Firefly Gadroon

by Jonathan Gash

  We clopped merrily home. I stopped in our village post office and phoned Mrs Hepplestone to tell her that by Saturday she would be the ecstatic possessor of the ploughing championship trophy that had long evaded her. I’d drive her estate to victory.

  She was doubtful. ‘Are you quite sure, Lovejoy?’ she asked uncertainly. ‘They’re very difficult. When Miss Smith gave me your offer to plough for me at the contest I naturally assumed it was some kind of joke.’

  So had I, then. I chuckled lightly. ‘Never fear – Lovejoy’s here,’ I cracked. ‘As long as there’s no rule against antique dealers . . . ?’

  She assured me there was none.

  ‘See you Saturday,’ I promised.

  We paused at the White Hart, Germoline’s unerring intuition at work. I decided to say nothing about my forthcoming triumph to my mates in the saloon bar. I’ve driven tanks in deserts, halftracks in swamps, once a hovercraft on an ocean, and sundry tractors in the apple harvest. Claude might be a tough blacksmith but I was sure to be odds on.

  That night I was the last of the big spenders and got sloshed. Germoline had a forgiving pint too. We reeled drunkenly home at one in the morning, me singing ‘Farmer’s Boy’ and Germoline’s hooves scuffing happily in time all the way down the lane.

  Chapter 14

  It was a fighting day. Thankfully I was fresh and wide awake. Germoline snickered as I fed her; she too was raring to go. We were on the Dragonsdale road by nine.

  I don’t know if you’ve been to these fairs in East Anglia. They’re a real yawn. You do nothing except hang about and try the odd shilling on catchpenny stalls like rolling wooden balls at hoops and such enthralling pastimes. The money goes to some dubious charity, though all charity’s dubious. There’s sometimes racing, occasionally a few tipsy knights jousting each other off tubby nags and women selling hot grub. If the weather’s fine everybody tends to dress up. What with the green grass and the flower show and the bands it’s really average, especially if nothing else happens for the rest of the East Anglian year, which it doesn’t.

  By the time Germoline pulled us in I was unpleasantly aware of the disadvantages of donkey travel. Most of my mates had overtaken us, honking hooters noisily as they burned past. You know the kindly way friends do. I told Germoline what a drag she was but I could tell from her ears she wasn’t taking a blind bit of notice. I tethered her to a handy tree in the car park, just a field with cars in it.

  ‘Watch her, mate,’ I told the attendant, a shapely bird in wellingtons. ‘I’ll reward you afterwards.’

  ‘How sweet!’ she cried, promising to feed Germoline at half-time. I left the bag of oats in the cart with a plastic raincoat in case it rained. She was about to say more when Liz Sandwell hove in to leave her motor near the gate.

  ‘Morning, Lovejoy,’ she interrupted sweetly. ‘And Viv. Working hard, Viv?’

  ‘Morning, Liz,’ Viv said, moving off with a glance that meant I had rotten friends.

  Liz slammed her door and we set off across to the marquees. ‘She’s engaged to the vicar, Lovejoy,’ Liz said with relish. ‘Incidentally, is it true you’re going in for the furrow match?’

  ‘Win, Liz,’ I corrected. ‘I need the money.’

  ‘You don’t stand a chance. You’re a million to one.’

  I shook my head disbelievingly. I can never understand these country bumpkins. Anybody can drive a blinking tractor, after all.

  The crowds were gathering. It was something past ten and the judges were already writing those rude remarks on the flower exhibitors’ cards. Two bands were practising the same melody, their fine uniforms laid across their knees. As they played their eyes flicked across to the opposition, sussing out the strengths of the enemy. Later in the day the adjudicators would come and be imprisoned blindfolded in the small caravan, so as not to be able to bias their scores in favour of their own village band. Like most good theories, this has never worked because people balls it up. I suppose that’s why they stay theories.

  ‘Your friend, Lovejoy,’ Liz warned me. Across the open car park a great square-looking Rolls had drifted silently into a spare acre, dwarfing the rest of the motors. Devvo. I checked Viv’s whereabouts. Fortunately a small throng of infants had materialized and were crowding round Germoline. She would be safe. Oddly, I saw her looking across at the Rolls. Funny if donkeys had good memories.

  ‘Did you get in trouble saying those things about Devlin?’ Liz couldn’t avoid asking.

