Ten Word Game

by Jonathan Gash

  “I hope the comedian’s good,” they eventually got round to.

  “The magician’s not up to much,” somebody else said, replete.

  “I want to hear the classical pianist.”

  “I like the Stadium Theatre Company. Brilliant. They were on Oceana in Barbados.”

  “No, Kevin. You’re mistaken…”

  “Are the shops better here than on Aurora?”

  “I’m going to play golf, really slim in the gym this cruise.”

  I listened, taking it all in. Somebody showed me the ship’s daily newspaper, Melissa Today. Blue headlines told of delights to come, singers, dancing shows, dining hours in sundry restaurants, pools and bars galore, forty-odd events going on all over the ship every single day. Everything was free, except drinks.

  On cue, sinking under the weight of food, I asked for a glass of wine, having the presence of mind to make my signature an illegible squiggle. A waiter wanted to see my card. I produced a little maroon plastic the cabin steward had given me. As we wobbled out, bloated, Kevin asked me what I did for a living.

  “I’m here to establish more contacts for my antiques import business,” he told me affably. “An underdog, but I’m happy.”

  “That’s the main thing, Kevin.”

  “You?”

  “Oh, er, a driver. For the town council.”

  Lots of grey hair about, but women always look superb so it never matters if they get older. They don’t know this, thinking for some reason that all sexual attraction depends on being twenty-three years old. Barmy. They talk themselves into despond. Even Gloria did, but I’ve already told you that.

  For a while I wandered the ship, up staircases, along corridors, passing several bars with bands and singers and merry drinkers, a cinema announcing feature films, the Palladium Theatre with tonight’s show about to start.

  “Good evening, Lovejoy.”

  The familiar voice pulled me up short. I looked down at Lady Vee in her wheelchair.

  “Wotcher.”

  “I shall expect you for drinks in my state room after the evening show. Ten o’clock exactly. You must meet some people.”

  “Er, ta, but – ”

  “Ten,” she ordered sharply.

  “Lady Veronica!” Billy and Ivy came to greet her. “How marvellous! You’re on the ship too!”

  They exchanged pleasantries about the last world cruise, d’you remember that dreadful girl in Mombasa and the malarkey over the Customs, while I wondered about coincidences and Billy Sands being an ex-cop. I muttered an excuse, and went to the Atrium. This seemed to be the centre of social life, where grand staircases swept down to a dance-floor from the bar balconies and tiers of elegant shops. A long ornate counter called Reception was staffed with a galaxy of assistant pursers. Like a hotel? I went and asked to see the passenger list.

  Michelle, a bonny girl, raised her eyes. “We no longer publish those, sir.”

  “How can I find out where, er, my friends are? We want to talk over old times. The last world cruise,” I explained helpfully. “That dreadful girl in Mombasa and everything!”

  Michelle didn’t quite giggle, but came close. “Wasn’t it terrible? Look, write a note and I’ll see it gets to them, okay? Enjoy the show, sir.”

  Stumped, I went to the performance. Two entrances to the theatre, rows of seats for eight hundred of us. Lovely dancers, an aggressive songstress, a comedian called Les Renown everybody recognised except me, a magician, more show-stopping dancers, and I was first out, lurking in the hallway by the lifts as the crowds emerged. Nobody I knew. I was relieved. No more coincidences.

  As people strolled on deck for a breath of maritime smog, I tried to work out exactly what I was doing on the Melissa. I’d been tricked aboard, ostensibly to help some old dear I didn’t really know. My tricksters – Gloria and Benjo – ran a tatty import-surplus shop where I’d worked. They imported priceless ethnic rarities, illegally. They’d deceived me, got me ticketed, carded, and on up the gangplank. They were helped by the fact that I’m thick half the time and daydreaming the rest. But why on a ship? Particularly, on this ship. If they’d wanted me to do something for them, I could have done it in Southampton.

