The Grace in Older Women (25 page)

'Thanks, Nick,' I said heartily to the swine. 'You pulled in a
winner there, Ashley. I'm sorry I doubted it. You nicked it without a mark.
Brilliant!'

And left them. One day, I thought, one day. I got permission to
leave for an hour, to go to the library.

22

The racecourse at Tey sounds better than it is, a few fields,
fluttering flags, white railings, and those box things nags start from. Big
John was pacing the ground and taking camera photographs. That is to say, he
was sipping whisky from a lead crystal tumbler while villeins of various
intellectual calibres did the work. He was on a chair beside his Rolls.

'Morning, Lovejoy,' he said, interested in racing?'

Any Big John question is fraught. I dithered. 'Well, I can see the
attraction, John.' I'd rather watch fog.

'Fascinating sport,' he said. 'See that young stallion?'

'Eh? Oh, aye.' It looked clumsy, born stupid, chewing grass. Three
blokes and a bird attended it. Post-operative humans in major surgery don't get
that degree of care.

'Forelegs straight and close together, sign of a born stayer. Ever
seen anything so beautiful, Lovejoy?'

‘I was just thinking that, John. Lovely.'

'Do you know,' he said, swivelling to look up, 'the eejit owner
wouldn't sell? Not even for a fair price?'

Nearby goons growled. I growled along, chameleon colouring.

'But he did eventually?' I surmised, shrewd.

'He did that, Lovejoy.' His hoods relaxed with satisfaction. 'Why
is everybody too thick to see the obvious? Every single time there's trouble
I've to send my lads to sort it. Not good enough, Lovejoy.'

‘It certainly isn't, John,' I said fervently.

‘It's a decline in moral standards, Lovejoy.' He heaved a sigh.
'There's a stallion right now at stud. Cost chickenfeed, £5,000. But its rogeny
are raking it in. So where's the money?' He eyed me, delight in his eyes, in
the stud fees, that's where! Hundred grand a stand. Take your mare along, get
her serviced by the stallion. Shags ten mares a week when he's on the go. Can
you imagine?'

I could, and moaned softly to prove it. 'Will this one?'

'Earn that? When he's won his races, Lovejoy. I'm arranging the
details now. I don't care about the odds.' A magnanimous forgiving tone.

That was good of him. Time to strike. 'Oh, John. Glad I bumped
into you.' Like, I normally go strolling across the barren wastes to admire
dank foliage every day. 'Er, you remember my wanting a hold on the Whistlejack
snitch?'

'I do, Lovejoy.' He shouted to one of the photographers, 'Further
over!' He tutted, sipped. 'I don't want the competition put off their stride
until three furlongs out. Not sensible.'

'No, I can see that.' I let him settle. 'Well, Mr. Battishall in
Dragonsdale said you let him have a go.'

'Mmmmh? Mmmmh. He paid up, Lovejoy. You didn't.'

I drew breath. The stallion was walking about, the serfs holding
its string. I drew breath:
But you
promised me, John
.

'That's right, John,' I said. 'Sorry.'

'Not at all, Lovejoy. Anything I can do?' I'd helped him once over
his two sons. His tone was condign, really friendly. I was glad things were
working out for him.

'No, ta, John. Good luck with the horse.'

'Luck's no good. Lovejoy,' he said. 'Odds too long.'

'How true, John.' Well, I'd tried. I said so long to his nerks and
walked to the Morris. Ask a silly question.

Passing the railway station, I bought a newspaper. It announced
that, during the night, a famous painting had been filched from an old priory
down the coast. Believed to be a Stubbs horse portrait once exhibited in the
Tate Gallery. A spokesman announced . . .

Which would have worried me, except with Big John around I
suspected that I would be a superfluous worrier. He'd given the Battishalls
permission. Their look out from now on, right?