  ‘Just because he murdered Drummer?’ I shot back. ‘Where’s the harm in a little gossip?’

  She gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘I like you, Lovejoy,’ she said. ‘You’re a big softie, but I’m afraid you’re going to make a fool of yourself today.’

  ‘Stick around, baby,’ I growled, doing my Bogart.

  We had stopped by an open roped circle in the centre of the show grounds. A notice announced ‘Drivers this way’ with arrows. The circle was crammed with monster horses, great things the size of a bungalow. The tractors were probably in the other field. I for one was walking round, not elbowing my way through that lot.

  ‘I’ll stroll round, love.’ I backed away as one great beast ambled closer. Horses and things always come up to me. ‘I know they’re supposed only to eat grass, but—’

  Liz looked at me, stricken. ‘But, Lovejoy. They’re the teams. For ploughing.’

  ‘Eh?’ I almost fainted. ‘I’m driving a frigging tractor, you stupid cow,’ I bleated.

  ‘No, love. You plough with horses.’

  ‘I’m here to drive a tractor,’ I insisted.

  ‘But anybody can drive a tractor, Lovejoy. Horses are the test.’ I flopped on the ground, broken. Liz sat beside me. ‘Does it matter so much to you?’

  Claude the blacksmith and a few gnarled farmers were strolling among the giant beasts, patting and prodding and lifting hooves. No wonder people had thought my entering the competition was a joke, especially when I’d gone bragging I’d win hands down. I couldn’t even drive Germoline, let alone these beasts. I put my head in my hands. I could have wept.

  ‘I can hook Devlin for killing Drummer if I get the prize. I need the money.’

  ‘How?’ she asked, but one glance at my face told her it was no sale. ‘Look, Lovejoy. Can’t you borrow the prize from Claude? Or money from somebody?’

  ‘Look at me, Liz.’ I held my hands out to make the point. ‘Who’d lend Lovejoy Antiques a bent penny? Would you?’ A bit cruel, but it drove it home. After yelling blue murder in the middle of town everybody must think I was off my head anyway.

  ‘Haven’t you anything to . . . ?’ Liz tried to help.

  I had the antiques, at least, even if they were not paid for. But getting round the dealers on a Saturday would be hopeless. Still, I had to try. Tonight was some sort of deadline out on the old sea fort.

  ‘And there’s your little donkey,’ Liz was saying.

  ‘I couldn’t sell her.’

  ‘No,’ Liz exclaimed impatiently. ‘Donkey rides. The children love her. Drummer used to bring her to village shows.’

  It was true. One thing Germoline knew about was giving donkey rides. I grabbed Liz and hurried her back through the growing crowds as they began to pour from the car field.

  ‘How do I do it? How much do I charge?’

  ‘You remember, as a kid, for heaven’s sake,’ Liz said, exasperated. ‘You mark a place out with those little coloured flags and Germoline takes people round.’

  I glimpsed Viv’s blonde hair in the distance and whistled urgently. ‘Will you help, Liz?’ I asked feverishly. ‘I’ll nick some flags if you’ll shout—’

  ‘Honestly, Lovejoy. You’re hopeless.’

  In about half an hour I was doing brisk business among the marquees. I’d pinched several small pieces of bunting. With string I got from a woman in the grub tent and a few sticks off the hedges I manufactured quite passable marker flags. Germoline was brilliant. She knew the game all right and enjoyed it except when a crowd of y
obbos came scurrying through the mob once. Apart from that I did a roaring trade for over an hour, and started doing great.

  Helen came and had a cart ride, tipping Germoline a quid which was decent of her. I saw her deep in conversation with Liz and caught her glancing my way. Maybe she thought I’d gone bonkers too. But I forged on, working the crowd and trying to look all paternal the way Drummer did, a sort of cut-price Santa Claus. I got the children rolling in by letting my own supporters, those who’d backed me up when confronted by Hepzibah Smith in my garden that time, have free rides. Germoline occasionally gave extra distances, moving to the band music in and out among my stolen flags. She was great value, Germoline, that morning. I have to give her that. Probably knew it was in a good cause.

