Paid and Loving Eyes l-16

by Jonathan Gash

  “Hello, er, love,” I said. Nowhere to sit. Doc Lancaster once told me that hospital telly soaps always go wrong in making their actor doctors sit on the edge of the bed, and approach the wrong side of the bed. I crouched to peer at her, trying to work out what I was for.

  The nurse warned, “One minute.”

  Cissie’s eyes opened, surprisingly clear. “Lovejoy,” she whispered. I was shaken. I didn’t know she could whisper. I must have recoiled, expecting her honing voice. “Paulie,” she whispered. “I want to speak to Lovejoy alone.”

  “Right, right, dear.”

  “The nurse too,” Cissie ordered, with a trace of her old asperity. She groaned, shifted slightly with the nurse’s help.

  The nurse left too, glaring as if this was all my fault.

  Five minus three left me and Cissie. Her eyes closed for a little while, some sort of pain.

  We’d lived marital a fortnight, then six weeks for intermittent skirmishing before the separation. It was the fastest divorce on record. She’d married Paul on the first permitted legal morn.

  “Lovejoy,” she whispered. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  “Eh?” I straightened, honestly found myself edging away. Abuse, yes. Hatred, aye, sure. But an apology? I felt I’d walked onstage in the middle of The Quaker Girl. That unreal.

  “I know you must hate me, Lovejoy,” this whispering stranger said. She seemed to sleep a few seconds, blearily came to with appalling effort.

  “No, er, Cissie,” I whispered along.

  “Yes.” She fixed me with unnaturally bright eyes. “I was cruel. I was wrong.”

  Wrong? Cruel? Sorry? It was beyond my experience. “No, er, don’t worry. It’s all…” In the past? Did one say things like that, times like this? ”It’s okay.“ When of course it wasn’t. Okay for Lovejoy, not quite okay for somebody dying.

  “I want you to do something, Lovejoy. If it’s too much, then please say no. I won’t bear any grudge.”

  Please too? “What?”

  She wanted to move on to her side a little, and signed for me to move her round a little.

  “I’ll get the nurse,“ I said, worried sick.

  “No, Lovejoy. I don’t want her to hear this.”

  I held her, found myself cradling her body in an embrace that would have seemed like old times, except we’d never done this before, not with each other anyhow. Her face was close to mine, her eyes huge.

  “What is it, love?”

  “Paulie’s a fool. Not a patch on you, Lovejoy.”

  Not exactly the time to say I’d always known he was a pillock. “Oh, well,” I managed.

  “Please. I want you to help him, Lovejoy. Is it too much to ask, Lovejoy?” She coughed a bit. I tried to cough for her like a fool, holding myself stiff at an awkward angle.

  “I don’t know what it is I’m to do. Nobody’s told me anything. Is it this Troude thing, something about silver shipments?”

  “Paulie’s in too deep with Troude. He’s so desperate for it to succeed. All it is, they are storing some antiques, for export somewhere. It needs a divvy. Say you will.”

  “Maybe,” I said, instinct keeping it so I could escape moral bonds should I want to off out. Gentleman to the last.

  “I can’t blame you, Lovejoy. It was all my fault.” She slipped away then a while, came too after an inward struggle. “I’m frightened, Lovejoy. And leaving things in such a mess for Paul makes it worse.”

  “I’ll do it, Cissie,” I said. Instinct yelled to steer clear of the phrase at the last second, failed.

  She drove it home. “You promise, Lovejoy?”

  “Promise, love.”

  She sank back with a profound sigh. I was just taking my arms away when the nurse came in to say I had to leave, it was time for Mrs Anstruther to rest.

  “Blood transfusion due in ten minutes.”

  “Right, right.” I looked at the still figure breathing so shallowly, thinking of her in a plastic tent, the mask going over her face, drips being adjusted. “Bye, Cissie love.”

  Her eyelids fluttered. She said nothing. Paul came. And Almira, who said she wanted to say goodbye to Cissie. She was in tears. Paul was silent. I went along the corridor and watched the night outside with its strings of lights along distant roads through the darkness. It had come on to rain.

