The Lies of Fair Ladies (36 page)

The place was
filling. It smelled musty. The stage was hollow, every footfall rolling
thunder. Dust, the Council's hallmark, lay everywhere. Housewives drifted in,
excited about the great radio hero Del Vervain. Commercial fawners were filing
in to the front rows, so they could be seen to be worshiping those in high
places. A few old winos drifted in.

"Wotch,
Lovejoy." An old soak hawked up phlegm and swallowed with relish.
"Reckon they'll have nosh?"

"Wotcher,
Forage." He used to run errands for me once, but finally couldn't leave
the pub long enough. "Doubt it, for the likes of us." The anteroom,
the only one properly restored, had busy waitresses laying an enormous buffet.

"Bastards,"
he croaked, settling in one of the rear seats. "Junketing on our
taxes."

His mates muttered
agreement. Marmalade Emma's the second of Forage's trio. She's mostly in black,
with a black lacquered wicker hat and two bobbing cherries. The My Fair Lady
prototype. Grimes is her bloke. Stays stout on booze, God knows how. I’ve never
yet seen him awake. Moving about, yes, but that's not the same thing.

"Forage? Sit at
the front," I suggested. "It's warmer."

"They can chuck
us out easier from here, Lovejoy," Forage said. "The door guard is
Grimes's cousin's lad Andy."

"Oh.
Right." They'd embarrass him all right.

I sat down with them.
Marmalade Emma was reminiscing. She makes me wistful. I don't know why. She
sings outside pubs— inside, wherever she's allowed—and does a shuffling clownish
dance that makes people laugh. They throw pennies to make the drunken old lady
show her tattered soiled knickers. You can imagine what an admirable and merry
scene it is, in this rural corner of Merrie England. Our village social club
hires her to do her dance. They pay her in booze. And critics say wit is a
dying art.

"There used to
be big chandeliers up there, Lovejoy. See?"

"I don't
remember them, Emma." I looked.

"Ooooh, yes.
Very grand. People say they wuz real gold. You're too young." She quavered
a few bars of a waltz. I lalled along. My Auntie Alice was a great laller. She
could turn any melody, Handel's Messiah down, into lal-lal-lal.

"Did you dance
here, Emma?"

She demanded
indignantly, cherries bobbing, "Did I dance here? Lod, Lovejoy!" She
nudged Grimes, who chuckled in his sleep and said Lord too. "Lod above! I
danced to dawn, in this very hall! With the mayor! Old Alderman Adamson. Very
grand." Slyly she checked that Grimes was kipping. You could have heard
her whisper in Harwich. "He kissed me. After a polka. Under the painting
of the two girls with lanterns. My favorite." Her rheumy old eyes searched
the walls to point it out. There was no painting there. I thought. Odd.

"Lovejoy."
Forage nudged me. "They're calling you. What you done, son?"

A red-coated Master
of Ceremonies was bawling for attention. People were still filing in.
"Nothing. Yet."

"Lovejoy."
A custodian tried to prise me up but I wouldn't go. "On the stage. The
mayor said."

"Tell him no
thanks." Andy, embarrassed after all.

A number of
dignitaries were slowly filling the chairs on the podium. Oliver and Luna
weren't yet in, nor Del, Joan. Arriving audiences always create a hubbub.

"He won't like
it, Lovejoy.”

Emma cackled.
"Lovejoy'll worry chronic, Andy.”

It was quarter of an
hour before the proceedings showed signs of starting. Emma talked nonstop,
tales of ancient goings-on amongst the nobs of yesteryear. She must have been
quite prominent in her day. Grimes hadn't been prominent at all.

"Here,
son," Emma asked as folk hushed and had a last cough. "It true you're
shafting the lady mayoress, is it?"

"Mind your own
business."

She fell about at
that. Grimes laughing along in his slumber. Forage looked frosty. He
disapproves of immoral talk.

"Lovejoy, we
loikes you, booy. Even not local. But shafting carriage trade makes for bad
blood."

