The Grace in Older Women (28 page)

'Number . . . Two.' The old idiot was taking it down.

I ask you. 'No, Doothie,' I said, broken. Tell Juggernaut to make
me Number One, see? Number Two is famous.'

'Very well, Lovejoy.'

The receiver down, I told Chemise that we'd let somebody make a
fantastic find at the exhibition. We'd advertise it as a forgery.

'Somebody can buy it for a song, and we'll say it's genuine!'

'Why, Lovejoy?'

'Stop asking daft questions. Find the bishop's address, love.'

Honestly, people rile me. They have all sorts of brilliant skills,
but can't be bothered to see the obvious.

The bishop offered us tea, despaired when we refused.

'What newspaper are you?' he asked, a benevolent, twinkling old
gent. He really did wear gaiters. I was thrilled, for Trollope's sake more than
mine, standards hanging on.

'We're from the north, m'lord.' I was proud of my clean shirt.
'Bolton Journal Express
. . .'

'Ah, yes. The vicar in a dying village?'

'Yes, m'lord. We always run a weekly article on underpopulated
areas. I gather there are several villages face extinction?'

'Indeed.' He heaved a mighty sigh. ‘We have several. Quite the
most affected is Fenstone. The few loyal people there have tried everything to
rejuvenate the community, all to fail.'

'How do you choose a priest for a village like that, m'lord? Do
you have a cadre of specially trained priests?'

'Heavens no!' he said. ‘I wish we had. Incidentally, not all
clergy wish to be called vicar, parson, rector even. The present Fenstone
incumbent is known as Father. Leanings towards the papacy, perhaps? Ecumenical
times, though, what?'

'Oh aye, m'lord. Isn't that reverend, er, Anglo-Catholic . . . ?'

'Hardly. Very sparse in this area. No, Jay Smith only arrived
three years ago. Midlands seminary, religious teacher in a school, returned to
parish work.'

'Which seminary?'

'Oh, closed.' The bishop winced. 'Sign of the times.'

'So sad.' I brightened. 'How d'you dispose of all your antique
seminary furniture?'

Pain struck my leg. Chemise, the cow, had kicked me.

'I'm sure you do your very best,' she said sweetly.

'Thank you, my dear. Do write a few lines about our seminaries. So
little financial support these days . . .'

That was it. Chemise and me had a principal ally in Father Jay who
seemed at least as much a fraud as I was.

We drove to Dragonsdale. I got a private audience, and told
Roberta and Ashley - in mid-tea, still not losing weight - that I'd have to
stay at my cottage for a couple of nights, because at vast expense I was
arranging their exhibition.

She looked miffed at my having to stay away, probably narked she'd
have only Ashley to criticize. I went all meaningful, hinted that I already
missed being away from her, even though I'd been chastised for natural hunger.
I got in six good
double entendres
.
She managed to look sad for a millisec, between tartlets. I'd left Chemise at
the crossroads. I wasn't having Nick adding two and two.

'Can I have a private word, Roberta?' I asked, businesslike.

'Very well. Ashley, stay within earshot.'

Ashley went. I looked down at Roberta. The pace of her noshing
slowly lessened. She sipped a dainty cup, replaced it in its saucer.

I yanked her to her feet hard. I sucked her mouth until she went
limp for air hunger, let her go.

She dragged air in, reeled back onto the couch in a faint. First
time it had ever been legitimate, I'll bet.

'Now, love.' I was cool. 'Remember that I want you more than
Ashley ever will. If anybody is to help your Cause, it's me and only me.'

'Lovejoy,' she gasped faintly, 'you're jealous!'

'Don't, darling. I'll be back. I'm in the phone book.'

And swept out. All lies, of course. I wasn't in the book any more,
been cut off too often. But if she and Ashley had done Tryer, then eventually
she'd be out of it. I'd see to that. (No, I really mean that the police would
see to that, not me.)

Chemise was waiting. Father Jay wasn't celibate for religion. He
could wed Juliana any time. Theology for once was no obstacle, an all-time
first for that shifty science. I told her what I'd said to Roberta. Now,
Chemise knew as much as I did.