  The way out was hard to find. I managed it third go. Only once did I discover something strange, and that was more by misjudgement than anything. It gave me pause. I stayed among a crowd of visitors getting something to eat down a corridor off a sort of outpatients’ place. I heard an odd laugh, odd because it was familiar and shouldn’t have been there. I sidled out and stood under the canopy thing looking at the rain.

  An ambulance bloke came past, smoking to advertise the benefits of sickness.

  “Pardonez-moi, Monsieur,” I got out. “What is this that is this country, silver plate?” My French just made it.

  “France.” His voice mocked my sanity. He strolled on, adding a critical suffix about foreigners, especially me.

  As if it mattered, like I said. Except that Cissie was going to die in France. I’d seen the terrible diagnosis written plain as day on her chart. Diseases strike terror into me. Pathetically, I wondered guiltily if it was catching. How long ago had it been? I tried to work out. Could a disease lurk, only to spring out…? Gulp. I’d been pretty tired lately. But coping with the rapacious Almira would have weakened a randy regiment, so there was no telling. Three silhouette nurses talked inside the porch across the forecourt. A tubby girl gave an odd whoopy laugh, cut it for professional reasons. Matron would scold.

  “All right, Lovejoy?” Almira, at her most sympathetic.

  “Aye, love.”

  “Lovejoy,” from Paul. “I’m sorry. I…”

  He looked so lost I even felt sorry for him. “It’s all right,” I said, wondering what the hell I was saying. I was reassuring him that I was fine. “I mean I’m sorry.” Even that didn’t sound right.

  “We should get back, Lovejoy,” from Almira. Paul said he’d drive us.

  We finished the journey in almost total silence, except for Almira saying if there was anything we could do, Paulie, just get in touch, not to bother giving any notice. How, without a phone? I didn’t ask. He nodded, kept glancing at me as if I was somehow more injured than him. I tried to force myself, but couldn’t reach out and shake his hand. He didn’t offer, either, so that was all right.

  “Cheers, Paul,” I said as we did that silly look-at-the-floor shuffle folk do at such times. “Be seeing you.” Would I?

  “Yes,” he said, brightening. He went downcast, probably realizing that it was Cissie’s dying wish that was possibly going to get him out of some scrape.

  “Not coming in for a nightcap, Paulie?” Almira asked.

  He seemed to lighten in hope for a second, then something in her expression clicked and he shook his head with the nearest he could manage to resolve, and dutifully got back in the Jag. Once a serf, nowt but. A night bird did its barmy whoop noise. It sounded so like a girl with a funny laugh.

  “Better get back,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Almira bussed him farewell. “Give our fondest love to Cissie.”

  “Lovejoy.” He was trying to say something as he fired the engine. “Thanks, old chap. I really do mean it, you know.”

  “That’s okay,” I said.

  Me and Almira waved him ofF. He had the radio on as he turned up among the trees, headlights a cone of light dragging him swiftly away. It was that clarinet tune that hit the charts practically in the Dark Ages, something about a carnival.

  “Poor Paul.” Almira said. “Poor Cissie.”

  “Yes.” Something felt very odd. That night bird whooped.

  “Lovejoy.” She stood close, under a night sky fast clearing of scudding cloud. Stars were showing, and a moon they call a night moon where I come from, thin as a rind and reddish-tinged.

  “Yes?”

  “Cissie… It’s no
reason for us to be any different, is it? She’d want us to live exactly as we are.”

  “Would she?” Odd, strange, queer, weird.

  “Yes.” Very vehement. “There’s very little holiday time left. Just let’s remember that, darling.”

  There is something in this relief theory, that the misfortune of others shoots us so full of relieved thank-God-it’s-not-me sensations that we instantly go ape. That night Almira and me really did go over the top, cruelty melding passion and desire in a frenzy so near to madness there was no telling where lust began and delirium ended.

  The night seemed to last a week. Which was just as well, because holiday time was over, and fighting time was come.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  « ^ »

  Good heavens! At last!” Almira cried from the terrace after breakfast.

  I too expressed pleased surprise, the sort you see in those terrible old 1950s B films where rep-theatre acting glossed all emotions into mannerism. Being a genuine phoney’s easy.