Other people didn't
like me, I noticed wryly. The four of us were in an island of space. A school
of children was in the body of the seating. Shoppers gossiped in the back row.
The hall was about two-thirds full. Blokes adjusted microphones. I was
disappointed. You'd think radio would need spectacular wiring, tons of
transmitters. There'd been just one radio van outside. That was it.
Television's better value. No wonder Del Vervain was worried sick about ratings
if this was radio's only technology.

People quietened, the
children enjoying making shushing noises, making such a racket they had to be
silenced separately. I was glad Therla Brewer was in. She and Josh were sitting
closer than teachers ought. I sighed. That's life.

"Ladies and
gentlemen. The mayor and mayoress of the borough!"

Recorded fanfare,
barely making it. People stood, some applauding. The line of dignitaries
beamed. Oliver and Luna entered. He wore his chain of office; she was merely
beautiful. Lights held them as they took their places. People sat, scraping the
floor. Why do people do that? There's no need. You just sit down, for God's
sake. But have you ever heard an audience sit quietly? I never have. It's a
queer world.

"Pray silence
for His Worship Mayor Carstairs!"

Oliver rose, to
feeble clapping. Councilors and front-row fawners were ecstatic. Luna's eyes
were shining as she clapped longest of all. I wondered if remembering how
differently those hands had behaved at my cottage was jealousy or something,
but gave over and listened to Oliver, resplendent in his regalia.

"Councilors!
Members of the Social Promotions Committee! Broadcasting fraternity! Last but
not least—ladies and gentlemen of the borough!"

This drew a roar of
laughter from ingrates. Housewives tittered, with that anxiety women always
show on posh occasions, hoping all will go right and nobody will be ashamed.

"He always was a
smarmy bleeder,'' Emma whispered shrilly.

People looked round.
Oliver pressed on, delighted with the sound of his own voice and a multitude.

"A famous local
radio personality and his lady are gracing our ancient town tonight. Even as I
speak, this event is being broadcast
live
on Radio Camelod!''

Thinner applause.
Oliver raised his hands, quelling a riot of adoration.

"His dad was a
ram,'' Emma confided. "All fingers, he was. His wife left him. No bleedin'
wonder." She plucked my sleeve. I bent close, though I'd have heard her if
I'd been out sailing. "His father shagged half his wife's pupils."
She cackled. She had about three teeth left. I wondered vaguely why she didn't
have a good false set. "Headmistress, at Colney Varr." She gathered
herself for a joke. "Wish I'd gone there, Lovejoy!" Colney Varr was a
posh girls' academy somewhere, once famous.

"Silence,
please!" Some uniformed guardian on tiptoe.

"Sorry,
mate," I said. God, but Emma ponged. I began to wish I'd sat further
forward after all. Grimes snored and twitched. He always does. In solemnity
Forage now wore his spectacles, one lens a cracked bifocal, the other missing.
I wondered vaguely why he didn't have proper glasses.

Our mayor was waxing
lyrical. "This evening is a Council initiative, to raise funds for the
restoration of Council buildings such as this noble edifice in which we
currently speak. We are displaying Council regalia and"—he twinkled,
signifying impending wit—"baubles, hahaha!"

A few grovelers tried
to get applause going, failed.

"All the borough
wealth—portable variety only!—is out for inspection. Under guard, of
course!"

He was sweating
heavily. Forage nudged Grimes, for snoring. Emma was on about some soldier
she'd known. I felt myself nod from the warmth, came to when the celebrity of
the evening was announced.

"... Del
Vervain!
”

In he strode,
laughing, shaking hands all the way down the hall. Bouncing onto the stage and
grabbing a hand microphone. He was made up. Astonishing. He looked about twenty
years younger.

"Here we are!
Radio Camelod, in the oldest Moot Hall in the known world!" He roared with
laughter. Everybody roared with

laughter. The mayor
and the councilors roared with laughter. I looked about. What gets into people?

"Here, Emma,” I
asked. It was narking me. "Why have you no proper teeth? Or Forage
specs?"

"Shhhh, son. I
like old Del. Used to be a pub singer."

Del Vervain was
babbling, striding. "Folks, this is your opportunity! You’ll hear the
dulcet tones of my gorgeous wife, Joan! Come own a-here, honey!"