  Looking for clues, I searched the notices and listened to bar chatter. The ship’s themes were antiques and music. I learned about a string quartet, a pianist in the Curzon Lounge, and operatics. Okay, fine, if that’s what you like. But to me opera is a long bore separating four beautiful arias. I lived with a woman once who dragged me from one opera to another for three months. She sobbed through every single one and played hell if I as much as hummed along. I think operas ought to cut the chat and get on with the songs. Still, I told myself repeatedly, I’d last out until we docked in Amsterdam.

  The answer must lie in antiques.

  * * *

  Now, antiques aren’t classical music. They are like women, the breath of life. Take away antiques and women, the world vanishes. Take away one of the two, existence becomes pretty pointless, because I am obsessed by both. Folk think you need only one. They’re wrong, because with only one, you’re into the mad world of delusion. Give you an instance:

  Spring is a woman I know. She bought a High Street holiday firm, and for three years was a lone operator. The only thing she couldn’t do for a tired traveller was change currencies, but the rest – book you to Thailand, sir, with a stop-over in Malta? – she could do. Fortune smiled, she made a stash of gelt, and one holiday season took on a young bloke to help. She was nearing forty, and Handsome Joe twenty-nine. He’d been a trainee auctioneer.

  When Handsome Joe joined Spring’s travel agency, I was seeing Spring. She was merry as a carnival and full of stories, never stopped talking and wore colours that blinded me. She occasionally got tipsy, but so?

  Well, before long I got the sailor’s elbow – nudge, splash – and I was banned from her second-floor Camden Town flat once Handsome Joe came to live, so to speak, under Spring. Soon after, I began to hear rumours. Handsome had been involved in auctioneering frauds in Norfolk. Nothing spectacular, such as Sotheby’s and Christie’s might be proud of in their time-honoured way, just the old familiar milk-drop.

  This simple fraud, incidentally, will defraud you sooner or later, so I’ll mention it. It’s where an auctioneer accepts bids “off the chandelier” or “off the wall”, as auctioneers say – meaning phoney non-existent bids – then knocks an antique down to some joker who’s really there but who afterwards raises trouble, claiming never to have made a bid at all. The trade calls it the milk-drop. The joker then goes spare in the auctioneer’s office afterwards, tearing his hair and storming out with, “Go on, then, sue me!”, etc, etc. Luckily, there’s a casual customer nearby who overhears this, and who instantly offers to buy the antique at a knock-down price. What a stroke of luck! The firm is only too glad to get rid of the item, unsold items being every auctioneer’s nightmare. Nothing damages their reputations more than having items left on their hands. Sotheby’s will tell you.

  The auctioneer is then secretly paid the difference between the actual price and the estimate, or a third of the antique’s value, whichever is most. The accomplice is usually a woman who oh-so-casually visits the auctioneer’s office. She buys the antique. Her cut is the antique, which she gets for a few groats. Seems fair? Yes, except some poor soul loses out. It’s you, the person who sent the antique in, to be sold for an honest price. You really did hope for a fair honest auction. Handsome Joe worked the scam a dozen times with various women, until finally some jealous Norfolk colleague installed auto-video CCTV and had him arrested, fired, fined, gaoled, and drummed out of the Brownies.

  Whereupon he leeched on Spring, and I was shown the door with the usual, “Don’t think this is goodbye, Lovejoy. We’ll still be friends…” while I said, “Doowerlink, it’s been wonderful…” et dismal cetera. It’s always a laugh, especially when I’d slaved for years – well, three weeks – helping her to amass a collection of advertising and packaging
collectibles. They weren’t really old, but I’d assembled a hundred of the things, which are everywhere and usually pretty cheap. Think tin trays marked Coca-Cola, boxes for Kellogg cereals, old cigarette posters of Players Weights and Robin Starch, those things we all keep meaning to throw out but can’t be bothered. I’d gone to some trouble to find her a 1930s Morris Trucks enamel advert. Spring’s reward was making smiles with me for a weekend because she was over the moon about it; and well she should be, because one of these enamel posters, if mint, will buy your family a month’s holiday in the Maldives. Later Handsome Joe scarpered with her entire collection. I went to see her, from sympathy.

  “Don’t worry, Lovejoy,” she said, smiling with fondness. “I had him for three whole months. He really loved me, so I’ve known true love. How many women can say that? Okay, I lost a few trophies. It was worth everything.”

