I SHOULD OWN up about women.
It’s a rough old world despite its odd flashes of sophistication. Women make it acceptable the same way antiques do. They bring pleasure and an element of wonderment, when oftener than not you’d only be thinking of the next struggle. There’s nothing wrong in it all. It’s just the way things are. Morality’s no help. Keep cool, hang on to your common sense and accept whatever’s offered. Take what you can get from any woman that is willing to give it.
And before you even start to argue – no! I won’t listen to all that junk about waiting for spontaneous out-of-the-blue ‘true-love’. Love is made. It is the product of many makings. A man and woman just don’t fall in love at a glance, sighing and longing and whatever. They have to make love, build it up month after month; having sex and becoming loving towards each other. When they’ve made enough love and built it around themselves brick on brick, then they can be said to be in a state of love. Read those old religious characters. They knew all about love as a spiritual event. It didn’t come to them by a casual notion as a sudden idea that sounds not too bad or from a weekly magazine. Love, that mystical magic stuff of a lifetime, came from working at the very idea of it, grieving and straining and suffering the making of it. Then, in possession of it, comes the joy and the ecstasy of knowledge in the substance of love.
Well, sorry about that.
I make it when and where I can. Any honest man will tell you that the main problem is where the next woman’s coming from. Women often decry this truth. Cissie used to. For some reason women find it necessary to deny the obvious. Never noticed how many phrases they have for that very purpose? ‘That’s all you think about.’ ‘Men are like children.’ And so on, all wrong. I can’t understand why women aren’t more understanding.
Sheila was coming close to it. I’d known her a year, meeting her at one of those traction-engine rallies. She was there with her chap, a dedicated man who was so busy oiling things he didn’t even notice when she left with me.
That isn’t to say Sheila should go down as a cheap tart. These terms are as irrelevant as differences of racial colour, engine pattern, weight, any nonessential of human behaviour. Women like men, and men like women. It’s only natural they tend to bump into each other now and again, sometimes accidentally, sometimes not. And if both parties wish to pretend it’s more socially acceptable meeting properly introduced at the vicar’s tea party drinking tea with little finger poised crookedly in the air, big deal. What difference does it make as long as the chance of making love emerges from the great masquerade?
I take love seriously. It’s a serious business and doesn’t deserve to be left to the tender mercies of penny-paper romances and demented Russian novelists griping at one set of commissars after another.
Her family keep a shop in Islington, clothes and that. She has a younger sister at school. She opted out of typing suddenly. ‘I read,’ she explained once, ‘they’d done experiments on a chimpanzee. It had learned to type. I ask you.’ That did it. She hitched up with this traction-engine chap, helping in his garage and generally doing paperwork while he played with plugs and valves.
I collected her at the station.
‘Hello, Lovejoy,’ she said evenly.
‘Hello, Sheila.’ I was standing there like a spare tool, holding these flowers.
‘Pig.’
She stood unmoving in the station foyer. It was the scene from ‘When did you last see your father?’ all over again. I felt like the kid on the cushion.
‘You know, love,’ I said lamely. ‘I was busy.’
There were few people around. This was the last train in or out. She’d have to stay the night with me. Alf the porter used to stand and grin at these scenes years ago. Now all he wants to do is to clear up, lock up and push off before the White Hart shuts. We stood under the solitary lamp.
‘You’re not as thick as you pretend, you know that?’
I nodded. In this sort of mood you have to go along with them. She was wearing one of those fawn swingback coats that seem slightly unfashionable even when they’re in, but never seem less than elegant. I’d never noticed before. Her clothes never quite matched the latest trends. She stood in a pool of light, smooth and blonde. My heart melted.
‘I’m not very nice, love,’ I admitted before I caught myself for a fool.
‘I know.’
‘I rang because . . .’
‘I know why.’
‘It was just that . . .’ I petered out, holding the flowers towards her instead of explanation. She gazed at me, making no move to take them.
‘It’s just that you were taken short again.’
‘Beautifully expressed,’ I tried my clumsy jocularity act, which sometimes worked on the low graders. She evaded my attempt to thrust the bunch into her arms. I’d never seen her in this particular mood before.