'What now, Lovejoy? The exhibition?'

'Ah, no, love. Tonight we burgle a friend.'

'You burgle a friend's house?' (Note that singular, me! It's their
minds.)

'No, love.' I was patient. 'We. You plus me. And I meant for a
friend. Farouk, I think's his name.'

'Lovejoy,' she said after a bit. 'I'm scared.'

'First-night nerves, love. Once you've done your first robbery,
you'll be cool as ice.'

'On my own?' she said, near panic.

See? Give them a job, they go to pieces. 'No,' I lied. 'With me
beside you. One thing: can you lift a table on your own?'

25

There's a funny thing about countryside: word spreads like a
moorland fire. Barkers, those hard drinkers who ferret out antiques, are the
real gossip experts. They can leach news and clues from a passing breeze. Once,
I was given a lift home from a village cricket match, twenty miles off. An old
bloke at his cottage door, top of my lane, saw us pass and raised his thumb. I
asked the bird to stop, walked back. 'How did you know we'd won, Bert?' I
asked, curious. He'd no phone. I was the first back. 'Weather, son,' he said.
See? Pigeon post, maybe, osmosis. Who knows?

We went in to prepare for the robbery. There on my mat were three
scribbled notes from dealers, plus another two carefully pinned inside the
door. Chemise was angry, thought it terrible, said we ought to fit a lock. (We,
note.)

I told her, 'Dealers steal other dealers' notes, so their own
antiques'll get chosen, see? It's life.'

She still bridled. The phone rang. Its machine had clocked six
messages. God, I'd started something. It was Margaret Dainty, lame, vaguely
married, attractive middle age, deplorably honest, wanting in.

'George Chinnery, Lovejoy, for some exhibition? Decent forgeries?'

'Well, ye-e-e-es, love.' I owe Margaret. She's been a haven for me
after many a stormy voyage, but I really hate owing friends who expect me to
keep my promises. It's unfair to tax friendship, the rotten swine.

'I'm so sorry, Lovejoy. But I do need help.' She's the only real
aristocrat we have. I listened in anguish, wanting to say no. 'What we've been
to each other shouldn't come into it. But my brother's boy, Jaddo, is talented.
He does Chinnery like a dream. Please, Lovejoy?'

'How many?' I'd already warned Doothie there was a surfeit.

'Several, Lovejoy.' Hope lit her voice.

George Chinnery was a scoundrel, son of an amateur painter in
these parts. Young George was a pal of the immortal Turner at the Royal
Academy. He spent half a century swanning around the brand new colony of Hong
Kong, Portugese Macao, Canton in China's Kwantung. Opium figured large in his
life. He was always being chased by loyal women, including his missus. He
actually complained, can you believe, when his wife loyally followed him up the
Pearl River. He said how good it was that China stopped wives 'from coming and
bothering' him there. The poor lass, forbidden to land on sacred Chinese soil
and join the jocular swine, died of smallpox. Quel boor, right? But he painted,
drew, sketched like a dream. Scenes now revered as the truest depictions of the
culture clash, ours and Chinese, in Hong Kong, Macao, Kwantung. Even economists
scramble for Chinnery's work these days.

'Okay, send Jaddo's stuff, but listen.' I cut through her thanks. Tell
him pencil, ink, and pen, okay? And scenes of junks, river scenes, Flower Boats
- Canton prostitute vessels - signed Lam Qua, Yin Qua, Fal Qua. If he can't
hack the signatures, tell him I'll do mangled ones. Don't let him frig about
ruining good forgeries.'

'Thank you, darling. I'll never forget this.'

'Tell your nephew that Chinnery mixed his own colours, and loved
thin - meaning
thin
- canvas. Ellery
in Lowestoft weaves it for Geckle in Limehouse. Tell Jaddo Chinnery was crazy
for vermilion. Make sure he puts Chinese white flecks in.'

Chemise read the notes. 'They're all offering forgeries, Lovejoy.
French furniture, porcelain, pewter, silver, jewellery, English Regency. Motor
cars, even.'

'So?' I was impatient, nervous. She had to go a-burgling.

