Ten Word Game (8 page)

“This way,” she said.

“Er, look, Mrs Milestone. I’d better turn in, because – ”

“Cut it out, Lovejoy,” she said quietly, and drew me into a corner of the Century lounge. She waved a stewardess off and sat in an armchair, me opposite. The place was quiet, just a few groups chatting and laughing, a pianist playing selections from some operetta. “Now, Lovejoy, a few rules to be getting on with.”

I slumped. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

“Forget you, you bastard?” She didn’t laugh. “My only chance to possess a genuine Thomas Saint sewing machine, and you tricked me out of it.”

“It wasn’t like that!” I said indignantly.

“You were ogling that tart, Lovejoy. I wasn’t taken in for a single minute. You told her the truth, that it wasn’t a Singer but a Saint. I’d have made a fortune…”

She spat venom while I sat there and took it. The only time she paused was when an elderly couple paused to say how much they were looking forward to her talks. Instantly she was all sweetness and light.

“Oh, I’m so pleased!” she carolled. “Weren’t you on
the
Oceana
cruise to Venice…?” and similar gunge.

Our spat truly hadn’t been my fault. An Englishman, Thomas Saint, patented the first sewing machine in 1790, having worked on the design for yonks. Find a genuine one and you’ve a fortune on your hands, though early Singers also cost. I’d been doing a sweep through the Midlands, where June lived with a mad penniless poet who believed he was a reincarnation of Chaucer. I visited an auction. June was in. A bonny woman carrying a babe was listening to the auctioneers. Most items were dross – wardrobes from the Utility period of World War Two, faded books, pock-marked mirrors that would cost the earth to restore, a few derelict chairs, fly-specked etchings. I was on the point of leaving when something bonged within my chest. I could hardly breathe, and homed in on this small
gadget
that shone into my eyes. It was a little sewing machine, almost mint. A genuine Thomas Saint. Don’t laugh. It would keep the buyer in holidays for a lifetime. I gaped at it. Someone plucked at my arm. It was the lass with the bab.

“Excuse me,” she whispered. “Would you please do me a favour?”

“What?” I gasped, strangled.

“Could you bid for it, please? Just to maybe make people think it was worth something? Only, I heard those dealers over there asking you about the antiques.” She reddened. “People have been laughing at it.”

“Is it yours?”

“Yes. Well, my gran’s. It was her grandma’s, and I know it’s not automatic … What’s the matter? You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

I picked the Saint up and took her arm. The baby goggled. “Take it home, love. It’s worth a new pram and holidays all over the USA.”

“Here, Lovejoy!” One of the whifflers – blokes who move the gunge about in auction rooms and (sometimes) remain honest while doing so – came and hissed angrily, “What the – ?”

“Lady’s grandma’s changed her mind,” I whispered back and dragged the woman outside.

We rang Bondi from the Welcome Sailor pub at East Gates, and he drove over from Frinton. By eight o’clock that evening Bondi had sold the little sewing machine on commission (10% isn’t too bad, when you think what Christie’s and Sotheby’s do you for) to a collector in Leeds. I checked next day to make sure she’d banked the gelt. I honestly got nothing out of it. I just hate the lads doing that. “The circus”, we call the Brighton and Solihull teams of dealers who come trolling round
country
auctions. They jeer at anything that takes their fancy, just to put genuine bidders off. Now, why the lass with the bab hadn’t gone to the library and looked up old sewing machines, to check whether her gran’s was
valuable
or not, God only knows, but she hadn’t. If I hadn’t happened along, she’d have thrown away enough money to put down on a new house.

People say virtue is and has and must be its own reward, but it isn’t and it hasn’t so it can’t. To prove it, here I was getting hate from Mrs June Milestone, the most influential antiques TV personality on earth, just for being virtuous. Holiness isn’t worth it; I’m always holy, and I know.

Meanwhile the old couple passed on their way, and La Milestone reverted to viperish spite. “Don’t come the innocent with me, Lovejoy. That harlot rewarded you in kind, you sordid reptile…” and so on.