The priest was strolling his churchyard among the graves, reading
his breviary. He wore a biretta, a black cassock, almost other-worldly. The
wind had risen, whipped the weeds and trees about. An elderly lady rose from
tending a grave, slowly rocked her way through the lych gate. He moved with
even paces, pausing, turned, walked back. The

church door was ajar. More confident than other churches these
days, or fewer treasures? I sat on a tombstone, legs dangling. Nature reigned
in Fenstone churchyard. A squirrel raced, froze, raced. Birds knocked about.
You could see several cottages. The chimney of one smoked, and it was a cold
fresh-wind day. Whoever wrote The Deserted Village must have been local.

'Morning, Reverend.'

'Lovejoy. Time for a cup of tea?'

Coffee time, but I was gasping. Ta. Not interrupting?'

'Of course not. My Latin's appalling. Comparatives I found simplicity
itself. The conditionals are a dreadful risk.'

'I often think that.'

'Oratio obliqua
caused me
nightmares.' He chuckled softly as we fell in step. 'Prohibitions expressed by
the subjunctive! Subjunctive tenses following the rules for sequence! Ugh!'

'One long hassle,' I agreed. You have to sympathize. Yet who would
care a jot, if he forgot his Latin, chucked his breviary and gambled his church
on Big John's nag? The Almighty, maybe? Fair enough. But Juliana would gallop
off rejoicing into the sunset with him.

We went into the vestry and he brewed up. He saw me look about for
heat. 'Sorry, Lovejoy. We can't afford warmth. Miss Juliana is marvellous, and Mr.
Geake finds funds from somewhere for Sundays so the heaters can go on for mass.
That's it, I'm afraid.'

I smiled to show I was basking in his church's tropical clime. 'I
came to ask your help, Reverend.'

'Anything I can do, Lovejoy?'

Big John had asked that. I didn't want Sheehan to know I associated
with papists. 'Fenstone has a problem.'

'Problem?' He carried the tea over. I perched on the modern -hence
sham - vestry chest. 'Miss Juliana said you can solve any problem there is.'

We chuckled. I subsided first. He was as wary as I was. Maybe priests
have to be like that? My village has had a succession of guitar-playing
roisterers in sandals and ponchos. Maybe God makes episcopalians folksy,
harmonicas part of the gear.

‘Dame Millicent, Jox, Juliana, you and Geake. The famous five,
Reverend. The remaining villagers are batting out time or leaving. Isn't that
Fenstone?'

'Probably, Lovejoy.' He came and sat on the other end of the
chest. 'We have hardly been blessed with good fortune. I suppose Dame Millicent
told you about her guanacos? Then Jox's schemes. They all failed. He had a
wonderful little restaurant near the tavern.'

'I've never seen the pub open.'

'Didn't you hear? The licence has been withdrawn.'

Pubs are licensed to sell alcohol, by magistrates. Anybody can
speak out, for or against.

'Tough luck.'

'They're an old couple, the Creeds. They'll go to their daughter's
at Walton-on-the-Naze, a small hotel there.'

One more? 'It's odd that everything in Fenstone seems to atrophy,
necrose, implode.'

His expression was one of absolute rue. 'Isn't it the way of life
nowadays, Lovejoy? The old order changeth, giving place to new. Young folks
want cities, towns, action.' I'd said all that. He snarled the word, in humour.
I laughed politely, wondering what had suddenly gone wrong since I'd sat down
with the hot mug. Something had. 'We've lost our post office - uneconomical.
Once a village's population fritters, it reaches stalling speed.'

'The same in the old Wild West, I suppose.'

'And Australia's gold mining towns when the gold ran out.'

Except I couldn't see there'd been much gold, or any local
equivalent, in Fenstone. 'I proposed a meeting to Dame Millicent, Reverend.'

'Of who?'

'Those struggling to resuscitate Fenstone.' I explained. 'Look,
Reverend. Once a place dwindles to sod all - sorry, to nil - then the county
council withdraws all services, road maintenance, buses. You're down to one
detour bus twice a week. Then it'll be water supplies, the mobile library.
Soon, it'll be gas, electricity , . .'

'If you insist, Lovejoy. But I really do think it hopeless. We
need young vigorous families, get the school back, interests, a growing
community. Meetings? We've had them all.'

His tea was horrible. 'How did you come, Reverend?'

'What?' He was startled.

Wasn't it mere chitchat? 'Where from, what parish?'