Applause. Oliver went
forward gallantly, escorted Joan. Del was being poisonously jocular. God,
having to do that for a living? Broadcasters think imitation New York accents
entitle them to instant fame. Lunatic. You'd spend your life wondering why
people do what they do, if there was hope of an answer. I was getting narkeder
and narkeder.

Joan said hello and
how marvelous and everything. Excited, brilliantly dressed in lime green,
flouncy skirts a little youngish but delectable. Del displaced her in two
sentences.

"We're here,
listeners, by popular request. Our first outside broadcast! No phone-ins this
time. So save your pennies, haha-haha!"

A bloke seated at the
rear of the stage signaled. Del grabbed Oliver and grinned at us with
aggressive confidentiality. The show was on. One measly microphone.

"My first guest
is His Worship Mayor Carstairs. Oliver, how does it feel, mayor of this ancient
borough?"

Snooze time. Oliver
intoned his feelings. Del quipped hearty quips. Excruciating. Emma occasionally
whispered bits of slander, Oliver's randy dad and fading family fortunes after
Oliver's mum slipped the traces.

Between gossip and
guests, I really did nod off. They were electric. An octogenarian who'd once
known the prime minister. A historian with theories about Normans. Somebody
else—the coast was eroding, we'll all get wet. Yawn city. Del Vervain made me
wonder how boring blokes like him get to be broadcasters in the first place. He
was hopeless. He'd need a miracle to revive his fortunes, not a pathetic
outside broadcast in a dingy old hall. People had come because anybody on the
air is still a wonder to behold. But radio doesn't have the appeal of
television. Not half so degrading.

People started to
drift out, fed up. I was almost on the point of joining them when Del Vervain
struck.

"Now a special
treat, listeners! A famous antique dealer. Love-joy by name. And by nature,
hahaha!"

To my alarm here he
came, actually walking down the aisle at me, grinning, his microphone a staff
of office before him, our modern totem. The prick. I wondered what to say.

''Er,” I managed. My
mouth was dry.

He posed, winking at
the audience. He was drenched in sweat. No wonder, if this was the best he
could do. He ought to leave this sort of thing to the BBC. They've been doing
it for years. Better. "Isn't it true that you have the gift of . . .
divvying antiques?''

"Er, well. Sort
of."

"No?" More
winks. He was leaning confidentially on the seat in front of me, grinning
round. Smarmy sod. Just how deep my dislike went I only just then discovered.
Maybe I disliked Joan too. Why didn't he look at me, for God's sake? Maybe
broadcasters are trained not to. "This divvying. What is it,
actually?" Twinkle twinkle midget star. Somebody sniggered. He spun
towards the sound grinning hopefully. "Do I have to slip you a fiver to
find out? Hahaha!"

"Well," I
said, looking nervously round. "Well, you touch an antique. And it lets
you know if it's genuine."

"Is that
it?" He strode about the aisle. "Hey, folks! Challenge time! Trial by
antique! What say, hey?"

He paced
threateningly, chatted up elderly shoppers, got an indistinct ripple of
applause.

"Bring out those
baubles!" Del commanded. He addressed the microphone. "By kind
permission of Mayor Carstairs—my good friend Oliver! Hi, Mayor? Okay up there?
Hahahah!—we can test the regalia of this great and ancient town!"

His voice had sunk to
a sepulchral hollowness, clearly deeply felt reverence. He grabbed my arm. I
shook him off. He tried to pull me up. I wouldn't go.

"Bring the Great
Mace, please!"

Sweating heavier. I
thought, what's the big deal? Okay, I admire it—huge, gold and silver, a John
Flaxman design. Paul Storr, one of the greatest precious-metal smiths, made it
about 1838. Not long, as antiques go, but weighing heavy, adorned with gems.
Too ornate, but that only makes it more praiseworthy. How can you fail to admire
. . . ? I watched the mace-bearer come. A stout old military bloke, decorated
from a million battles.

He stood at attention
in his grand livery, the Great Mace on his shoulder. There's a proper way of
holding them.

"Here it is,
Lovejoy."