All because June had been there, laughing with her antiques dealer pals, sure she was going to make a
fortune
by cheating a poor woman with a babe. I’d noticed her stormy glance at me and the lass as we’d
left the auction. Wearily I let June’s rage wash over me. I’ve been detested by experts. One more wouldn’t make me lose any sleep.

“Five rules, Lovejoy,” she said finally when she stopped seething. “In this enterprise, you do as I say. Obey me, and you’ll escape unscathed. Capeesh?”

More rules? I’d already had a dozen from Executive Purser James Mangot and our secret ploddite Les Renown, ship’s comedian. “Aye.”

“Rules two, three, four and five are – ”

“Same as Rule One?” I guessed. I’d had this before from warders in clink.

She smiled a wintry smile. It was like sleet. She included me in its chilly radiance. “Agreement at last! Here’s my cabin number. Never ring, never visit. One last caution.”

“What?”

“No revelations, or I shall have you packaged home to the Marquis of Gotham and his band of hunters. And …” She hesitated, having difficulty phrasing the last command. “And no mention of how you once tried to … well, be friendly towards me.”

Which was a load of tat. “As I remember it,” I said, now seriously narked, “we made smiles at that big Midlands Antiques Expo just after you left that lunatic airline pilot. You even wanted me to –”

“That will do!” she ground out. I quietened as she accepted yet more tributes from passing folk who just
loved
her TV work. Her smile for them was warm affection. When they’d left she turned with a snarl of pure malice. “You and I are strangers, Lovejoy. D’you hear? You will attend my antiques talks and report to James Mangot every morning, noon and evening. We need you solely because you are a divvy, for no other reason. Obey, and I shall let you escape on conclusion of the scheme. Disobey, and you will be handed over
to the authorities.”

“Right,” I said miserably. It actually meant
not
being handed over to the authorities, because the hunters would intervene and I would be disappeared in a phoney escape bid. Crooks call it doing an Argentina, from the methods of disappearing
undesirables
over there. I wondered if a ship this big usually had police on board, legitimate ones I mean.

“What are we nicking from the Hermitage?”

“Not a single thing.” She beckoned the stewardess and ordered a drink. None for me. “It’s crooks who’re doing that. I thought I’d explained.”

“Sorry. I quite forgot.” I meant it really sincerely.

She let me go. I turned and looked back. She was watching me with calculating eyes. I felt like you do at the doctor’s when he says good morning when he’s wondering where to stick his needles.

There was a midnight buffet – soups, sandwiches, cakes, drinks, merriment. I went for a fresh load of calories in case we sank in the night, then went to my cabin. They’d folded down the coverlet and put chocolates on the pillow. I watched the TV until twoish, playing my Ten Word Game and trying to describe the mess I was in. I failed.

When I woke the ship had stopped moving. We were in Amsterdam. I felt better. Time to go.

Amsterdam.

Saying the word calls to mind diamonds, drugs, songs about mice in windmills, tulips, painters like Rembrandt and Van Gogh plus a few similar amateurs (joke). I thought these thoughts, leaning on the Promenade Deck rail looking out at Holland. So near, and here was me stuck on board.

Remarkable city. The world’s first ever lottery was run by a Dutch artist’s widow, Mrs Jan Van Eyck, to help the poor of Bruges in Belgium, kind lass. And now it’s the Dutch, not the Scotch, who claim to have invented golf long before St Andrews got weaving. (Leave me out of the argument. I don’t take sides.) They also say Amsterdam invented modern banks in 1609, so the Dutch have a lot to answer for. I hate golf, and do banks ever help?

I’d had breakfast. Passengers booked on city tours were disembarking. It’s the sort of thing that can make you sad. For a start, there seemed to be only two avenues off the ship. Each was a narrow gangway
leading
down from Decks Four and Five to the quayside. One person at a time, every single person showing their maroon plastic I.D. folder. Ghurka ex-soldiers checked everybody with electronic bleeper gadgets, and again when they reached the wharf. I felt bitter. As if anyone could vanish from the middle of an open gangway in broad daylight. I ask you. How petty can people get?