‘Lovejoy.’ Her voice was quite dispassionate.
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Stop that. I want to ask you something.’
‘Go on.’ The passengers were all gone. Two cars started up outside and purred away. I could hear Alf clattering buckets encouraging us to leave.
‘If I don’t stay with you tonight,’ she said in that calm voice, ‘what will you do?’
‘Have two suppers, hot bath and bed,’ I lied.
She gave me that new calm look she’d learned during the last two days. I didn’t care for it.
‘Liar.’
I almost staggered. ‘Eh?’
‘I said, liar.’
‘That’s what I thought you said.’ Stalemate.
The platform lights suddenly plunged out behind her. The single overhead bulb gave her an uncanny radiance I’d never seen. Maybe it was just that I was wanting her so badly.
‘You’ll be out picking up some middle-aged tart,’ she said serenely.
‘What, me?’ I never can sound stern, though I tried. It came out weak as a bluster.
‘You, Lovejoy.’ She reached out and took the flowers. ‘And you’ll lay her after three pink gins.’
‘Look, Sheila,’ I said, worried sick by all this.
‘You’ll give her the eye and come the “Hi, baby” act. I know you.’
‘Nothing’s further –’
‘From your mind? Perhaps not, because I’m dope enough to come.’ She sighed and scrutinized my shabby frame. ‘You’ll get any flabby amateur tart from the nearest taproom and make love to her wherever she says, in the car, your cottage, her place if her husband’s but.’
‘What’s it all about?’ I pleaded. ‘What did I do?’
‘You can’t help it, Lovejoy, can you?’ she said.
I gave in, shrugging.
‘Sometimes it’s not easy,’ I said.
She smiled and took my arm.
‘Come on, you poor fool,’ she said. ‘I’m famished.’ She climbed into the car and started to push the fingerpump. As I said, she’d known me for a year. The motor responded. I saw Alf the porter thankfully closing up as we left the darkened station forecourt. We clanked through the silent village, my spirits on the mend.
‘Not to worry, angel,’ I reassured her. ‘I’ve a repast fit for the Queen. One of my specials.’
‘I suppose that means your sawdust pies.’
‘Pork,’ I replied, narked.
‘Custard tart for afters?’
‘Of course.’
‘Beautiful.’
I turned to say something and noticed she was laughing.
‘What’s the joke?’ I snapped.
‘Nothing.’ She was helpless with laughter.
‘Look,’ I said roughly. ‘Don’t you like my grub? Because if so you can bloody well –’
‘N – no, Lovejoy,’ she gasped, still laughing.
‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble,’ I informed her with dignity. ‘I always do.’
‘I know, love,’ she managed to say, and held my arm as I drove. ‘It was just me. Don’t take offence.’
‘All right, then.’
She gave me a peck on the cheek.
‘Friends again?’ she asked.
‘Pals,’ I promised fervently, relieved her odd mood was over.
We held hands all the way home.
Next morning.
I was itching to have my priest-hole open to enter up a few oddments of information I’d gathered on my journey ‘the previous day, but with Sheila there I contented myself with cataloguing my tokens. One or two were quite good. I’d advertise those, priced high. The rest I’d sell through local dealers when the big tourist rush began.
She was watching me, turned on her side on the fold-out bed.
‘You love them,’ she said.
I sighed theatrically. ‘Don’t come that soul stuff.’
‘It’s obvious you do.’
‘It’s also obvious that going all misty-eyed because we had it off is pretty corny.’
She laughed again when she ought to have been put out.
‘Have you had breakfast, Lovejoy?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘What time were you up?’
‘Seven.’
‘Did you notice the bruise?’
‘What bruise?’ I felt guilty.
‘When you belted me in the bathroom the other day.’
‘Oh. About that, love.’ I didn’t look at her. ‘I’ve been meaning to say sorry. It was important, you see.’
‘A phone call?’
‘Well, yes.’ I forced justification into my voice. ‘It turned out to be vital. I admit I was a wee bit on the hasty side –’
‘Come here, Lovejoy,’ she said. I could tell she was smiling.
‘No,’ I said, concentrating.
‘Come here,’ she said again, so I did.
See what I mean about women, never giving up?
