The Grace in Older Women (30 page)

God knows why birds can't see this, but only one woman in a
hundred cottons on. And she's always an older woman. Hence, they're best, forever.
That's all I know about relationships, but it's worth any number of agony aunts
and marriage guidance agencies. When I hear women exclaiming about some plain
woman, nothing going for her, who seems miraculously able to keep a handsome
devil against all odds, I smile and think: aha, a wise lass.

Now, Mahleen lay still, awake, quiet. I was in the pit of despond,
expecting to be dragged back to the world by a jokey outburst of calamitous
babble. Then I came to minutes later to find her watching me along the pillow.
She brushed my hair with her hand, said nothing.

'Thanks, love,' I said, my voice thick.

Thank you.' She mouthed it.

We lay in silence. She put her hand on me, closed her smiling
eyes, and we dozed. For once blissfully detached from worry, in this merciful
woman's arms I floated free and dreamt.

Sometimes, the opposite of what is right, is right, if you follow.
Guess what's the eeriest, most scary noise in the whole wide world. It's not an
approaching warplane, the flap of Dracula's wings. Nor a gun's safety being
snicked to fire. None of the above.

It's the sound of a bamboo, growing.

Just saying that seems daft, like the old Buddhist problem of
what's the sound of one hand clapping. Unless you too have slept near it. It's
not like a tree, say, that simply shushes in the breeze. It's weird. You're settling
down to kip-perimeter lads vigilant, say, scanners for once not on the blink,
quiet night, right? Not where there's bamboo.

Because the bloody stuff whimpers, shrieks, squeaks, groans. It's
a herd being strangled, torture chambers magicked from Torquemada's Dominicans.
Bamboo even on a good night sounds like a horde weeping, howling. Worse, it's
not continuous. Between the chunks of noise come serious blocks of quiet that
have you gripping your rifle with clammy hands, preparing for the worst . . .

What I said was wrong. It isn't the sound of bamboo growing. It's
the terrible silences in between.

We woke together. She was holding me, saying, 'Shhhh, it's all
right, honey,’ like I was some scared kid, the silly cow. I shoved her away,
sat shivering on the edge, feet dangling.

'Sorry,' I said brightly. Thought I heard somebody.'

'It's two thirty, Lovejoy. Leave it for morning.'

'You're right, Beth.' I slid back under the bedclothes.

'Nearly,' she said without rancour. 'Mahleen.'

See? A little kindness goes a long way with a man, but a little
mercy goes all the way. We made such gentle love, unbelievable. Came dawn, I
asked her what she wanted me for. Being a pushover comes with being male.

'Support us, Lovejoy. That's what I want.' 'Okay,' I said. I didn't
even ask who's us, doing what. Like she'd said pass the marmalade.

'It's my country's one hope,' she said, tears coming. 'It's legal,
necessary, and morally right.'

'What is? Nobody has that much money, to -'

'To put America right? No.' Her voice was soft now, her eyes
shining with love. 'But what if the Pretender's descendant was found! We
know
that Bonnie Prince Charlie was
offered the constitutional monarchy of the US of A!' She placed a silencing
finger on my mouth. 'Think, Lovejoy!'

'You actually want to -?'

'No, honey. We aren't that dumb.' She was sad about being so wise.
'But, think. Such a focus would be a unifying burst of patriotism! It wouldn't
even matter who, would it?'

I was itching to know who. 'You've found him, her? The Pretender,
to the American throne?'

'Yes. We know.' She was in raptures. 'We only need enough to set
up a court in exile - anywhere. Sure, our president, the government, will
pooh-pooh it, ignore the idea. But people won't be
able
to! We need something to weld us into one nation again - even
our half-million illegals pouring in annually. It'd be the magic of kingship!
The one, true, annealing power!'

Well, I could see the problem. But kings are not always glorious.
Splendid Louis XIV, 'Louis Le Grand', bankrupted France. There are plenty of
examples. Even monarchs bucking for sainthood, like Isabella of Castile, were
repressive sadistic oppressors, whatever the files being prepared for her
beatification claim. And what is kingship? A young Pole in 1755 nipped niftily
up the servants’ stairs in St Petersburg's Winter Palace, and became King of
Poland by being good in bed; the future Empress Catherine knew how good. And
our own cricketing hero C. B. Fry was offered the throne of Albania nigh a
century ago - he wisely declined; it was snapped up by King Zog.

