wish I'd remembered that.

Mahleen came to chat. Chemise seemed to be enjoying herself.

'We're proud of you, Lovejoy. You've jumped the gun!'

'I have?' I was pleased, done something right.

'But I want a quiet meeting, like I said.'

'Oh. Sorry, love. I got tied up.'

'We'll be unstoppable,' she whispered. A compact player was
belting out decibels, the cottage reeling. People jigged.

'We will?'

'Money, glorious
money
,
Lovejoy!' She waved to Wilmore, who clasped his hands, boxer style. He seemed
high and on the kilter. Vernon sang 'Over the sea to Skye,' pretending to row
in a choppy sea. Never such merriment at Lovejoy Antiques, Inc. So why'd I gone
cold?

'Listen up, everybody!' Vernon shouted, pinging his glass. Glass?
I had no glasses. I often wished I had.

'A toast!' They began shrieking for silence.

'We have here tonight,’ Vernon boomed, wobbling on the divan, 'the
most superb divvy! Who has -' he held out his hands to suppress applause ' -
who has joined our Group!'

Roars, joy unbounded. Mahleen sank me in her golden cleavage. I’d
never seen so much cosmetics unbottled. She was beautiful. I'd not eaten for a
decade. I was squiffy on wine.

'This, friends,' Vernon went on in the sudden hush, 'betokens
certain success! And Love joy, sensing our Cause's inherent truth, has already
started the assault!'

I had? I was grinning like an ape. Gwena looked ratty, as ever
since she realized I was seeing her sister. Says my intentions are
dishonourable, mistrustful cow. Me, dishonourable? It's prejudice.

'And so we've decided to stay, friends, and help! We,' he shouted,
trying to keep upright, 'are his troops! Lovejoy our general!'

'Shhh!' Mahleen was signalling to Wilmore, shut Vernon up.

Vernon toasted in tears, The King over the water!'

He waved his glass, the ladies shrieking at being drenched in
white wine. I groaned, less jovial. This lot were part of Roberta's daft mob.
And converts, the very worst sort of believers, poisonously fervid. Jacobites
used to make this toast, passing their wine glass over the fingerbowl in
allusion to the absent Bonnie Prince Charlie. Hopelessly romantic, fable
founded on fraud founded on fable. Most political rebellions flourish, strange
to relate, by their opponents' help. The Yanks mostly financed Russia's
revolutionaries. And Charlemagne's spiritual affection for Aix-la-Chapelle,
that drew him to live there, wasn't anything of the sort; he simply liked the
hot springs, swam there in the afternoon.

'We're what?’ I asked, Vernon blowing an imaginary trumpet.

'Going out on campaign, General! The action starts here!'

By then we were all three sheets to the wind. I'd never been so
drunk that fast. We piled out and into the big limo. Chemise caught me, stuffed
yet more messages in my pocket and stood looking after me. I tried shouting I'd
be back, have the kettle on, but we were off, piled in a heap like an
undergraduate rag day stunt. I was under Mahleen, or possibly on, I don't know.
During the journey she found my ear, whispered to meet in room one six. I fell
about laughing.

The George lounge was quiet, only the vestibule bar still
honky-tonking away. A few couples were having one last drink before making
smiles. Maudie Laud was there. She just smiled, waved me over.

'Wotcher, Maud, sorry but I'm with friends.'

'Not be long, ladies,' she told them politely. 'I'll let you have
him after a chat.'

Warily I sat opposite. The lounge always has a log fire. It's
comfortable, a sense of timelessness.

'They really are tourists, Maud.' I didn't want her leaping to
conclusions about innocents, including me.

She watched them go. 'Which, Lovejoy?' she asked.

That narked me. 'Get your questions over with. Or shall I answer
straight off, save time?' She nodded, smiling. I would have liked her in
another incarnation. In this she was putrid. 'Yes, I'm organizing an exhibition
of forgeries, fakes, duds, shams. Yes, all will be clearly labelled as such.
Yes, wholly legal. Yes, the funds will be declared for income tax purposes.
Yes, it will be a charitable fund-raising. Yes, it will be open to all,
including your Plod. No date yet, but soon.'

'Thank you, Lovejoy.' She made to rise, paused, her smile hard.
'Why are you doing it?'

'An obligation to a lady. No money, just obligation.'

'The ailing Roberta?'

She knew a hell of a lot of intimacies. 'I never betray a lady's
confidence.'

'I'll accept that for now. She rose and stretched, knowing the
effect on me. 'Let me guess, Lovejoy.' She thought, finger under her chin.
'That gold lady, room sixteen?' And when I said nothing, 'You will tell me if
anything. . . ?'

'Police helmets, truncheons, insignia from the peelers? I'd pay a
good price, love, for police museum items.'

'You would?' She looked dangerous, but I was past caring, wine
being what it is.

'You know the curator, young Freeth.' I can give as good as I get.
'Nice wife. Kids in school now, eh?'

'What're you saying, Lovejoy?'

'I said I pay a good price, Maud. Just remember.'

She stared for what seemed a week, but it can't have been more
than half that. She was mad I knew about her and Freeth.

'I see. You know who did Tryer,' she said softly, her brow
clearing. 'You wouldn't be so determined otherwise.’

Am I that transparent? I hated the bitch. 'Haven't a clue, Maud.
I'll buy old police dictating machines, prison plans, percussion weapons,
anything like that. Oh, ta for keeping Tinker in your nick just when I needed
him.’

'Rol Freeth and I are simply colleagues, Lovejoy.' She would have
killed me, but for witnesses. 'If you -

My sigh almost blew the rafters down. 'Look, Maud. I can't stand
here gossiping about you having a bit on the side.' I paused, one up for once.
'What room number was it?'

Having this last word felt like a mouth full of sawdust. I watched
her go. The rest of the lounge was taking no notice, talking softly, passion
impending. It made me disconsolate. I could be with Chemise. Or, with Roberta,
for my payment in kind. I trudged up the stairs, looking for room one six. I
couldn't endure more jollity, probably getting even more sloshed now, on the
hard stuff.

'Wotcher.' I knocked and entered, stood surprised. Nobody,
semi-darkness. I couldn't see a damned thing. 'Sorry, er . . .'

'Lovejoy! I thought you'd never come.'

'Mahleen?' And alone? I fumbled for the light.

'No lights. Follow my heat, hon.'

So I did. I felt a brief sorrow for Chemise, alone in my cottage,
but a woman makes you forget everything, including others.

If love's been made right, something comes over a man. It might
seem like sleep to passing observers. Younger women assume you've just nodded
off in dismissive indolence. Older women, though, know better. They realize the
man has briefly left terra firma, for some astral plane where others cannot
follow. From the inside, it feels terrible, a kind of premonition of death, and
can't be mucked about with. The wrongest thing a woman can do, biggest mistake,
is light a fag, say, 'Hey,
let's talk!
’
This ghastly fudge remark is not only the commonest flaw in TV scripts, but the
most ruinous utterance in human love. Any woman whose blokes keep walking out
on her should learn this: after making love, a few moments of quiet will weld
him to you for ever and ever, because he'll love you for nowt thereafter. You
might be the most useless woman in the history of beds, but he won't know this
if you treat him to that slight mercy.