The Grace in Older Women (39 page)

Daimler's 1885 motorbike was there, with an exploded diagram of
the Otto four-stroke engine artistically done, going round on a circular dais,
just like in the Motor Show. Really elegant. The lad had two mates along, with
remakes of old model steam engines, two working. They'd been set up outside the
conservatory, looked really good against all that greenery and glass.

The schoolteacher's cupboard house was brilliant, in a genuine
Ince cupboard just as I'd hoped. I'd have to tell the Dewhurts to watch the
price on that one.

Doper Tone, the non-curator not from Bermondsey, his photo with
the pope highlighted, had brought his stuff not from St John Lateran. All
brewing well.

Oddly, the real attraction was Brig. His mugs-and-droppings stall
was crowded out as soon as people started coming through. I was ahead, but by
the time I reached his display - by the steps leading down into the
conservatory's tasteful jungle of plants and white ironwork - a press of
spectators was already at his commemorative mugs, plates, plaques. I forced
through. He was harassed but pleased. Several people were questioning him about
the prehistoric artefacts - read dung - on his other stall on the verandah, the
Weird and Wonderful section. He was issuing cards, saying price, telling the
tale. I left smiling, shaking my head ruefully. Why
do
people
buy
some
things?

Tesco had fought hard for space for his Mediterranean history
show. I suspected the swine of having hidden the massive free-stander legend
panels somewhere until I'd gone by, but hadn't time to fight. It looked all
right. Mrs. Boyson, with a new hairdo, was showing her clever forgery of the
Thangliena diaries in Tinker's display case. I gave her a buss. Terrible to
think her whole life's work would be in the hands of some undeserving buyer
very soon.

My headache came on then because Ashley stormed up. We sidled into
an alcove where he went ape.

'Lovejoy! I demand an explanation . . .' et Ashley cetera. He'd
heard from the Misses Dewhurst about the auction.

'Ashley,' I said, 'don't you want the money?'

'Shhhh! Of course! But the residents dine at six!'

Then they'll have to wait. Tell you what,' I placated him. Tell
the Misses Dewhurst to give them supper with the exhibitors! And staff! My
expense.' I smiled with the lie, being kind.

He hesitated. Treat?'

'Yes. Miss Priscilla's arranging it now. Be an outing for the old
dears.'

That cooled, I said hello to Chess, my old printing pal from
Tooting Bee. Jemima's cousin Gabbie had done mmmh, well, nearly a good job on
the London watercolours, meaning pretty neffie really but then Jemima's been a
close friend once or twice and emotion argues when common sense has no voice.

One other stand that pleased me was Fred A'Court's, neophyte gold
modeller. His daughter Lana was with him. They looked nervy, polished as if
going to a function. I talked as long as I could, with max psychotherapy. He'd
managed to scrape together seven items for his launch into the flocking trade.
I winked, said today was the first day of the rest of his life, call at my
cottage Monday to decide his career plan.

But time was pressing, because the Ashleys of this world are never
pacified long. I found Roberta. She was reclining, feebly managing to scoff a
trolley load of cakes, biscuits, tarts, trifles, savouries, to restore her from
all the work she hadn't to do. Life is one long slog.

The votive light was burning, the curtains drawn before the duff
painting. I approached her chaise longue on tiptoe.

'Roberta?' I sank to my knees, offered her the soft centres. She
selected three, blind. Her eyes fluttered open.

'Lovejoy?' she managed to whisper.

'Yes. Look, er, darling.' I had only a couple of minutes
pre-Ashley. 'I'm committed to your cause. I've fallen for you, Roberta. That
night was the most wondrous. I can't live without you. Get rid of Ashley . . .T
did about four minutes of pure soul, really naff. I tried edging a cake near
where I could nick it but she was too slick and ate it with a weak sigh just as
I thought I was close to a calorie. 'Darling. I want to pay you the money
tonight, not Ashley. Your name, your bank account, darling, you alone.'
Saccharine to the gills. I reached for her. If I couldn't grab grub, I'd grab
solace.