Uniformed crew met jaunters at the wharf, and away they went in coaches for canal trips and visits to the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Exhibition. Meticulous. They weren’t going to lose some old dear on a foreign wharf, not the
Melissa
. The coaches were labelled. Passengers wore stickers. Ghurkas tallied
passenger. In case you don’t know about Ghurkas, they are the most cheery soldiery in existence. They are also the most bloodthirsty. They hail from the Kingdom of Nepal, and by ancient treaty form
regiments
in Britain. When they retire, they take up
security
duties on ships, in banks and august firms in the City. Sounds okay? Sure, if you’re honest. Horrible if you’re a crook, because in action they’re the most loyal and savage warriors in existence. They’re famed for it. Once their killing knife is drawn, it’s never sheathed until … I won’t go on.

Six Ghurkas on gangway duty. In the eight minutes I watched, they made no fewer than eleven checks, totting up passengers, ticking lists, talking into cell phones and only letting buses leave when their counts matched the requisite numbers. They did a lot of
signalling
to their compatriots on the shipboard end. Accuracy gets me down.

Depressed, I wandered to the front of the ship – bows, we nautical types say – and then the rear end, to examine the ropes fastening us to the dockside. No way down. A squirrel would have a hard time jumping ship that way. I walked round the entire ship. The other side faced only water. It seemed hell of a way down. I gave up thoughts of swimming.

Below, though, was one place the Ghurkas seemed to shun. A doorway in the ship’s side let out directly onto the wharf, where fruit and other victuals seemed to be loading. A fuel pipe, if that’s what it was, was attached to the hull by Dutch workmen wearing harbour logos. Our crew was busy. Water, maybe? Fuel? Sucking out ship’s waste? I suppose all that goes on, and I was
simply
seeing the business bits of a ship’s operation. Just in case, I got my jacket from my cabin and my I.D.
folder
. I went downstairs, and met Table 154’s Diamond Lil making her way on Deck Five among a crowd.

“Going ashore, Millicent?” I asked, judging the throng queuing at the gangway.

“Yes, are you? Poor Jim,” she said. “He had far too much last night. He always does. Headache city.”

“Can’t he come?” I saw she had two tickets. I’d seen the Tours Office in the Atrium printing them out. “Look. Could I have his ticket, pay you back later? Only I’m desperate to see the, er…” God, where were they going?

“The Rijksmuseum? Certainly!”

I gave her hand a friendly squeeze, in my eyes the sincere love I always feel for any woman who falls for a con trick. I’d miss her, once I reached dry land.

We shuffled down the gangway. Only one
heart-stopping
moment, when I forgot to show my I.D. plastic, but after that it was plain sailing. We boarded a coach and rolled grandly into Amsterdam. I was free.

Dry land? Not so you’d notice. Canals were
everywhere
, but not like Venice. Amsterdam’s waterways are alongside streets, not instead of. On the coach we chatted, a happy band of oglers. Ivy sat in the seat next to me, silent as ever. No Billy the Kid, I noticed. She just looked out of the window.

Tourists aren’t good news nowadays, what with pollution and crowds adding to problems. East Anglia villages – Dedham, East Bergholt – are leaving official tourist trails, unable to cope with the numbers who overwhelm their hamlets. Except, what’s a city to do if it has Rembrandt and Co? Van Gogh too has his own museum, so people flock and bring money galore. Tourists spend, spend, spend, so fierce arguments begin, conservationists versus developers. Even at this early hour Amsterdam was awash with visitors
thronging coffee shops.

Millicent was so considerate when I admitted I’d left my money behind. She lent me a small bundle of Euros. I loved her even more.

“Make sure he pays you, dear!” some old crone wheezed.

Another blue-rinse chipped in, “But not in kind!” I added a grave ha-ha to the riot, and we disgorged at the Rijksmuseum.

