The Lies of Fair Ladies (42 page)

Two o'clock came. No
motor. Nobody asking for me. The Reception staff started glancing at me and
whispering. I smiled, sure of the loyalty of friends. I'd rescued everybody
from everything.

But you can't expect
the traffic to ease up just because friends plan a surprise welcome, can you?
Maybe some football team was playing, or an accident on the town bypass
interfered. That was it. I got a taxi, and rolled out to the village. I was
wearing borrowed stuff. My fireman's uniform trousers cleaned by the hospital
laundry. They lent me hospital slippers. I’d had to sign I’d bring them back. I
was cold in the taxi.

In the lane I had a
row. The driver wanted paying. I had to go in, breaking in because I’d lost my
keys, presumably still with the bag of my own clothes in the grounds of the
Academy. I found just enough to pay him.

The cottage was
empty. No hullooing friends pouring from the wainscoting, no sudden
cork-popping. I knew why. They were all waiting at the Ship, or the Welcome
Sailor. I knew them. A rough bunch, but they'd all be there: Margaret Dainty,
limping in with her gentle humor; Connie Hopkins, shyly suggesting she should
come and stay the night; Luna, eager to resume where we'd left off; Jessica,
wearing enough perfume to fell an ox at forty yards, every come-hither sign
blazing; and the rest, cheering me to the echo— Gunge, Chris Mallon, Sandy and
Mel, Liz Sandwell from Dragons-dale, the whole tribe of good friends. Rivals,
yes. But friends deep down.

All except Joan.
There was a card from her:

         
Lovejoy
darling,

         
I've
just heard. Do get better, sweetie. If you don't, well, this

         
message
won't matter, will it? Del has given me a permanent
        
bodyguard. Geraldo is sworn to obey — if you know what I
mean!

         
I'm
taking him to Monte Carlo, where we'll marry and live
   
happ.ev.aft. If you see Del, give the poor dear a handout.

         
Thanks
for the ride, darling.

         
Joan

Which set me
wondering. Had Joan Vervain known our noble mayor, and Luna, before I’d
"introduced" them here? Was the Vervains' party a put-up? And good
old Del in cahoots with Oliver Carstairs long before? About Luna: Honest, or
not? I had a yogurt aged past its eat-by date.

The bluetits
recognized me, though. They started tapping on the windows. I filled their nut
hangers. Indoors, the diet sheet the ward sister had given me made my mouth
water. I had no cereals, skimmed milk, oats, bread, bran flakes. I wondered if
the birds' peanuts were for human consumption, thought. Well, it's those or
nothing, and ate handfuls. My belly would have to learn to cope. I have to.
There's a limit to the allowances you can make.

Getting on for five
o'clock. The pubs would be opening soon. Pleased, I worked it out. They'd have
booked The George carvery.

My peanut-laden
stomach rumbled enthusiastically. I dialed Jacko to come round with his coal
lorry and give me a lift. He's been raised on my I.O.U. scheme. Waiting, I
composed my speech of thanks and acknowledgment.

"Dear Friends,” it
began. "I never expected ..."

The Ship was heaving,
but nobody seemed to be in, if you know what I mean. I tapped Gerda for news.
Absently she asked if I’d been away. I bit back a rebuke just in time. Of course!
All my friends must’ve warned everybody to act as if nothing was up, my return
was an everyday occurrence! I cadged a pint on the slate, then judged the time
right to leave.

Naturally, I was
getting more excited than I should. But it's unusual, isn't it? To be feted by
your friends, a hero, veritable champion of the underdog. I noticed the clock.
Getting on for seven. Foolish to turn up too early. A surprise party spoils if
the surprisee arrives before it's ready.

I timed my exit from
the Ship to perfection. Seven o'clock, and the day waning. Walking up East Hill
into the town center was tiring, but I made it.

The Welcome Sailor
was practically empty too. No, people hadn't been in—wasn't it Birmingham's
antiques fair? No Mrs. Dainty, no Rebecca from the wharf, no others. The barman
supposed there was something on. Maybe The George—he'd heard there was a
gathering there.