Muriel answered the door, still jumpy and drawn but as stylish as before.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again so soon,’ I apologized.
‘Why, Mr Lovejoy.’
‘I just called –’
‘Come in, please.’
‘No, thank you.’ There was no sound of cutlery in the background this time. A gardener was shifting little plants from pots into a flowerbed. ‘I thought they only did that on Easter Monday,’ I said. She looked and I saw her smile for the first time. It was enough to unsettle an honest dealer.
‘Wait. I’ll get my coat.5
She emerged, putting a headscarf on over her coat collar.
‘You’ll remember me for ruining your day if nothing else.’ I shut the door behind her and we strolled to watch the gardener at work.
‘These days I welcome an interruption,’ she said.
‘Mrs Field –’
‘Muriel.’ She put her arm through mine. ‘Come this way and I’ll show you the pond.’ We left the house path and went between a setting of shrubberies.
‘I wish I could return the compliment.’ A woman’s arm linked with yours does wonders for your ego. I felt like the local squire.
‘Compliment?’
‘Nobody calls me anything but Lovejoy.’
She smiled and seemed glad to do it. ‘Me too?’
‘You too. Oh, one thing more.’
She looked at me, worried. ‘Yes?’
‘Cheer up, love. Nothing’s the end of the world.’
‘I suppose not.’ She was about to say more, but we came upon another elderly gardener tying those mysterious strings around plant stems. I must have looked exasperated because she asked me what was wrong.
‘Beats me why they do it,’ I said in an undertone.
‘Do you mean the gardener?’ she whispered back.
‘Yes,’ I muttered. ‘Why can’t they leave the blinking plants alone?’ I was glad I’d said it because it gave her a laugh.
The pond was a small lake, complete with steps and a boat. A heron, grey and contemplative, stood in the distance. I shivered.
‘Cold?’she asked.
‘No. Those things.’ I nodded to where the heron waited. ‘It’s fishing, isn’t it?’
‘Why, yes.’ She seemed surprised.
‘Can’t you give it some bread instead?’ I suggested, which made her laugh again and pull me round to see my face.
‘Aren’t you . . . soft!’ she exclaimed.
‘I’d like the countryside, but it’s so bloody . . . vicious.’
‘Don’t you like my garden, Lovejoy?’
I stared around accusingly. ‘It’s a county, not a garden.’ I flapped my hand but the heron wouldn’t go. ‘Does it all belong to the house?’
‘Of course. Eighty acres.’
‘It’s lovely,’ I agreed. ‘But everything in it’s hunting everything else. Either that or trying to escape.’
She shivered this time and raised her headscarf. ‘You mustn’t talk like that.’
‘It’s true.’
I watched her hands tidy her hair beneath the scarfs edge. They have a natural grace to set off their own gestures, doing hair, pulling on stockings or smoking a cigarette. She saw me gaping at her. I looked back at the water.
‘Lovejoy, what do you really do?’
‘Oh, very little. I’m an antiques dealer, really.’ I paused to let her load. Where the hell was all this kindness coming from? I wondered irritably. She said nothing. ‘I’m your actual scavenger. Nobody’s sacred. I even winkled out your priestly collector friend, and he lives miles away.’
‘Reverend Lagrange?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s been a good friend. He and Eric met years ago. I don’t think he collects the same things Eric did.’
Nobody else does, either, I thought enviously. We moved along a flowered walk with those trellises against a wall.
‘I wasn’t telling the truth the other day.’ Own up, Lovejoy. Never be only half stupid. Go broke. ‘You probably guessed.’
‘Yes.’
I eyed her carefully. ‘Aren’t you mad at me?’
‘No.’ She pulled a leaf from some thorny plant that hadn’t done her any harm. ‘You’re not the first to have tried the same . . . thing.’
‘Trick,’ I said. ‘Be honest. We call it the box gambit in the trade.’
‘Box gambit?’
‘I wish I hadn’t started this,’ I said.
She put the leaf idly between her teeth and saw me wince.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You wouldn’t like it if you were that leaf.’ She looked at it, and dropped it on the path. ‘It’s not dead.’
‘But how on earth do you eat, Lovejoy?’ she asked me.