'Is there so much fake antiquery about?'

'It's everwhere, love. And it's beautiful, done right.'

She stared, uncomprehending. 'How can it be, if it's dud?'

'Because a forgery can be a sacrament.' I sat beside her. 'It's
holy from the work within. Just as a woman becomes beautiful.'

Bitterness crept in as she repeated the words, 'Look at me,
Lovejoy. Am I beautiful?' Her smile was tearful. 'Nobody else thinks so. Except
Tryer. I know he was a poor specimen. But he liked me, Lovejoy. And he took me
in, an act of forgiveness. And you know what he forgave?' She sniffed, tears
dripping. I felt horrible, not knowing what to do.

'Don't, love,' I said, uncomfortable. Tryer forgave me my
ugliness, Lovejoy.' 'Shut up, you silly cow.' It was out before I could think.
'You're stpid. Every woman has her own beauty. It's those bloody magazines.
Beanpole girls with coat hanger shoulders and no breasts. Fashion is a con,
love. You can't have fashions in women. Women are what we must have. Her beauty
is that she understands it's how things are.'

'Oh, Lovejoy.' She wept on. 'He wasn't fit, Tryer. Drank too much,
never exercised. You knew him. He wasn't as tall as . . . who hit him. I saw
him go down, glow reflected from the water.'

She cried it out, except that's only what people say. You can't
cry grief out. It bides its time, comes stealing back. 'Who was it, love?'

'I don't know, Lovejoy. I glimpsed him against the water.' We
stayed like that a bit. I got her moving by saying the burglary she was going
to do would help to pin the swine. I didn't know if it would, of course, but a
grieving woman has to be fetched back into life. We drove to Farouk.

'It's like this, Farouk,' I explained. He owned a restaurant. I
wouldn't go into the kitchen, that place of raw carnage, so we sat where people
came to order takeaways. 'Mr. Sheehan allows three weeks. Your time's running
out.'

'There is time yet, Lovejoy.'

He scribbled an order while I paused. A couple wanted a load of
grub that made my mouth water. They waited watching TV, some quiz show with
inanities.

'I can do it tonight for virtually nothing.'

'Why would you go to such trouble? We are not friends.'

'Because I am organising -

'Your exhibition?' He smiled, i see! You want my Danish piece out
of the way beforehand?'

'Correct! Don't want it turning up among my exhibits.' People
often give you the reasons they want to hear.

‘A sound argument.’ He paused. 'Are you expensive?'

'Not very. Pay me on commission,' I said, munificent. Three per
cent, to get the trade.’

We laughed at that, the second oldest commercial falsehood. I
rejoined Chemise.

'It's on, love,’ I said. 'You know what to do?'

'No, Lovejoy. I'm worried sick.’

'Honest to God!' I exploded, starting the motor and pulling away
from Farouk's nosh house. ‘I’m not asking you to do much. Get it into your
stupid noddle, you daft bat! I chat the old dear up. You creep upstairs and
steal the furniture. Christ Almighty, it's simple!' She said nothing. I yelled
at her for always interrupting. 'Your trouble is I've been too good to you, you
whinging moron. I do all the donkey work . . .

It wasn't much as supportive psychotherapy goes, but being worried
sick was my job, not hers. She'd got the easy bit. Do it properly like I'd told
her and I'd be in the clear. The risk to her was minimal. I seethed in anger.
Women complain when they've nothing to complain about.

There was a faint light in the house when I drove up and parked, banging
the driver's door, swaggering like auditioning for
The Student Prince
. Dame Millicent came to answer, pleasure
lighting her features. I felt a cad, nearly. 'Lovejoy! You want more farm
produce?' 'Ha-ha. No, I came about the meeting.' I shoved the mat with my foot
so the door couldn't close. She plodded in, sat with a groan. Her dog was
asleep, thank God. I carefully closed the room door. The logs had run out, the
fire dying.

She had three candles about the room. 'They gutter, Lovejoy, most
irritating.' i use candles too, sometimes. You make them?' 'Mr. Geake. He
renders the fat down. It's country free.' 'Good old countryside.' She was
sipping whisky. I shook my head.