  Marc drove Almira’s motor up to the house and alighted with a flourish. He prattled something about having fought the garage to a standstill, demanding Madame’s voiture back immediatement. She was thrilled. I pretended I genuinely thought it had been driven from a nearby town instead of from Marc’s cottage two hundred yards off. Marc retired, proud with achievement.

  We beamed assurance across the coffee cups. I played along. I mean we said practically everything. Almira had already wondered sadly how dear Cissie was this morning, and how Paulie was bearing up. What a pity there was no telephone! This odd nagging feeling returned, that I was being led towards a distant but quite safe destination. Everything above board, nothing hidden. Great, eh? Lucrative, with Troude’s assurances that money would flow in.

  “Cissie told me about Paulie’s investments in an antiques project, darling,” she finally said, doing her bit. “You promised to help.”

  “Mmmmh,” I concurred, doing mine.

  She was ravishing, today in lemon yellow. “It’s Philippe Troude’s project, isn’t it?” She gave a half-laugh. “Well, with Monsieur Troude arranging everything, nothing can possibly go wrong. He’s a billionaire, Lovejoy!”

  Over those curly bread things Madame Raybaud seemed to think were breakfast Almira seemed excited, under her thin disguise of transitory grief for Cissie. It’d be today. No woman can hide the delight of anticipation. It was there in her eyes, her moist lips, her showy manner. I’ve already told you about fraud. Remember the crop markings? And how that little fraud had become legitimate, even founded a whole new science? The only hassle came when it intruded into Poncho’s fraud, which had itself spawned other new frauds…

  And guess what! A message came! A messenger on a Donk-type bike rode up, solemnly handed Almira an envelope, got his chit signed and offed.

  “Not bad news I hope, dwoorlink?” I said anxiously as I could on half a grotty bun and a swig.

  Almira read the note. “It’s from Paulie, darling. Philippe Troude is here. Can we meet them today, talk over the arrangements. Thank goodness it’s not bad news about Cissie!”

  “Thank goodness!” I agreed. How lucky Almira’s motor was back in time, I thought but did not say. But as long as antiques loomed I’d be happy. You can trust antiques, the crossroads of loving, murder, deceit, forgery and corruption.

  “Now that we have the motor, dwoorlink,” I suggested, knowing the answer, “have we time to look for an antique shop?”

  “What a good idea!” she said brightly, telling herself she thought I’d never ask.

  We hit the road. The keys were in the ignition. No concealment of direction, no angst over questions. Lovely chatter, pleasant talk about how she really admired the views, how much land France seemed to have, how much prettier France was than the Low Countries, don’t you think, darling? Which told me I wasn’t ever coming back to Madame Raybaud’s domain, or the shack by the waterside with the hunter in the woods.

  Through quite mountainous countryside—though goose-pimples look hilly if you live in East Anglia—Almira drove with ease and accomplishment. Driving on the Continent you have to think hard every inch because they drive there on the wrong side of the road. Nothing wrong in that; it’s just their way. But Almira’s expertise showed she wasn’t new to these cack-handed roads. Nor did she need to inspect the signs, just casually notched them off.

  Almira was quite at home here, thank you.

  We avoided the big national highways. It seemed to me there’d only to come some sign promising a D, A or N road for Almira to cruise off down some rural snaker. I didn’t mind. Nice to see open air, towns and that. I felt the odd familiarity of a newcomer to France. Maybe it’s the names. Villiers I remember, because there was once a Villiers engine, now highly collectible on old motorbikes. And a river called Anglin, very appropriate unless I’ve got it wrong. We drove forty miles, then stopped for coffee at a tavern. Hills rose in the distance. No, Almira couldn’t tell me which they were, but there was a map somewhere in the glove compartment, darling…

  See? No secrecy, no possible subterfuge. Mrs. Almira Galloway was clearly nothing to do with the Troude scheme financed by Paulie et al. She was just along for the ride, so to speak.

  As we talked and saw people roll up, stop for a chat, smoke and coffee, then trundle off, I prepared my sentence. And asked the serving lass if there was a ville nearby avec un antiques magasin. I’d have been quarter of an hour disentangling her swift joyous reply but for Almira, who cooed why didn’t I ask, for heaven’s sake? And drove me six more miles. To heaven.