‘Like us all, but that’s an essential.’
‘What’s the box gambit?’
I told her, feeling rotten. Box as in coffin. Anybody dying leaves a house and antiques, if he’s wealthy enough to get his name reported in the papers. Those who are missed by our ever-vigilant press are listed in the deceased column by sorrowing relatives anxious to do the local antiques dealers a favour. We read up the facts of the case. Within seconds, usually, and before the poor deceased is cold in his grave, we kindly dealers are round visiting the bereaved, claiming whatever we think we can get away with. And you’d be surprised how much that is.
‘And do . . . widows fall for it?’ She stopped, fascinated.
‘More often than not’
‘Do you really mean that?’
‘Of course,’ I snapped harshly. ‘Over ninety per cent of the time you come away with a snip, nothing less than useful information.’
She seemed intrigued by the idea, part-horrified and partly drawn to it.
‘But that’s like . . . being . . .’ she hesitated and looked back. The heron was still there. I said it for her.
‘Predators.’
‘Well . . .’
‘You mean yes,’ I said. ‘Which is what we are.’
‘But why do the wives give you –’
‘Sell. Not give. Never leave a box gambit unpaid.’ I quoted the trade’s unwritten rule. ‘It’s what makes it legal.’
‘And what if you’re caught?’
She drew me to a bench-seat and we sat. From there we faced the house beyond the water, trailing trees and sweeping grass studded with bushes. It was as charming as any scene on earth and made me draw breath.
‘You think it’s lovely,’ she said.
‘Wonderful. They had a sense of elegance we’ve lost,’ I said. ‘It all comes down to judgement. They had it. Whatever shape or design or pattern was exactly right, they recognized it. You have to love it, don’t you?’
‘I know what you mean, Lovejoy.’ Her tone was cold. ‘I used to feel the same until Eric died.’
‘Will you stay here?’
‘No, not now.’
‘Where will you go, Muriel?’
‘Oh.’ She shrugged.
The heron stabbed, was erect and still before the drops fell from his beak.
‘What if you are caught in the box gambit?’ She shook my arm until I relaxed.
‘You lie,’ I said. The ripples were extending towards us. ‘Lie like a trooper. You say that you, in all innocence, called at her house. The widow asks you in to see some heirloom because you’d asked particularly about antiques. You say she bargained like an old hand, and anyway you’d given her money for the object, hadn’t you? She won’t deny it.’
‘How do you know?’
I gazed into her eyes. ‘They never do.’
‘Have you done it, Lovejoy?’ she asked as the first ripple lapped on the bank below us. I nodded.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said candidly.
‘You must.’
‘Why must I?’
‘Because . . . because, that’s all.’
‘Why, Lovejoy?’
‘Look, Muriel.’ I rose and tipped earth with my shoe into the water, staring down. It seemed pretty deep. You could see a few pebbles, then a dark brown murkiness. ‘I don’t know much about you, your family, who there is to give you a hand now . . . after your husband. But that mansion over there. These grounds. It’s enough to bring every dealer and scrounger running from miles around.’
‘Are you trying to warn me?’
‘Just listen.’ I tried to stop myself, but like a fool I talked on. ‘We dealers are pretty slick. Some are all right, but some are not. We’re good and bad, mixed. There are grafters, crooks, conners, lifters, zangers, edgers, pullers, professional dummyers, clippers – every variety of bloke on the make. Some pretty boys, smart, handsome, looking wealthy. Cleverer than any artists, better than any actor. They’ll pick your house clean any way they can and brag about it in the pub afterwards.’
‘Are you warning me, Lovejoy?’ Woman-like, she stuck to her question.
I felt like shaking her. ‘Never mind what I’m doing,’ I cried, exasperated. ‘Just be careful, that’s all. Be suspicious and sharp, and don’t let in everybody who comes knocking.’
‘I let you in, Lovejoy,’ she reminded, smiling.
I pulled her on to the seat. ‘Can’t you see the obvious?’
‘What do you mean?’
I drew breath and tried to glare into her innocent eyes. ‘You’re too damned trusting, Muriel. You should never have let me in the other day. It’s too risky. Look,’ I said, maddened by her smile. ‘Look. In that house, that great mansion you live in, your husband Eric lost his life.’