  She even said the same when she got evicted because Handsome Joe had sold her travel agency and her flat using false documents. Spring went to the bankruptcy court smiling and content. End of story.

  See what I mean? Paradise is women and antiques together. Women fix on one, and forget the other. It’s called delusion. The self-deception women like Spring operate, is a sort of trickery they seem able to manage quite well, thank you very much. I don’t understand how, but when it happens they’re unabashed. Spring blithely told the court, “I won’t press charges, Your Worship, because my Joe is really nice deep down.” This, note, about a gorilla who’d stolen her business, antiques, assets, and the house she lived in. Can you credit it? I gave up on Spring after that, but still like her. I couldn’t say what I’d do if she came knocking, because women are the only gateway to heaven, and that’s also not my fault either.

  * * *

  No sign of any familiar face except for Marie, Veronica’s uniformed stewardess, ascending a staircase near the Crystal Pool on Deck Twelve. I watched a musical group perform under strung lights. The night air was warm, people were friendly, the bars hard at it and the cruise taking off in style. I could see why folk loved the life.

  A few got into conversation but I made little response. I kept imagining I saw people I knew, finally concluding it was just me being worried sick. I couldn’t wait to get back to solid land. I don’t know why I was so scared. I’d been desperate to escape – on this very ship, in fact – and here I was, yet still spooked. If anybody wanted me nicked, they could have done the deed days ago.

  Somebody offered me the ship’s newspaper for tomorrow’s entertainment. I read it through. A morning lecture, “Antiquities in Amsterdam”, caught my eye. A talk was listed, “Things to See in Holland”. Passengers were urged to book early for shore excursions. The headline was, Welcome to Amsterdam! I smiled, the first time since I’d left East Anglia. As soon as the ship stopped, I’d be off like a whippet.

  Spirits rising, I left the wassailing swimmers and dancers to their jollity, and went to Suite 1133 to see Lady Veronica.

  Chapter Six

  Marie opened the cabin door, the sturdy nurse Inga glowering in the background. Lady Veronica was clearly there on the sofa, in spite of which Marie went through the formalities.

  “An assistant wishes to enter, Lady Veronica.”

  Humbly I waited until her ladyship beckoned to any interloping serf. I felt I should be on my knees. Inga left, emanating hatred and slamming the door.

  “Wotcher, m’lady.”

  “Wotcher, Lovejoy. Did I say it correctly?” She smiled and gestured to an armchair. I crossed the plush carpet and sank into more luxury, looking round. The suite was superb.

  The balcony windows were open. Summer night and music wafted in, the curtains stirring gently. We could have been on a garden terrace. Outside, darkness and starlight, with a gibbous moon drifting along, formed a setting for romance. Maybe this astral influence made me notice Lady Vee’s appearance. Every time I saw her she’d lost a few more years. Tonight she looked even younger. Women can do this dramatically: a lighter touch to the hair, more stylish dress, shoes, cosmetics, and suddenly a new woman meets your eye. This one was two decades younger, slimmer, active, certainly not in need of a wheelchair. She wore a long brocaded dress of midnight blue, and an amethyst necklace in gold. A huge zircon ring was her choice this evening. She was no longer the elderly worn-out invalid. Deception was afoot. I was pleased, because deception’s my game. It makes me feel at home.

  She caught me staring and smiled, thinking admiration.

  “What is it?”

  “You silly cow,” I said.

  Her face changed from beauty to savagery. “What did you say?”

  “I suppose you use sun-ray lamps?” I pointed to her zircon ring. “It was once a lovely blue. You’ve ruined it. It’s gone muddy. I bet you leave it on a window-sill. Poor old zircon always gets shambled by daft mares like you, with more money than sense. UV light, direct sunshine, those glamorous tan-your-skin lamps, they all cause even the best zircons to revert to a horrible soiled brown. Yours is on the turn. See how it fails to pick up the light? You’ve killed it dead, silly bitch.”