  “There’s always one antique shop, Lovejoy,” Almira was pacifying me for the eleventh time, getting narked like they do when you ask quite a reasonable question. “Don’t keep on.”

  “We should drive to the next town,” I grumbled. “Happen the bird got her wires crossed.”

  “We’ve hardly looked!” she was saying, when I stopped and felt a bit odd.

  The town was hardly that. Set among small fields, it was on a little plain, a river not far off. It seemed amateur, somehow, but didn’t care. Houses of that peculiar Frenchness, dry ground, trees indolent, unlike our busy East Anglian trees that are always hard at it—God knows what “it” is, but they always seem to be giving it a go, stirring the air to a brisk breeze. Maybe it’s our skies, never still. A few cars, a horse and trap, a lone flag proclaiming nationality. The windows of houses always look strangest to me in a new country. Flowers competing on opposite sides of the main street.

  “This way, love.”

  We crossed the main street. Three or four shops, a small restaurant, some men drinking outside at tables under an awning. A lane led up from the thoroughfare. I felt the oddness from that direction, towards the church. Less than a score yards along stood a yard, with a bow-fronted shop boasting antiques.

  Remember this, for money’s sake.

  French furniture either goes ape in fashions so distinct from ours that your mind boggles—rococo chairs so ornate you sometimes have to work out where your bum goes. Like the fashion to implant floral decorative Sèvres porcelain plaques in the surfaces of cabinets about 1774 on, glorious but overwhelming unless you care for those horrendously smiling masks of women and lions that ornament the corners and frieze. Or it does the other thing, goes individual with a strange elegance that I love more. Oddly, the great furniture-makers were often not French at all, though they sometimes learned their craft there. Like David Roentgen, who sold in Paris but worked in Neuwied.

  I stared. In the yard was a small converted Citroen truck. I reached to uncover the bureau more, but the odd feeling died. I let go, and turned in disappointment to find a diminutive bloke standing next to me. Gave me a jolt.

  “Er, bonjour, Monsieur,” I said, “Je desire pour regarder votre antiques.”

  He sighed a long French sigh and shot a mouthful of exasperation at Almira, who explained while I wandered to where my sensation grew stronger. It’s exactly like that hot-cold game of childr
en’s parties. You know when you’re standing next to the real thing, even if it’s only a mildewed crate.

  “… need, Lovejoy,” Almira was saying.

  “How much? Combien pour acheter?” I told him.

  He gauged me. He was the slyest man I’d ever seen. Even his direct appraisal was an oblique squint-eyed effort that never quite made your face. Then, when you’d finally given up and turned aside, you’d find his quizzical shifty eyes trawling after you, taking you in. He’d have made a cracking spy.

  “This is not for sale,” Almira said after a voluble interrogation. “The bureau on the car is.”

  “Je desire acheter le contents à l’interieur.”

  He asked Almira a question.

  “Non,” I said. I knew that flic and agent were police-laden words, and he’d gone even shiftier. “Mais je… aime beaucoup what is inside, Monsieur.” I remembered I hadn’t a bean.

  Almira told him I was an antiques collector. He brightened shiftily, and tried to pull me back to the piece on the truck.

  “Pas the tromperie fake,” I said. “Mais le vrai un.” Just in case he managed to sly his way round this syntax, I added, “Le vrai un. Dans votre box.”

  He tried telling me all sorts about the priceless magnificent late eighteenth-century bureau, just arrived on his truck, but I wouldn’t have it. At last, slyly he undid his crate—already the screws were out—and slyly exposed a fire screen laid in the bottom. I went weak with delight.

  Sometimes, mixing styles can be so dazzling that even the simplest object becomes glorious. I mean, can anything be simpler than a fire screen? Anything rectangular that stands up will more or less do the job, right? But Georges Jacob in the last quarter of the eighteenth century made a meal of rectangles. He married the new classical style with the older natural period. Another foreigner — Burgundian—he was a riot with the Parisians, and even did a brisk export trade to posh gentry in England. It was good enough to eat. The screen itself was slightly arched gilded wood, carved with sphinxes, arrows, twists on the support columns, cornucopias on the feet. Little garlands and ribboned top, all carved with unbelievable skill, showed just what they could do in those hellish workshops.