Mind you, mere politicians haven't the same appeal. Disraeli
fathered illegitimates - a daughter Kate on a French bird, a son Ralph by the
flashy cigar-puffing Lady 'Dolly' Walpole Neville. Hearing this, you go, like
who cares? But a descendant of King This or Tsar That's a different kettle of
fish.

'It's Roberta, isn't it?' I said, feeling the way. 'Or Ashley?'

'I promised not to say, Lovejoy. We're sworn.'

She'd said it was legal, necessary, and morally right. I
don't know anything that's all three. I got as far as, 'Where do antiques fit
in—?’ before she reminded me that we only had an hour before breakfast, so it
was soaring wings and swelling strings and brain on hold as she straddled me.
Lovely, yes, but in the bamboo dream I'd seen mirages, even visions.

The only bloke whose shape fitted the glimpse I'd had, on Tryer's
final night, was Juliana's Father Jay. No motive, but what has motive to do
with murder? Motive is always irrelevant, just as alibis have nothing to do with
innocence. Motive and alibi are the falsehoods of murder.

'Can I have breakfast, love?' I asked when we were dressed.

'I love a greedy man, Lovejoy.'

That narked me. 'Wanting breakfast's not greedy.'

She advanced on me smiling. 'I mean pulling me into the bath.'

'Saves water.'

She fluffed her nape hair like they do. 'You shall have a dozen
breakfasts, honey. Give me ten minutes. Come in from the car park. Tell Wilmore
you got a lift into town.'

'Leave the excuses to me. Women can't do them. One thing. Can I
borrow a few quid? I'm broke.'

That set her laughing. 'Don't be long, Lovejoy.' She made a
mock-tartish exit. I hoped her nocturnal activities weren't too revealing. You
can't tell if a bloke's had a night of sexual carousing, but it's impossible
for a woman to hide that look.

Somebody knocked. 'Lovejoy?'

Thank God it was only Tinker. He entered belching.

'Morning, Lovejoy. Got a note? I'm broke.’

'Morning, Tinker.’ I passed him half of Mahleen's largesse.
'How've you got on organizing my durbar? Anything forged, faked, duff, haul it
in. I'll audition soon.

'You already told me, Lovejoy. I done it. It's now.’ He sprawled
on the bed, filthy and stinking. The maids'd wonder what Mahleen'd been up to.

'Eh? But I've not had my breakfast.'

'The Welcome Sailor, five minutes, Lovejoy.' He offered me a
bottle. I declined, to his relief. He swigged. I leant away from his niff.
'You're alius mob-handed. Yanks here. Them Fenstone nutters. Now everybody in
frigging antiques. Nobody left except the Serge.'

'Police aren't invited.' I'm used to Tinker knowing my movements
without being told.

'Any specials, Lovejoy? I still got a few minutes.'

'Aye. Juliana Witherspoon. And bring that printer, the one with
the daft dog that climbs trees.'

'Ked? He's shacked up now, a lass who makes bronzes.'

'Bring her. Doesn't matter if she's useless. And Fatsine.' She's a
disappointed linguist, hampered by a lack of grammar. Compensates by making
antique Chelsea pottery. 'She can show Wedgwood as well.' Her Wedgwood's
pathetic, but the others aren't bad.

'What about the duds? There's already plenty in the queue.'

'Tell them yes, but promise nowt.'

'How many items we after, Lovejoy?'

The heart of the matter, for everything hinged on this. Trust you
to depress me.’ The old soak was grinning, his prune features showing
merriment. I started laughing.

'Fill the ground floor of. . .'I searched for some large place.
He'd never been to the Battishalls'. . . . of the Magistracy.'

'Right, Lovejoy.' I pulled him up. He coughed, deafening the
birdsong for miles around. I go deaf for an instant. He quivered, wheezed back
to his normal colour. 'Here, Lovejoy. What we want with that Holly?'