There are two other museums that matter, the Van Gogh and the Stedelijk Modern Art place. I ignored the latter, of course, and managed to dawdle and lose myself. I simply sat on the grass and became part of a crowd watching some jugglers, a fire-eater and
unicyclists
who banged drums in noisy procession. My
Melissa
mob trundled on without me. I thought I heard Millicent call, “Now where’s he got to?” I lurked for ten minutes, and saw the last of them entering the museum.

It was Ivy. She paused on the top step, and saw me. Then she walked in. Not a word, not a sign. I thought, why on earth didn’t she tell the others, shout, beckon? She did none of those. If I ever saw meek little Ivy again, I owed her one for keeping shtum. I was at
liberty
, with gelt and time to think.

The urge was too great for idleness. Two paintings were recently nicked from the Van Gogh Museum. Interested, I walked round its walls. The thieves had used a simple ladder, which they left against the brickwork after owffing Vincent’s
View of the Sea at Scheveningen
and the dour
Congregation leaving the Reformed Church in Neunen.
Got away scotage free. I gazed at the wall, guiltily trying not to feel that twinge of admiration, then went back to sit and ponder among the frolickers.

Antiques is a truly desperate business. Nobody knows that better. I often joke that antiques is a war in search of a wardrobe, but it really can be blood-curdling
mayhem
. You can’t stay pure. I’ve seen all sorts, even
murder
, for a few sticks of furniture. I saw two sisters stab each other in a terrible fight over an old auntie’s
bread-bin
in which they imagined, quite wrongly, there was a hidden fortune. God’s truth. And I’ve seen a dealer top himself, deliberately crashing his car because he missed buying a rare and valuable silver epergne made by the brilliant, dazzling mid-eighteenth century Edward Wakelin. (Epergne? Think of an impossibly ornate
silver
table-centre, fashioned as a central basket attached to either four or six smaller baskets, sometimes so extravagantly shaped you can hardly tell what it is
trying
to be.) The dealer, R.I.P., was Veen, an old bloke from Hamburg who arrived late at a country auction, first time I’d ever seen him suicidal. And last.

Misery and despair abound in antiques, and so does crime. I’ve done a few robberies – always from the undeserving, mind you, because I’m straight – and helped in others when I’d no way out. So I know methods. And I know famous exalted robbers who are household names. My experience as a divvy has rubbed most of my corners off, so I
know
when some scam carries the whiff of doom. On the other hand, I can also spot the truly golden rarity that emits the
fragrance
of success.

This St Petersburg gambado? It stank. Rob the Hermitage, join this gaggle of duckeggs enacting a crazy Priscilla-of-the-Lower-Third dream? It wasn’t even silly, and would end in catastrophe. I might as well have chosen a team from some Women’s Guild – in fact, the Women’s Guild would get organised. From what I’d seen of Lady Veronica, Amy, Purser Mangot, Les Renown and June Milestone, they’d as much
chance of stealing Russia’s priceless treasures as of winning the Lottery. Less, in fact, the Lottery is 1 in 14 million; better odds.

It was a hot day. How long did I have before they emerged to return to the ship? Not even tourists could do the Rijksmuseum in less than an hour. I’d never felt such relief. Dozily I rested on the greensward. The clowns clowned, youths aped, girls laughed and the
fire-eaters
spewed flame. Children played improvised
volleyball
, and a couple on a nearby bench made
enthusiastic
groping love ignored by all. I sat under a tree
looking
at a nearby phone box. Tempting, but phone who?

Back home I had Jane Markham – posh magistrate’s wife who was willing but full of deep suspicions. She wasn’t speaking to me because I went to Leicester with her cousin Agatha who had a collection of eight Staffordshire spill-holders. These valuable mid-Victorian ceramics go in pairs, one for each side of the fireplace, and held waxed rush-piths so the lady of the house could light her nocturnal candles or touch her husband’s pipe to a gentle smoke. Agatha’s were
leopards
prowling near a hollowed-out tree (to hold the spills) the boles of which were coloured an exotic orange. They are unbelievably ugly, but you’d have to sell your best car to buy an undamaged pair of these utterly useless, unbelievably rare, ornaments. Before Agatha, I’d only ever seen one such pair, and that was in a car boot sale. Agatha had four pairs, all mint.