‘I don’t need reminding.’
‘You do.’ I was almost shouting, not knowing why I was so worked up. ‘Has it not dawned on you?’
‘What?’
‘Who killed him?’
She paled instantly. I could see the skin over her cheeks tauten. ‘Why . . . why are you asking me?’ she said.
‘Because somebody must have,’ I said. ‘Do the police know who? No. Does anyone else know? No. And not only that. Does anyone know why he was killed? Do you? No. The police? No.’
‘They . . . they said it must have been an attempted robbery,’ she said faintly.
‘So they think,’ I said. ‘But is that reasonable? What was stolen?’
‘Why, nothing,’ she faltered.
‘Not even one or two of your husband’s antiques?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’
‘Did the police think so?’
‘Practically everything was there, according to Eric’s lists. They weren’t complete, of course. He never did keep very tidy records.’
‘Think,’ I urged. ‘Was nothing at all missing?’
‘The only thing is that my brother-in-law said a pair of pistols were gone. The ones you asked about. The police did go over the inventory when all Eric’s antiques went to Seddon’s afterwards, though. George had rather an argument with them about it, I recall. He seemed to blame them for not being concerned enough.’
‘That doesn’t alter the fact,’ I put in, ‘that you’re in this house, rich and with plenty of valuable stuff about, I guess.’
She nodded. ‘There’s the –’
God help me if she wasn’t going to give me a run-down of her valuables. I clamped my hands over my ears.
‘Don’t,’ I begged. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re doing what I told you not to. Keep quiet about your things. Chain everything down. Change the locks. Treble the burglar alarms. Quadruple the dogs.’
‘I’ll be all right, Lovejoy,’ she said, smiling. She pulled down my hands and kissed me. ‘I think you’re sweet.’
‘How can I be sweet when I’m a hard nut?’ I said angrily, pulling away. ‘You don’t realize how versatile dealers, collectors can be. We’ll do anything – anything – to get what we want. It may only be a couple of old matchboxes, but if we collect matchboxes we’ll do anything to get them.’
Her face was back in its previous solemn, worried expression.
‘But that can’t be true.’
‘It is true.’
‘It can’t be,’ she said doggedly.
‘It is.’
‘But, Lovejoy,’ she said, almost pleading, ‘that’s so unreasonable.’
‘Of course it’s unreasonable. All collecting’s unreasonable. But it’s real.’ I shrugged and beckoned her to her feet. We strolled on. ‘You’re not really taking notice of me, are you?’
I could see I had upset her.
‘You aren’t telling me all collectors are like that, are you?’ she said, hesitating beside a white-flowered bush set between large rocks.
‘I am.’
‘All?’
‘All,’ I said firmly. ‘That’s what makes a collector special. Unique. Your husband must have been like that too.’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘but he was . . .’
‘Eccentric?’
The sardonic note struck. She swung on me. ‘How did you know I used to –’ she blazed, looking momentarily more frightened than angry. I kissed her lightly.
‘All wives call their husbands that, Muriel, love,’ I said, smiling.
‘Oh.’
‘Beware collectors,’ I warned again.
She glanced obliquely at me as we walked. ‘And what about you, Lovejoy?’
I gave her my frankest avaricious leer. ‘I’m the worst dealer there ever was, as far as you’re concerned,’ I said hoarsely.
‘I doubt that.’
‘The greediest, the cleverest, and the randiest,’ I admitted, thinking, what am I doing? ‘So don’t trust me, especially me.’
‘I don’t believe that, either,’ she said. ‘But I’ll do as you say.’
‘Right,’ I said with finality, disengaging my arm. ‘That’s it, then. Madam, before I rape you under this elm tree, show me the door.’
‘I like you, Lovejoy,’ she said.
‘Don’t push your luck, Muriel.’ I watched the heron stab and crook in a swallow again. ‘You’ve only been safe so far.’
She tried to laugh again but something had gone from the day. We waited for the next ripple to reach the steps then set off back towards the house as the boat slowly began to tug at its mooring.
Seddon’s, I was thinking. They sent his antiques to Seddon’s for auction.