  A few of the lads hove in to give the bric-à-brac stall the glad eye. This is practically routine among even the most expensive antique dealers. Don’t laugh. The only genuine Elizabethan gold and garnet ring in our museum was bought on such a stall last year – for fifty pence. And I once picked up enough profit for a new thatch on my cottage from a set of four Mayer plates which I got for less than a pound. Antique dealers underrated them because Hausmaler work is thought to be beneath posh dealers (though nobody turns a nose up at the vast profit they bring these days). A Hausmaler is a home painter of white porcelain, usually bought from factories as ‘seconds’ – ie: faulty. The home painter flourished in the eighteenth century. Franz Mayer was the best of the Bohemians. He bought rejects from Meissen to decorate. He was mad on flowers. People say his enamels aren’t up to much but I like them. One tip: if you see a painted insect (beetle, fly, butterfly) on a decorated plate, with nothing at all to do with the theme of the plate’s painting, have a quick shufti to see if the insect is painted over a small defect. If it is, you probably have in your hands a Hausmaler work. For some reason they’re particularly common in East Anglia. They’re the first thing I look for at these village fairs. You never need pay more than a tenth of their value. Dead easy profit.

  I’d quite forgotten the ploughing by twelve. I was made to remember it in a particularly unpleasant way. Germoline had just taken off with a cartload of four children and one infant, with Liz laughing exasperatedly in close attendance and myself keeping a queue of kids under a semblance of control. Then the sun went out of the sky.

  ‘Morning, Lovejoy.’ Maslow again. ‘Step this way.’

  ‘Don’t jump the queue, please,’ I said, quick as a flash.

  ‘Make him, Constable.’

  George Jilks, my own treacherous village nerk, took my arm. I stepped aside from the children. Maslow had a second constable rocking on his heels nearby, thoughtful lad.

  ‘Licence?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You need a licence for trading, Lovejoy.’ He grinned without humour. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten another point of law. And can I see your declaration of income tax—?’

  ‘Cut it, Maslow.’ I shook George’s arm off and shoved my face at Maslow’s. ‘I’m doing this for a good cause.’ Then I paused. Ho hum.

  ‘What good cause?’ He peered at me. ‘I’m waiting. Would it be anything to do with Mr Devlin?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘And while we’re at it, Lovejoy,’ he added smoothly, ‘I want to know by what authority you maintain a commercial animal for hire.’

  ‘Don’t tell me I need a licence for that too?’ The creep. ‘Liz,’ I shouted. ‘Over here.’ Liz put an older girl in charge and came back, sobering as she saw my visitor and the uniforms. A small crowd was gathering and was listening curiously. ‘Liz will vouch for me, won’t you?’

  ‘Er . . . for what, exactly?’

  ‘For . . . well, giving a safe, er, desirable service to the, er, community . . .’ I halted lamely. Maslow was grinning now.

  ‘Book them both, Constable.’

  ‘I’m nothing to do with this,’ Liz cut in, backing off. ‘I was just, er, helping . . .’ She merged with the crowd, giving me a mute glance of apology.

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  I saw Helen and waved urgently but she avoided my eyes. You couldn’t blame them.

  ‘All right, Maslow,’ I said softly. ‘Do what you want. But I’ll kill Devlin if it’s the last frigging thing I do.’

  ‘I’m going to have you certified, Lovejoy,’ he said, just as softly. ‘And I’ll see they stuff you away for a thousand years.’

  ‘There you are!’ a voice cooed, and Dolly, beautiful loyal Dolly, all dressed up with a flowered hat, slipped between me and the Old Bill. She took my arm. ‘Now it’s really time we moved on, Lovejoy—’ She broke off, noticing the bobby. ‘Oh dear! There hasn’t been an accident, has there?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I said, bewildered, wondering what the hell she was up to.

  ‘Thank heavens!’ Dolly said. ‘Is this your friend?’ She reached out a gloved hand which Maslow shook mechanically.

  ‘I’m police, lady,’ he managed. ‘Lovejoy’s under arrest.’

  ‘What?’ Dolly went all aghast. ‘But . . . not for giving donkey rides, surely? In that case, you’ll have to arrest me. I own the donkey and the cart, and it was at my instigation that Lovejoy kindly agreed—’ I listened, stunned.

  ‘You can only do this for a registered charity,’ Maslow snapped.

  ‘Here’s our charity number,’ she said sweetly, pulling a card from her handbag. ‘Lady’s Guild for Church Maintenance and Structure. Would you like to contribute?’

  ‘Is there any trouble?’ The vicar showed, bless him. And his fiancée Viv with him. My allies had pluralled.