That was it! The
George after all! I was just leaving when a car pulled up, three women inside
screaming joyously. The motor was covered in streamers, balloons. At last! I
recognized Jenny Calamy. Dressed to kill.

"Lovejoy! You
darling!" She raced across the road and bussed me enthusiastically.

"What about Big
Frank?" I asked anxiously.

"Wish me luck
tomorrow!" she cried.

"Tomorrow?"
What was tomorrow?

"My
wedding!" she screamed. Her friends in the car screamed along. "In
France! Can you
believe
it? See you
when we come back! You really must come round! Bye-eeee!"

"Bye-eee!"
everybody cried but me. The motor sped away.

Well, you can't postpone
a blinking wedding just because the would-be best man's in hospital. Stands to
reason.

I made The George,
just in time to see Luna descend from the mayor's grand motorcade. She was
positively shimmering. It was coming on to rain.

She seemed to falter as
the flashbulbs of our town's three feeble reporters dazzled. Her smile faded.
She sized me up. Then she swept inside, mouth tight, hatred in her eyes. I
waited until the little crowd dispersed, talking over the mayoress's lovely
dress, then went inside. I’d rather be going to my party than hers any day of
the week.

“Tarty? No." The
receptionist was a tubby girl. She hides a tot of gin under the counter.
"Try the boozer next door."

The Robin Hood's not
my scene exactly, but the Arcade was closed—an hour early. I perked up. A good
sign, especially after the way business must have picked up once news of my
rescue of Connie broke.

I drew a blank there,
except for a sighting of Harry Bateman, who shot off with a scared look in his
eyes at the sight of me. Out of the back door. I smirked. Tatty old Harry
nearly gave the game away! My surprise party must be in the one remaining
waterhole, the Marquis of Granby on North Hill.

Cunning of my
friends, to hold the gathering down there, eh? Behind St. Peter's Church, where
I'd least expect it. It was coming on to rain harder, and black night a-fallen,
when I finally entered the thick fug.

Gunge came to meet
me. Connie, pale but happy, was on a stool at the bar. Gunge took me across. I
can't say I was relieved, because I'd never doubted. I mean, what are friends
for? Goodness can't exist alone. It needs people.

"Hello,
Connie." I felt quite shy. Silly, really, after what Connie and me had
been to each other. God, but I wanted a woman. I needed one like . . . No good
trying to explain. Blokes don't need telling, and women can't understand.

"Hello,
Lovejoy." Her eyes were misty. I wondered how to get rid of Gunge when she
said, "We want you to be the first to know, Lovejoy."

She did? I thought I
already was. "That's nice, love."

"Gunge and I are
going to live in the Isle of Man."

"Fine. I'm . .
."I always forget. Do you congratulate the man and wish the bride-to-be
well? Or vice versa? I bussed her anyway, and Gunge gripped my hand to a mince.

"You judge our
dollop, Lovejoy," Connie said, adoring eyes on her man. "We'll send
our address once we're married."

God knows how long I
stayed. They spoke of a little antique shop near the Douglas ferry, shipping
stuff Belfast to Liverpool. The Customs Paper re-imports trick. New York via
Glasgow.

Something in Guernsey
with Southampton shippers. Gunge said hardly a thing.

He followed me to the
door when I managed to break away.

"Ta, Lovejoy.
Pike on, lad, eh?''

"Ta, Gunge. I
mean it. Good luck to you both.''

Into the rain, steady
now with a stiff breeze. I went slowly uphill into town.

There was no surprise
party. I hadn't asked after the mob. Just as, I told myself finally, they
hadn't asked after me.

The town center was
almost deserted. Just The George, with its lights. A couple of small
restaurants. The Red Lion's upper floor's curtains showing where some vast nosh
was taking place. I think hospitals make you tired out just lying abed. Maybe
they want it that way, so you can't start injuring yourself again and come back
in for more.

"Lovejoy!"

Glad to hear my name,
I swiveled so fast I almost dinged myself unconscious on a lamppost. Miss
Turner. And Forage. And Marmalade Emma, with the sleepy Grimes reeling dozily
along.