'Nothing.' I was puzzled. Why mention her all of a sudden? 'She's
hanging about. I sent her packing.' Then I remembered she'd said something
about the senior magistrate . . . Tinker had just mentioned her in the same
breath as the Magistracy.

He saw my bafflement. 'Holly drives Heanley to distraction.'

My mind went, hang on a sec. Heanley, the law court custodian, had
a wayward daughter. 'Den Heanley? Holly?'

That's her. Trouble.'

My belly gnawed my middle. Was I never going to get a free nosh
from the Yanks? 'Look, Tinker. I'll just have a quick breakfast. The Yanks -'

'Leave off, Lovejoy. They don't fry in the right grease, not like
Woody's.' He opened the door. There'll be riots if you're late.' As we went
downstairs, he asked, That oldie goldie a good shag, is she, Lovejoy? She has
some fair-sized Bristols on her. But then you always did like tits . . .'

So, with this Beau Brummel of the modern age, I went hungrily
towards my antiques audition. The one good thing was, I now knew it was
Juliana's beloved Father Jay who'd done for Tryer, not Nick or the Battishalls.
I felt a glow of relish. Wreak vengeance on clergy, you can't go far wrong.

The Welcome Sailor was heaving, harassed police controlling the
forgers and antique dealers that were queueing all the way to the car park.

27

‘This your doing, Lovejoy?' old George asked-said in the Plod's
God-on-the-Mountain voice, accusation with enquiry, that puts all innocents in
the wrong.

'What's up, George?' Stout, ageing, a typical peeler.

'It's my coffee time, Lovejoy.' He's a gloomy old sod.

There were thirty or so dealers, barkers, whifflers, shuffers,
forgers, surging about the Welcome Sailor, and more arriving. Inside looked
like a bookie's on Derby Day, people shoving and calling out. I was instantly
surrounded, dealers battling to come closer, wanting my approval for their
assorted crud. News spread that I'd arrived, and more joined the mob engulfing
me.

'Christ, George!' I gasped, buffeted. 'Get me inside.'

Two more Plod battled through, somehow thrust me in, following,
calling angrily. It took half an hour because people kept coming in through the
side door, windows even. Things quietened after two squad cars arrived.
Nervously I peered out. An orderly queue formed, police wearily trying to keep
the pavement clear.

'Eighty quid, Lovejoy.' Harlequin came at me.

'Eh?' Harlequin's the publican's nickname. We don't use nicknames
more than one syllable, much, but Harlequin insists. He dresses himself and his
missus up as Harlequin and Columbine at Michaelmas, a lost bet of years gone
by. I used to know Columbine, to make smiles. She tells me he's not crazy. 'I'm
broke, Harlequin. Got any grub?' I added for George's sake, 'got done out of
breakfast.'

'You've cost me eighty quid opening at this hour, Lovejoy. Pay up,
or it's the pavement with this caper.'

'Gimme a receipt.' I counted out the residue of what Mahleen had paid
- I mean lent - me. 'Fifteen, sixteen. That's it. Any chance of you doing the
costume bit, Harlequin? That's why I told Tinker here instead of the Lamb and
Flag.'

'Me? Now?'

'Course.' I went all soulful. 'I really didn't want this charity
to get off to a bad start. I'm really sorry.'

'Charity?' Columbine - she's plain old Andromeda Haythorn-thwaite
really - emerged in her sexy dressing gown, really unfair. She changes her hair
colour every week. Today, blonde with a jet streak.

'It's okay, love,' I said, broken but noble. 'I understand. Your
lie-in today, an hour's peace. I've been up all night, slogging for this New
Baby Unit.' I turned my pockets out, stony broke. 'Harlequin's taken my very
last copper.' I showed a glimpse of hope, dare I believe in people, will
Tinkerbell live? 'Can I owe Harlequin the rest of the eighty quid, Columbine?
The little babies I'm slaving for would be grateful.'

My eyes brimmed with real tears, I was so moved. Well, to labour,
endlessly unfed and penniless, for cots filled with neglected infants, was true
charity. Nobody could deny that. George spoilt it by blowing his nose in a
handkerchief the size of a parachute.

'I've not had coffee yet,' he reminded the world.

'You just keep quiet, George!' Columbine reprimanded.