  ‘None, Reverend,’ Dolly gushed. ‘Lovejoy here has done a perfectly delightful thing, collecting for our church funds. Isn’t that marvellous?’

  ‘I’m deeply moved,’ the padre said. I entered into the spirit of the thing and hauled out my ill-gotten gains. I even felt all choked up as I passed it over.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ I told Maslow, smiling to nark him. ‘Look, pals,’ I said to the children. ‘Look after Germoline. One ride every time the church clock strikes a quarter hour, in turn. And feed her in thirty minutes, all right?’

  Having successfully swindled the shrieking mob of volunteers into serving Germoline’s interests, I took Dolly’s arm, leaving Maslow and his soldiery.

  Dolly was really great, keeping up a meaningless chatter all the way. We flopped down exhausted as soon as we were in the shade of the tea tent.

  ‘What was all that, Lovejoy?’ she asked faintly. ‘Did I do right?’

  ‘Thanks, love. You were superb.’ I kissed her feebly. At least I wasn’t arrested. ‘I was trying to get some money to get a boat.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Tonight.’ I saw from her face it would be hopeless. To make matters worse the tannoy croaked my name. ‘Plough teams please check in,’ it squawked. There was nothing for it. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’ve a field to plough.’ I was shaking.

  The improvised paddock was crowded with men and shire horses. They looked bigger than ever, and one or two seemed decidedly bad-tempered. A lot of good-natured ribbing was going on from the onlookers as I pushed my nervous way through to the ropes. Mrs Hepplestone was sitting with Squire Wainwright. Both gave me a wave. I waved back with an arm that suddenly felt rubber. Dolly was pushing my arm.

  ‘You can’t, darling,’ she was saying, aghast. ‘They’re like in Gulliver’s Travels.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ I said, shaking her off. ‘I’ve got to try.’ Then I stopped, gazing quizzically back at Dolly. ‘What is it, dear?’

  ‘Gulliver.’ That name. ‘Wait, wait!’ Wainwright’s men had said there was this old bloke called Gulliver, the best ploughman in the business . . . who used to win all the competitions. I struggled to remember. That day in the burning fields. Claude was best except for Gulliver, who was now a drunken bum round town, a useless gambler, decrepit. It couldn’t be. Lemuel Gulliver in Swift’s famous tale. And who else knew to an ounce what a donkey ate? Old Lemuel was the plo
ughing champion!

  I grabbed Dolly. ‘Love, for Christ’s sake,’ I babbled. ‘Get on the phone. Do anything – you understand, anything – to phone the White Hart and find Tinker. Tell him to get Lemuel here now. Got it?’

  Her eyes were wide and alarmed. ‘What if I can’t?’

  ‘Do it. Tell them to pinch a car, anything.’

  She ran off towards the marquees while I swallowed hard and climbed the rope. There seemed to be a lot of chains and iron things about on the ground. People cheered raggedly as the horses were walked about in front of the stand. A group of some five men were there, Claude among them. We shook hands like wrestlers do.

  ‘All right, Lovejoy?’ he asked kindly.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  I was to go third. I got in the way, risking life and limb. I talked incessantly. I mislaid people’s harness and lost my entry papers twice and finished up waiting while the judge irritably wrote my entry out longhand. I was frantic, struggling to spin the minutes out. You take turns, I was pleased to hear, one team going at a time.

  The game consists in driving these monsters into a field and ploughing a stetch – that’s a strip a few yards wide, all furrows parallel. Judges sit and watch your skills. The trouble is you have only the old-fashioned plough to do it with, one furrow every trip. For God’s sake.

  Claude had drawn first. I refused to go into the paddock to be with my team of horses, though the other drivers did. I sat with the crowd glumly watching Claude do his stuff on the sloping field. Even Jethro Tull, the great ploughing modernist of two centuries back, would have been proud of him. Half an hour and he came off his stetch sweating like a bull and sank near me like a small earthquake. I passed him my brown ale which he drained.

  ‘You’re next after this, Lovejoy,’ he gasped. ‘Watch the field. There’s a dip midway over.’

  ‘Thanks, Claude.’ I rose miserably as the tannoy called. If I didn’t go now I’d be disqualified. I had to have my team strapped together, God knows how, by the time the second team came off.

  I went over to the paddock sick to my soul. The shire horses looked at me with disbelief as if asking if this was the goon they were landed with. ‘I know how you feel,’ I told them bitterly. I swear they almost laughed.