The Grace in Older Women (22 page)

Well, me and Mary went on for aeons, she finding toys, and me
miserably telling her no, it's a repro Lancaster bomber toy; they are
advertized in mail order. We'd have a laugh, and off I'd go, belly a-slosh with
tea. Until the day she was diagnosed as dying.

She'd felt off colour, and was told the very, very worst. She was
in a state when I called. I stayed a couple of nights, ran her shop while she
told her family. Tears all round, until double happiness! Because, that third
afternoon, I was handed a genuine Ernst Plank toy locomotive engine, boxed,
trademarked, 3-inch gauge, beautiful tinplate, tender and carnage complete. In
a joke, I offered the bloke a quid. He took it, leaving me gaping. Mary's
brother rang just then. Mary was staying over a few days, so I left the train
set with a prominent note full of excited congrats about finally making the
find of the century, pointing out the functional spirit-heated boiler, pistons
and all.

Then, tragedy. Because Mary came home, still stunned from her
calamitous news - and
without reading my
letter
absently sold the train set to a collector for five quid. Which is
like giving away a Richard Wilson oil colour for a loaf. The following day her
doctor, puzzled, had the sense to check on the hospital laboratory's findings.
And Mary was fit as a flea, didn't have the dreaded death sentence after all
!!*!$!! Whereupon, Mary danced home, and delightedly welcomed me the following
week with the good news. Life! Rejoicing!

Eventually I asked about the Ernst Plank train set. Genuine
Nuremberg, maybe as early as 1884, eh? Fortune! Whereupon the following:-

Mary: What train set?

Me: (smile fading) The one I left you on your counter.

Mary, (aghast) Lovejoy.
What
train set?

Me: (shrill, with panic) The frigging genuine Plank boxed set I
frigging left with that letter, you stupid old bat.

Mary: (screaming)
What
letter?

You know what? Nobody's ever seen Mary smile since. She's the most
bitter, morose bird you'd meet in a twelvemonth. I avoid her now. Her reprieve
from death is forgotten. The agony of being, for a trice, at death's dark door
has been eclipsed by her terrible grievance, as if she'd been cheated. See what
happens in antiques? Each dealer knows his own personal El Dorado. Even being
saved from death can't equal it.

Mary's now a wino bagging round the sailing club dustbins down the
estuaries. The threat of death couldn't ruin her. But losing out in the
antiques trade finished her.

If I had the sense I was born with, I would have remembered Mary's
tale with its hint of death, and been a lot safer. But I haven't so I didn't
and I wasn't.

'Lovelock!'

'Lovejoy. How do, Jim.'

'He was in my regiment,' old Jim Andrews said chattily to Wilmore.
He looked about three hundred years old, and stank of rum. His eyes darted
furtively under his fungating brows. 'Subaltern, tanks, western campaign.'

'Er, no. Wrong generation.' I caught the old soak, who tottered.
'Look, how about you have a lie down?'

'Nurse banned me in the bar, Lovelock. Two s my ration.'

'Right, Jim. Give me some help, Wilmore.'

'Sure.’ We helped the reeling Mr. Andrews to an armchair.

'In the drawing room,' the old man quavered unexpectedly.

'Talking about their Restoration society. Can you credit it? Off
their silly bloody noddles. Mark my words.'

('Er, right. See you, Jim.' We knocked gently on the double doors,
Nick hating me but smiling benignly whenever Wilmore caught his eye.

Ashley was pontificating. '. . . a brilliant politico-religious
movement. It mirrors the needs of the times. Think! If only those wondrous days
would come again!' His eyes shone with strange fervour. 'Everything for Europe,
and the world!'

The tourist group applauded, exclaiming approval. Some waved
welcome at me and Wilmore. They'd noshed a light supper and been slugging back
the wine. Roberta sat in her semi-reclining Manet posture but without a nubian
slave. She looked beautiful. The portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie, looking
even tawdrier, was unveiled. Something had leant against its surface and
dimpled the canvas. Why didn't they straighten it out, for God's sake? Takes a
minute. Sloppiness with even fake antiques galls me.

'My wife Roberta will speak on Romance and the Prince!'

