The Grace in Older Women

by Jonathan Gash

'But I want a quiet meeting, like I said.'

  'Oh. Sorry, love. I got tied up.'

  'We'll be unstoppable,' she whispered. A compact player was belting out decibels, the cottage reeling. People jigged.

  'We will?'

  'Money, glorious money, Lovejoy!' She waved to Wilmore, who clasped his hands, boxer style. He seemed high and on the kilter. Vernon sang 'Over the sea to Skye,' pretending to row in a choppy sea. Never such merriment at Lovejoy Antiques, Inc. So why'd I gone cold?

  'Listen up, everybody!' Vernon shouted, pinging his glass. Glass? I had no glasses. I often wished I had.

  'A toast!' They began shrieking for silence.

  'We have here tonight,’ Vernon boomed, wobbling on the divan, 'the most superb divvy! Who has -' he held out his hands to suppress applause ' - who has joined our Group!'

  Roars, joy unbounded. Mahleen sank me in her golden cleavage. I’d never seen so much cosmetics unbottled. She was beautiful. I'd not eaten for a decade. I was squiffy on wine.

  'This, friends,' Vernon went on in the sudden hush, 'betokens certain success! And Love joy, sensing our Cause's inherent truth, has already started the assault!'

  I had? I was grinning like an ape. Gwena looked ratty, as ever since she realized I was seeing her sister. Says my intentions are dishonourable, mistrustful cow. Me, dishonourable? It's prejudice.

  'And so we've decided to stay, friends, and help! We,' he shouted, trying to keep upright, 'are his troops! Lovejoy our general!'

  'Shhh!' Mahleen was signalling to Wilmore, shut Vernon up.

  Vernon toasted in tears, The King over the water!'

  He waved his glass, the ladies shrieking at being drenched in white wine. I groaned, less jovial. This lot were part of Roberta's daft mob. And converts, the very worst sort of believers, poisonously fervid. Jacobites used to make this toast, passing their wine glass over the fingerbowl in allusion to the absent Bonnie Prince Charlie. Hopelessly romantic, fable founded on fraud founded on fable. Most political rebellions flourish, strange to relate, by their opponents' help. The Yanks mostly financed Russia's revolutionaries. And Charlemagne's spiritual affection for Aix-la-Chapelle, that drew him to live there, wasn't anything of the sort; he simply liked the hot springs, swam there in the afternoon.

  'We're what?’ I asked, Vernon blowing an imaginary trumpet.

  'Going out on campaign, General! The action starts here!'

  By then we were all three sheets to the wind. I'd never been so drunk that fast. We piled out and into the big limo. Chemise caught me, stuffed yet more messages in my pocket and stood looking after me. I tried shouting I'd be back, have the kettle on, but we were off, piled in a heap like an undergraduate rag day stunt. I was under Mahleen, or possibly on, I don't know. During the journey she found my ear, whispered to meet in room one six. I fell about laughing.

  The George lounge was quiet, only the vestibule bar still honky-tonking away. A few couples were having one last drink before making smiles. Maudie Laud was there. She just smiled, waved me over.

  'Wotcher, Maud, sorry but I'm with friends.'

  'Not be long, ladies,' she told them politely. 'I'll let you have him after a chat.'

  Warily I sat opposite. The lounge always has a log fire. It's comfortable, a sense of timelessness.

  'They really are tourists, Maud.' I didn't want her leaping to conclusions about innocents, including me.

  She watched them go. 'Which, Lovejoy?' she asked.

  That narked me. 'Get your questions over with. Or shall I answer straight off, save time?' She nodded, smiling. I would have liked her in another incarnation. In this she was putrid. 'Yes, I'm organizing an exhibition of forgeries, fakes, duds, shams. Yes, all will be clearly labelled as such. Yes, wholly legal. Yes, the funds will be declared for income tax purposes. Yes, it will be a charitable fund-raising. Yes, it will be open to all, including your Plod. No date yet, but soon.'

  'Thank you, Lovejoy.' She made to rise, paused, her smile hard. 'Why are you doing it?'

  'An obligation to a lady. No money, just obligation.'

  'The ailing Roberta?'

  She knew a hell of a lot of intimacies. 'I never betray a lady's confidence.'

  'I'll accept that for now. She rose and stretched, knowing the effect on me. 'Let me guess, Lovejoy.' She thought, finger under her chin. 'That gold lady, room sixteen?' And when I said nothing, 'You will tell me if anything. . . ?'

  'Police helmets, truncheons, insignia from the peelers? I'd pay a good price, love, for police museum items.'

  'You would?' She looked dangerous, but I was past caring, wine being what it is.

  'You know the curator, young Freeth.' I can give as good as I get. 'Nice wife. Kids in school now, eh?'

  'What're you saying, Lovejoy?'

  'I said I pay a good price, Maud. Just remember.'

  She stared for what seemed a week, but it can't have been more than half that. She was mad I knew about her and Freeth.

  'I see. You know who did Tryer,' she said softly, her brow clearing. 'You wouldn't be so determined otherwise.’

  Am I that transparent? I hated the bitch. 'Haven't a clue, Maud. I'll buy old police dictating machines, prison plans, percussion weapons, anything like that. Oh, ta for keeping Tinker in your nick just when I needed him.’

  'Rol Freeth and I are simply colleagues, Lovejoy.' She would have killed me, but for witnesses. 'If you -

  My sigh almost blew the rafters down. 'Look, Maud. I can't stand here gossiping about you having a bit on the side.' I paused, one up for once. 'What room number was it?'

  Having this last word felt like a mouth full of sawdust. I watched her go. The rest of the lounge was taking no notice, talking softly, passion impending. It made me disconsolate. I could be with Chemise. Or, with Roberta, for my payment in kind. I trudged up the stairs, looking for room one six. I couldn't endure more jollity, probably getting even more sloshed now, on the hard stuff.

  'Wotcher.' I knocked and entered, stood surprised. Nobody, semi-darkness. I couldn't see a damned thing. 'Sorry, er . . .'

  'Lovejoy! I thought you'd never come.'

  'Mahleen?' And alone? I fumbled for the light.

  'No lights. Follow my heat, hon.'

  So I did. I felt a brief sorrow for Chemise, alone in my cottage, but a woman makes you forget everything, including others.

  If love's been made right, something comes over a man. It might seem like sleep to passing observers. Younger women assume you've just nodded off in dismissive indolence. Older women, though, know better. They realize the man has briefly left terra firma, for some astral plane where others cannot follow. From the inside, it feels terrible, a kind of premonition of death, and can't be mucked about with. The wrongest thing a woman can do, biggest mistake, is light a fag, say, 'Hey, let's talk!’ This ghastly fudge remark is not only the commonest flaw in TV scripts, but the most ruinous utterance in human love. Any woman whose blokes keep walking out on her should learn this: after making love, a few moments of quiet will weld him to you for ever and ever, because he'll love you for nowt thereafter. You might be the most useless woman in the history of beds, but he won't know this if you treat him to that slight mercy.

  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 ha
nd 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. Wa
s 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.'