'I knew it, Lovejoy.' Smug with self-satisfaction, having
conquered all. ‘I, too, was
slightly
carried away. You do have a certain passion. We need that . . .’

Her cool breast was just about to leap free when Priscilla entered
with Ashley, carrying a pile of photocopy sheets. Presumably the roup-call
lists for scattering.

'I apologize, Roberta,' Priscilla said, firmly not noticing my
swift spring away. 'But we have a problem.'

‘Ah, the payment for the Welcome Sailor?' I gave them a sincere
beam. 'Chemise has already seen to it.'

Ashley glared from me to Roberta. 'Is this true, Lovejoy? Nothing
you've said so far has been!'

See? No trust these days, reliability a dirty word.

'Roberta.' When in doubt appeal to authority. 'Nothing can stop us
now, except doubt -' I glared at Ashley - among loyal friends!'

'Ashley,' Roberta whispered faintly. 'Do as Lovejoy says. For me .
. .' He voice trailed off. She reached for a trifle, whimpered when she
couldn't find a spoon. I passed one. I hate to see hunger suffer.

'Thank you, Roberta.' Ignoring Miss Priscilla's gaze, I went
quietly out, lost myself in the thickening crowds.

33

Chemise was worried, but worries come too late to be any use. So I
put my brave face on, with the Misses Dewhurst on the steps, ready to wave
everybody off.

'Is this all right, Lovejoy?' Chemise asked. The Americans got
aboard, Mahleen squeezing my arm with a 24-carat clang of undisguised lust,
making me go red.

'See you later, honey!' she breathed. 'I've got what you want.'

‘I’ve got you a ladyship title, Mahleen. The call just came
through. It'll cost about eighteen thousand quid. But genuine, In East Anglia.
The titles mean little nowadays, but they're legally transferable.'

'You've . . .' She stared. 'Like Jox's titles?'

'No, love. Honest and true. You've been good to me.'

'Lovejoy -' She was swept away by a late rush.

Exhibitors shook my hand. They'd had good orders.

'Our American visitors will share the celebrations!' I said,
grinning. 'See they get a good nosh, eh? Look after Mr. and Mrs. Battishall.' I
walked to the charabancs. Grinning's hard. If I'd been a candidate I'd have got
elected there and then. 'They will follow in the limo, all right?' Roberta was
glorious in amber chiffon with white silk mandarin sleeves. I could have eaten
her, would with average luck.

She smiled back, shivering, delicate as a flower. I bussed her as
the first chara revved up and moved off, the exhibitors all waving, chatting of
the successful day.

'See you, doowerlink,' I told her. I patted Ashley on the back,
wishing I'd palmed a knife. 'The Welcome Sailor'll do you proud.'

‘I shall try to eat,' Roberta promised bravely. All little girl,
she stood on tiptoe and kissed me. She drew away, looking at me properly. It was
not altogether pleasant, that eagle-eyed search. 'Lovejoy?' she asked.

'By nine you'll be home. Everything'll be sorted, love.'

'Ashley,' she said, 'I'm cold. My shawl . . .' He belted away.
'Nothing's wrong, Lovejoy, is it?'

The other charabancs revved, pulled out, everybody waving. I
looked to see Lily, my favourite, smiling down. No sign of old Jim the
irascible. He was probably ballocking the driver for fuel impurities or
something barmy. The old guests pulled out immediately after, black smoke
fuming the countryside.

'Wrong? What could be wrong, love? The Cause's made a fortune on
commission?'

She looked at the dealers' waiting cars. 'They will go soon?'

'Aye.' I did my best sigh at the unrelenting dedication of all
those antiques dealers. 'All except the chosen few.' I winked. 'They all want
to be the last to leave, in case some rival dealer offers a discount. I'll take
a few last orders. Don't worry.'

She placed a hand on my chest. The limo driver, a pimply St Osyth
bloke, tried not to notice this. We stepped away.

'And the Stubbs will be sold?'

'Auctioned for a fortune. Payable to you only, dwoorlink. There'll
be a dozen bidders only.'

'You'll stay, Lovejoy?' Her tongue touched her lips. 'It's been a
revelation, you here. We share the same obverse, you and I.'