'Oh. The Midlands.' He smiled. 'Busy, every problem you wished
for. Or not!'

That made me chuckle. Oh, such a chuckle. 'How long were you
there?' I helped his silence. 'Do they move you around, parish to parish? I
mean, from the Black Country's thousands to a fading handful.'

'The bishop sends you an "obedience". Sort of posting
order. You may have a discussion, to give you an opportunity to refuse if you
don't want to come.'

I smiled. 'Fenstone might have got some irrascible old coot!'

He too smiled. 'Maybe they have - in disguise!'

'Ta for tea.' I got up. 'What happened to the painting?' It had
gone from the vestry wall. 'It was quite good.'

He wasn't interested. 'Miss Juliana is trying to sell it.'

'Send it across. I might be able to get a bit on it.'

'Thank you. I appreciate your interest, Lovejoy.'

He saw me out, closed the church door. I drove to see Priscilla
Dewhurst and her twindle, start the forgery scam.

Antiques at last - well, fakes. Time I returned to decency.

'Listen, Maurice.' Maurice was in the Arcade looking after
Tramway's stall. The Arcade is merely a narrow covered way between two walls
that look off a bomb site. Dingy alcoves are equipped as 'shops' - a plank,
stool, maybe a lamp. Each dealer rents a space, hoping to con some tourists out
of honest coin for sundry grot. Our antiques trade.

'What?' He takes orders for non-existent animals that, sadly,
always die on mysterious voyages. They are dumped overboard, 'to escape Customs
and Excise', he tells the animal collectors who, of course, lose their
deposits. These non-animal animals are rare species of parrots, tortoises,
things like marmosets. His real love, though, is antiques.

'Money, Maurice, money.'

Antique dealers dropped from the rafters at the word.

'Whose, Lovejoy?' He's been bald ever since his wife flitted with
an Aldgate silver merchant, leaving Maurice three children. I babysat for them
until his sister joined forces. 'Commission?'

'Aye, oh Hairless Shrewd One. Except you pay me the commission,
see? Unless your antiques are cheap. Then I'll buy.'

'An exhibition, Lovejoy?' He started to smile.

'Free to all comers. Pass the word, eh?'

'But who'll select?' He plucked my sleeve. 'You?'

'That's it. How're the kiddies?'

Tine, ta. What's to stop us shelling in forgeries?'

'Nothing.' With my best smile, it's called
Forgery and Fame
.'

'What's it mean?' he called. Other dealers started asking,
scribbling notes, the Stock Exchange on Friday. 'And when?'

'God knows,' I called back. 'And any day now.'

'Put me down for six, Lovejoy.' Big Frank from Suffolk loomed up,
dusking the daylight.

'Nothing illegal Frank, eh?' I've been his best man at some of his
bigamous weddings. He's our silver dealer, knows nothing else, and precious
little about that.

He fell about laughing, almost shredding two alcoves.

'Can I do your advertising, Lovejoy?' from Cyril. Keyveen glowered
in the background. Maybe it was a new sulk.

'Advertising?' I wished I had my sunglasses. He glittered in a
gold lame sheath frock coat adorned with winking Christmas tree lights. Mahleen
would be dead jealous. 'How will you advertise?'

'Oh, simply
stand
there,
darling.' He admired his purple fingernails while everybody laughed. 'Who'd
need more?'

'Don't be stup . . .' I coughed as Keyveen stepped menacingly
close. 'Of course, Cyril!' I said quickly. 'Who else would I ask? That's why I
came. Tonietta said you were this way.'

Actually, I would need adverts. I couldn't just rely on word of
mouth, saying that a forgeries exhibition was at a hotel belonging to our
town's chief magistrate, a loon.

'Me, too.' Addie Allardyce slipped me a note. 'You
promised
, Lovejoy.' Said with meaning. I
pondered, remembered nothing.

'Addie. Tell Tonietta she's got three slots, okay?'

'Me six, Lovejoy.' Harry Bateman from his ailing shop in Bury St
Edmunds, trying to keep up with his errant wife. Antiques plays havoc with
marriage. I've heard.