I made smiles with her in a despairing attempt to woo them off her. I failed. Full of the information I’d given her about the Staffordshire pieces, she sold them by phone while I slept, which only shows how cruelly insincere women are. They lack trust. I’m glad I’m not like that. Mrs Markham ignores me now. She lacks basic loyalty.

Then there was Mortimer, my teenage youngster. It
had been a shock discovering I had offspring. Barely out of the egg, he lives wild in Suffolk though he owns an ancient manor house and an estate, from his
adoptive
father Arthur now deceased. Like me, he’s a divvy – the only other one I know – but has a serious ailment called honesty, which puts him out of reach. I couldn’t very well ring Mortimer and tell him I’d been
kidnapped
to thieve Russia’s wealth – he would simply write to the Prime Minister giving a succinct account of crooks in general, naming me in particular. Honesty’s a pest.

Elise also crossed my mind. I like Elise. She plays the clarinet, lives with a double-bass player in Feltham. I’d been seeing her for a fortnight. She unnerves me because she tells her bloke everything. Hopeless, though, because Elise’s always on a gig in Luton. I think she’s got other blokes. She’s enormously rich, so is the sort I should stay friendly with. The chances of reaching her were remote – you have to ring her agent or her
husband
, who is a policeman.

Any others? Tinker is my barker. A barker is a fetch-and-carry bloke who helps an antique dealer. I pay him when I can. He is loyal (always), thick (always), drunk (usually) and filthy (most of the time). He has a police record. Still, you can’t chose your friends, or have I got that wrong? I found I’d dozed off, wasting half an hour. I decided to move away in case I was spotted by marauding tribes of
Melissa
passengers.

One thing I didn’t want was to get killed hang-
gliding
into St Petersburg’s Hermitage Museum or
spending
life in a Siberian salt mine. I’d done the right thing to escape. If conscience plagued me in later life, I could quell it – I’m good with guilt – by posting Millicent a few zlotniks to repay her loan.

When in doubt, return to your roots. I rose, dusted
myself off and plodded into sunny Amsterdam in a hunt for antiques.

Odd what things surprise you in a strange place. I had a cup of coffee and was astonished. It was good! I thought only Yanks could brew coffee, but here was some perfect stuff in Holland. I felt I’d invented the wheel. How do people do it? I used to make coffee in my cottage, but gave up. My coffee’s horrible, like all other coffee in England. I honestly don’t know what I, we, do wrong. I tried watching an American woman brew coffee for me, and slavishly copied her every action only to be told, “What
have
you done, Lovejoy? It’s dreadful!” et shaming cetera. Now here was little old Holland among the coffee-making big guns. Well, well.

The cafe was in a square. I’d walked for an hour, twice crossing streets I’d already been through. They served me cake of unspeakable sweetness – therefore inedible – but I didn’t mind, seeing they’d scooped the European coffee-making championship. I was offered some tobacco, oddly scented. Startled, I recognised the aroma of ganja, hash, and almost panicked until I saw some police stroll by. They were quite
unconcerned
that here was a caff peddling marijuana. When in Rome.

Pretty squares abounded, with trees and shops round the edges and people already starting midday nosh. On canals you could hire a kind of water bicycle or board a water-bus. Long canal boats were already hard at it, one with a jazz band aboard. I looked
closely
, but no Elise, presumably still parping in Luton. I was tempted to drift towards Amsterdam’s famed Spiegel Quarter, but was uneasy. That was the one
place they’d hunt for me when they realised I’d legged it. I sat in a church for a long while because it felt old and friendly. I haven’t got much of an eye for
architecture
– Early English, fan-tracery, Norman buttresses and all that – but antiques huge and small always have the same effect.