'Thank you, Ashley.' Roberta sipped wine for strength. The full
glass sank to a mere drop. Some sip.

'We founded Carolean Restoration Now, CAREN, because we feel so
passionately about the story's romance,' Roberta said wistfully. 'Sweet Flora
Macdonald, the prince's love all his life . . .'

As she spoke this pack of falsehood, I took out my grubby
handkerchief and dipped it into a glass of water and crossed to the portrait.
Gingerly I lifted it down and propped it against Mahleen's knee. If you lean
canvases together the corner of one can indent the canvas of the other. It
causes an ugly dimple that stays, distorts the picture's surface. I touched the
dimple with the wetted handkerchief, and pressed it round in concentric circles,
wetting the canvas.

‘. . . So month after month, Prince Charlie was led to safety by
the loyal Flora. Imagine the scores of times when, sleeping in the cold
mountainous highlands, the faithful Flora, roused the Pretender, and led him .
. . over the sea to Skye.'

'How lovely!' Hilda said, tears filling her eyes.

'So wonderfully
real!
’
said Nadette.

'In later years,' Roberta said, wistful to the rowlocks, 'after
starvation, the faithful Flora sailed overseas to mend her broken heart. After
enjoying the splendid democracy of the USA, poor darling, she returned to spend
her last years sighing alone for her lost love, handsome Bonnie Prince
Charlie!'

Applause. More wine, to celebrate this rubbish, and the visitors
started praising Roberta for the wonderful work she was doing, keeping alive
the most wonderful love story. I didn't clap, because a con trick always earns
my respect. And Roberta, shrinking violet that she was, carried it off. My
friends were captivated. Vernon, Jerry, Wilmore even.

They talked of the lovely Flora Macdonald, wondering if she'd been
near their home towns or not. I said nothing. I hung the painting. Then I saw
what had been making me feel off colour. The former veil curtaining had been
replaced by a piece of silk, fawn in colour, floral patterned - purplish lilac,
white pink-spotted lilies, carnations, a creamy chrysanthemum.

'Lovejoy is critical,' Roberta said, watching. 'I shall replace
that old faded silk with new brocade!'

'Shut your frigging mouth, silly cow.'

We all looked about. I too looked in astonishment, wondering who'd
been so rude. Then I realized. Me.

'Oh,' I said in lame apology, but I'd meant every word.

Roberta cried, 'Ashley! Lovejoy is abusive again!'

He advanced, but I was past caring. I stood glowering. She had the
grace to cringe, Pearl White before the bully.

'Listen, you simpering bag of spanners,' I said. My throat felt
cold, my cheeks tingling. 'That piece of silk - see it? You probably got it
from your attic, found under the floorboards as insulation. But it's worth a
hundred times you, and your precious toadying Ashley.'

'Lovejoy!' Hilda exclaimed. The others were deploring my conduct
or standing appalled as I ranted. Except I was speaking almost in a whisper.

'That piece of silk was woven in Spitalfields in 1744. Know how,
Roberta? No, you don't. Let me enlighten you, you idle overfed cow.' In fury I
dragged her across to stand before the painting. I pulled the silk close.

The people were Huguenots. They'd come to escape massacre after
the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. They lived in Spitalfields, London.
Starving, struggling to survive. This silk was wound onto quills by
malnourished three-year-old children. Whole families living and working in one
room. The looms never stopped, hand-thrown silk growing an inch an hour.
Poverty that overstuffed gannets never knew.'

I glared at Roberta. She was weeping. It was the end of the world,
somebody not worshipping the ground she simpered on. I glared at the rest. They
were staring, silent now.

The women and children were winders and throwsters. If their looms
were slashed by bastards who ran a protection racket then the women went to
stand in Spitalfields Market, to work for strangers at three shillings a week,
not enough to keep alive.

'Inform on the loom-breakers and there was retribution. Oh aye,
the slashers got hanged all right, like those outside the Salmon and Ball pub
in Bethnal Green. But those who asked the law for help got stoned, like poor
Daniel Clarke in 1771. The mob chased him down the alleyways - and stoned him
to death, for weaving silk.'