'So you're a Gemini with a . . . ?' A touch of what, Aquarius? I'd
forgotten. Astrology's a woman's toy, not for blokes.

'Libra,' she corrected. 'I should have listened to Priscilla years
ago, at school.'

'Eh?' Ashley came into view, three shawls. 'School?'

'We were all at school together, Prissy, Philly, and I.' She
watched Ashley hurtle towards us. 'It doesn't entitle them to any licence,
Lovejoy. You understand?'

'They're just helpers, love.'

'Be sure that's all, Lovejoy. By tonight, I shall have funds
enough to declare myself. I need a dedicated advisor. I do not mean Ashley. You
understand, darling?'

‘Er, no?' Declare what?

'Declare my position as the Pretender to the USA.'

My mind reached for a splitting headache, gave up. Where's a
headache when you need one? 'You?' I gaped.

'Of course. I've been the subject of news items in the past, all
unbearably flippant. From now, I shall be serious.'

She ignored Ashley, stepped into the motor. Ashley climbed in
babbling how he'd hurried, so sorry to delay, the whole grovelling mess. I
ascended the steps, after gaping at the skies for a while.

'School pals, eh, Priscilla?' I said accusingly. Her sister
flushed. 'There was me thinking we'd all just met.'

'Oh, Lovejoy, that was
years
ago!'

'Who else?'

'Heavens!' Priscilla laughed, colour in her cheeks. 'Hilda
was
at the same school for a little
while - her father was something in their Embassy! Goodness, we were
practically strangers!'

'Oh, aye,' I said drily. But strangers who'd kept contact,
visited, shared the same loony Cause, were willing to expend time, money,
effort on its furtherance. Still, no threat. There's a society somewhere for
everything, from Save Our Toadstools to Down With Richard III. And there's a
society of collectors of anything and everything. And everybody's got to go to
school somewhere, right? No need to change any plan, right?

'Listen, ladies. The auction's fixed, Chemise?'

'Yes, Lovejoy. Gavel, desk, notepads, ballpoints, two dummy
handsets like you said. One mobile phone.'

'Mobile's you, Chemise. Miss Prissy, you take one wall phone, Miss
Philly the other, okay? When I cross my feet-
don't look
, corner of your eye, okay? -you'll raise your hand as if
listening to a phone-in bidder, then nod. Once. Got it?'

'Why, Lovejoy?'

'It's the old pretence again, Priscilla.'

She turned to her sister. 'We dissemble, Philadora. There won't
actually
be
anybody telephoning.'
Philadora registered this world-shatterer. 'Correct, Lovejoy?'

'Yes,' I said, near to collapse. 'Chemise. Got the stickies?'

'Yes, Lovejoy.' From a holdall she brought out a roll of white
adhesive paper discs. 'Numbered to 831.'

'God Almighty. That many?' I drew breath to ask if she'd checked,
but saw her steely glint and desisted. This was the lass who'd operated Tryer's
mobile Sex Museum through countrywide opposition. She handed me a tabulated
list. Valuable lass, Chemise.

'Ascending order, the way I went round the exhibits when it was
opened, okay?' I didn't want to auction the wrong items. I'd seen that happen
more than once.

'I
know
, Lovejoy.'

The sanads?' The Dewhursts drew breath together, but I got in
first. They are chits, papers giving authority that bidders sign. Remember what
I said about deposits, money or written cheque with each? Tinker's whifflers'll
know, and bring each to you, Chemise, okay?'

'Do they get a copy of the auction list, Lovejoy?'

'Once the doors are closed, aye. Not until.’ I looked at my three
helpers thinking, God. Not much of an army.

The great pantechnicons stood silent on the forecourt, now eight
of them. The end one didn't look at all different, but had a thicker wall,
according to old Jim Andrews, that possible Alzheimer. The huge van had a
solid-looking wall, sure, but didn't they all? Well, no.

For a second it made me shiver, because there wasn't a single
chime from the pantechnicon. I felt cold, looked to see where the chill was
coming from, but not a leaf stirred.

'Chemise. Did Tomtom and his mate Cav give you a message?'