  She stared at her ring. “Gemstones can’t change, Lovejoy. They are millions of years old.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can treat them like dirt.” This kind of ignorance really narks me. “And your amethyst is on its last legs, poor little sod.”

  “My necklace?” She fingered it.

  “Just because a woman’s gorgeous doesn’t give her the right to ruin an Edwardian necklace a jeweller created a century ago.”

  She said faintly, “But I’m always most careful.”

  “Balls, m’lady. It’s bleached at one side. I’ll bet you have it in an illuminated display cabinet, so the peasants can ogle it when your estate is thrown open to the paying public on summer weekends. Does some ignoramus clean it in a jeweller’s dip-bath, hoping it’ll sparkle more?”

  She coloured slightly. She was the culprit.

  “Honest to God, you women nark me.” I went really bitter, because antique gems can’t answer back for themselves and somebody has to do it for them. “You go mad for jewels, then ruin them. Your grandma wouldn’t have made those mistakes, love. Grandmas knew hell of a sight better. You take care of frocks, shoes, jumpers, then insult your antique jewellery. Your pearls must be worthless.”

  Involuntarily she glanced at a bureau. I guessed her safe was in there. “You are appallingly rude.”

  “I’ll be Beau Brummell if you behave.”

  A knock on the door made Marie revert to ceremonial mode. A uniformed man, his breast tag labelled Executive Purser, entered.

  For the most part, I’m easy going. I mean, of the two genders women are preferable, and blokes come second, so when meeting someone I try to help. If they say hello and smile, I do the same. Does no harm, costs nothing. I don’t understand people who come in like gunfighters into a Western saloon ready to spill blood. This chap was smart and aggressive, looking destined at least for monarchy status. He was boss. Lady Veronica was instant attention, not quite fawning but willing to go further if he insisted. He wore insignia, black letters on gold, like a campaign medal and didn’t shake hands. Take that, oaf. I withdrew my hand. Take that, pompous nerk.

  “You’re the one in trouble,” he announced at me in a precise rasp.

  Which was me done with. I watched them go through their hello-again rituals, and guessed they made secret smiles in the lantern hours. Well, so would I if this new, younger Lady Vee gave me half a chance. Brenda, a woman I know who runs a boutique in Sudbury, swears she can always tell when people are lovers. She also claims to be able to say exactly how long they’ve been at it, just by seeing them buy a packet of Maltesers. I’ve found no way of checking her accuracy.

  “This is Purser Mangot, Lovejoy.”

  “Is she here?” He ignored me, signalling to Marie who leapt to obey. She made him a drink, ice in last, and fetched it at a swift grovel. She’d done it before. She offered me none. He glanced at his watch, gave it a curt
nod that spared its life. Somebody could still make it on time, but the world had better watch out.

  “They’ll all be here, darling, if the show tidies up.”

  His head rose angrily at the conditional. As if on cue another arrival brightened the evening. Marie went through her admission process for a young uniformed lass I vaguely remembered as one of the dancers. She bubbled merrily in, greeted everybody – Mangot with discreet awe – and told me she was Amy the dancer, instantly demanding if I’d seen the show. I said it was the best I’d ever seen. It’s the only way with performers. Less than total adulation sends them suicidal. Mangot sipped, coldly inspected Amy as if he’d have her shot for crooked seams. She seated herself, guardedly thinking seams, but shone at my praise.

  “We’re doing a new routine,” she offered. “Rehearsal time is difficult because – ”

  “Because of disorganisation.” Mangot quelled her. “The Melissa runs smoothly unless people get sloppy.”

  So there. Amy quickly agreed that everything wrong was her fault. Lady Vee smiled to placate us, while Marie let in and announced the comic who’d entertained us in the theatre, the nearly-famed Les Renown. He wore brash plus-fours and yellow tartan jacket and looked ready for a summer season on the pier. He too got a drink, unquestioned. Me, none.

  “Thank you, Marie.” The dismissal worked instantly, Marie silently leaving to the kitchen. “Now,” Lady Veronica began amiably. “We all know why we’re here, except Lovejoy. We should start by telling him how we shall proceed.”

  “Proceed with what?” I cleared my throat in the silence.