'In England?' somebody said, I think Hilda. 'London?'

There's no telling some people. 'Slump hit, caused wholesale deaths,
starvation. Spitalfields - a stone's throw from the Bank of England - was a
nightmare of gunshots, riots, tumult, murders, barricades in every street,
explosions. Into that horror there came from a quiet Lincolnshire parsonage a
lass called Anna Maria Garthwaite. Alone, she travelled into this pandemonium,
lodged in Spitalfields.’

Silence. Even Roberta listened, no limelight for a change.

'What happened to her?' Mahleen asked.

'She wove this.' I let Roberta go, suddenly I was sick to death of
the woman. I didn't want to be here. I wanted my cottage, to stay there with
the curtains drawn, have a bath and feel clean. Somebody had finished Tryer,
and it hadn't been his fault. I wasn't sure that it wasn't mine, but I was too
tired.

This? She made this silk?'

'Went freelance. For a pittance. For you, Roberta. To veil that
poxy phoney portrait of a drunken bum that you romance about. But don't knock
it, or Anna Maria Garthwaite. She's worth a dozen of you, love.'

'Lovejoy.' Jerry, Nadette's husband, decided to speak up for
chivalry. 'We came to this gracious lady's home, as your friend, to hear her
wonderful tale of the marvellous links between our two great countries -'

'Jerry. Don't say it.' I was worn out.

'I have to, Lovejoy.' He was adamant. 'Our country plucked that
poor heroine Flora from the perfidy of - '

'It's a con, Jerry.' In for a penny. 'Can't you see?' I stood
ready in case they called Nick's men in to cudgel me to oblivion.

'Con?' Mahleen and Wilmore said together. They knew con.

'Flora Macdonald was only with Charlie eleven days. When he'd
gone, to drink himself stupid the rest of his life, she was feted in Edinburgh
and London. King George himself extolled her. She returned home laden with
gifts, married a Macdonald, settled down in fair prosperity. She went with her
family to the New World - and fought
against
your new republic.'

'Against?' somebody croaked.

'Her spelling was atrocious, even in North Carolina. But everybody
liked her. Seven children, they did well for themselves. Until the War of
Independence. Her husband's Royal Highland Emigrants fought disastrously at
Moore's Creek Bridge. For two years, Flora was separated. She had a grim time
under the American Patriots. No fetes or presents this time. Possessions gone,
family scattered or imprisoned. Your Americans' Loyalist committee abused her
shamefully. It was
then
that Flora
was brave. She escaped to Nova Scotia, and came home, reunited with her husband
on the Isle of Skye.'

More silence. Vernon and Wilmore exchanged glances. I offered
lamely, 'Richard Wilson painted her portrait . . .'

Ashley was apoplectic, Roberta was near to a swoon. I stood
embarrassed, as the party broke up. I went with them to the door. Gwena was
driving the charabanc this time. I avoided her.

'No, no,' I said smiling a bit shamefacedly to everyone who asked
if I was coming with them to the George for a nightcap. 'No, thanks. Actually,
I'm staying a few days.'

'Thanks.' Wilmore shook my hand. 'See you, Lovejoy.'

'Maybe I'll call round tomorrow,' I said, not meaning it.

Then a strange thing happened. Mahleen stepped close, gave me a
buss. As she did so - we were on the steps, Ashley being gravely formal to the
ladies - she whispered, 'See me triple urgent, Lovejoy. Antiques! Money!'

And was gone. I thought I'd imagined it. I waved them off to spin
their departure out. Nothing for it. I went inside, and took my medicine. It
was different from what I expected.

Ashley was with Roberta. She was being supported by her angry
husband. If looks could kill.

'. . . suppose I shall have to, Ashley.’

'Must you, dearest? It always leaves you exhausted.’

'I know, dear.’ She was in tears of self-pity. 'But the Cause. I
have the most awful premonitions.’ She broke down.

Ashley told me to ring for a maid. I didn't know how. He lowered
Roberta into a chair and rushed to pull a naff quid-a-yard braided cord beside
the naff modern repro hall mirror. A maid appeared, pushing her hair into her
maid's lace cap. She'd thought she was off duty.