"Hello," I
said. For once I was willing to tell her all sorts of genealogy. As usual she
got in first.

"Such excellent
news, Lovejoy! We're related! Mr. Forage and I! In the sixteen eighties! First
cousins in common! Can you believe it? You were exactly right!"

I looked at Forage,
at Marmalade Emma. I would have looked at Grimes, but he can never look back so
it's a waste of a look. This was more than a rejoicing of ancient cousins.

"Who's getting
wed?" I asked, smiling.

"Mr. Forage and
I," Miss Turner said. "In New Hampshire. We've discovered a branch of
our family there." She plucked me close, whispered, "I do believe
they're very wealthy, Lovejoy!"

"Wonderful!"
I said directly to Forage, who had the decency to look away. "Almost too
good to be true, eh?"

"Fantastic!"
Miss Turner cried. "We go tomorrow, Lovejoy."

Et heartwarming
cetera. I heard them out. Wherever love flourishes, let it. Even if Forage was
working the old Cousin Horace scam. Maybe in her heart of hearts Miss Turner
knew it too. I had the grace to refuse when she offered me some notes she said
she owed.

"They were a
gift. You can't repay gifts. It's their nature."

We said good-bye. Off
they trogged to the Ship to celebrate. It was all happening tonight. I wondered
how I'd get home.

"Evening,
Lovejoy."

"Craddie."
I walked along, stiff, whatever direction he was going. A police car,
unmarked—hence as obvious as a horse in a pub—pulled to the curb. Acker Kirwin
looked out. Two black eyes, lip swollen. "How's Acker, Craddie?''

"Resisted
arrest, old chap. Said he's innocent."

"Lovejoy,"
Acker croaked. "Tell them, mate. I never helped Cassie. Only mocked up
photos for her to sell to Rye. Honest."

I halted. God, my
belly was stiff. "Would you have let Connie drown. Acker?"

His face answered me.
I limped on, despising him, me, the police for doing him over, every last one
of us.

"You not
arrested Mayor Carstairs yet?"

"On my way there
now." Cradhead chuckled. "Drinkwater's at the Mayor's Oyster Feast,
guest of honor. I’m wondering what sort of entrance I should make."

He laughed, wagging
his head. I was beginning to quite like Cradhead. Dangerous sentiment. There
couldn't be any good in him, because he was the Plod. Logic.

"Sorry, Lovejoy.
I'll have to question the lady mayoress. Did she really not know her husband
offed the town silver. Council property from Cornish Place? Cassandra Clark
testified Mayor Carstairs put up the money. Hard to believe, eh?"

"Indeed." I
wondered how he'd spotted Oliver's scam.

"I spotted the
mayor's scam by watching your face, Lovejoy," Cradhead said mildly.
"At Del Vervain's radio show. Good old Del was in it too, of course. Hence
the outside broadcast." He laughed, a surprising sharp baritone. "We
were there to arrest you the instant you cried fake. You being the only true
crook in the audience. You had the sense to keep mum."

"Instinct,
Craddie. It lights paths already sure, though some lead daftwards." Which
made me wonder if he'd had the wit to raid Sampney Young Ladies Academy yet.

"I expect you're
wondering if I had the savvy to raid Sampney Young Ladies Academy yet."

"Mmmmh?"
This creep was an odious nerk, and no mistake.

"Answer's yes.
Found nothing. That Miss Reynolds shifts fast, what? Pity you can't come and
watch me arrest the mayor."

He started across the
road, towards The George. Two police cars, lights dimmed and sirens mute, crept
to meet him.

Good old Miss
Reynolds and her all-girl team! Marvelous what women can do when they finally
stir themselves.

"Mind you
conform to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, Craddie," I called.
"Got to be a first time."

Which left me alone
and palely loitering. I imagined I saw Rhea Cousins's grand motor drive by,
husband Willis driving, some Continental dealer already mauling Rhea in the
rear seat. Willis was some spouse. You don't get many of him to the shilling,
not even round here.