I'm not big on words. You may have noticed. They're strange. For instance, we have a useful word to utter falsehood - to lie - but none for speaking the truth. Is it because words can be lethal? Once you've spoken a word, it becomes a terrible deed. Words can mean that murder is on the way. Look at Rache, who moved in with me. I hardly knew who she was at first. Ten times a second Rache told me that she was hooked on holidays. Four days later she suddenly blazed away at me for 'not communicating!' and swept out in rage. I'd thought I was doing her a favour by keeping quiet. See the problem? Words.
And take Stan, the Treble Tile's barman. Well, Stan set his sights on this lovely bird called Angharad. Her husband's an amateur cyclist forever pedalling up and down the Pennines. Handsome Stan really campaigned for Angharad. He did everything a wooer could - gifts, flowers. He even dashed her his priceless antique watch. The whole tavern was agog. We were worn out.
The luscious Angharad took his largesse with disdain.
Quietly observing this sorry pantomime most nights, was Percy. Percy was a mediocre market gardener. The business was actually run by his go-for-gold missus while Percy imbibed. One night at closing time, this conversation, I swear, occurred: Percy: Don't blame Stan, Angharad. You're gorgeous.
Angharad (amused): Not you too, Percy?
He (smiling): I know I've no hope. Only, I'd woo you different.
She (amused by this pot-bellied oaf): How?
He: I'd say: Angharad, I'm desperate for you. Give me thirty minutes in the car park, and you can have any Mediterranean holiday. With anybody you like. One condition.
She (eyeing the daft old git): Oh? What condition?
He: Book the holiday through Cumbersedge and Darff Travel Agent. I own a third, see.
She (laughing): Oh you do, do you?
He (smiling along): Expenses-paid Med holiday, for half an hour with you in the car park.
She (cool): Come on, then. Night, Stan. (Exeunt, the world aghast) I heard every word.
See? Once words are out, the deed is all but done. I'm sure Shakespeare's said it better because he always has, but it's true. Rache had simply planned whisking me on holiday.
And make no mistake, I truly loved her. Reflecting on this, I saw again that old lass tottering under a stack of obsolescent black LP gramophone records. Soon after Rache left, I took up with an older grand dame of ancient lineage, who owned a Chelsea antiques firm. Now, why did I think of that?
Highborn or lowly, women trust words. I don't. Words, dear friends, are scary.
Here endeth today's gospel. Except for that tip about holidays. Bribe a woman, you may get nowhere. Bribe her with a holiday, you're into yippee land. Where was I? Forlorn, in Bermondsey.
Mimi was tacking up fraudulent ethnic falsities outside her dad's van - authenticity nil, ethnicity nil, colour ten out of ten - and being chatted up by passing marauders of impressive dubiety. Sir Ponsonby was milking the lovely Moiya December as an enticing advert for all he was worth, making her ascend his stall, the better to make dealers gape. She lounged, sprawled, innocent of the impression she was creating. It's lucky women don't know the effect they have.
'You sap, Lovejoy.' Alice plopped down beside me. 'That Moiya knows what she's doing, the bitch.'
Palace Alice is a pleasant Northamptonshire lass, brings her own caravan every market day. She has a little lad in Daventry, and does all the London street markets. Her two brothers and her bloke Kayzo are in clink for general naughtiness, namely inflicting harm on a traffic warden while in execution of a robbery. They run fake auctions, but a fake auction is a long time for antique dealers to stay lucky.
'Does she?' I was surprised.
'Why d'you think she shows herself off? Posing, so hundreds can ignore her? Men are stupid.'
I went for it. 'Gemstones, love. Who?'
She eyed me. 'Dosh Callaghan, wasn't it, got gold-bricked? It couldn't happen to an uglier bloke. Ask Gluck.'
'Who's Gluck?'
Alice smiled. 'You ought to drop by more often, Lovejoy. Dieter Gluck's one of the new wave. Has a placer in Chelsea. Deals in Camden Passage, Islington, Portobello Road, Cutler Street by Petticoat Lane.'
'He a gemstone man?'
'He's everything.' She spoke with envy. 'Wish I'd half his clout. Pal of Sir Ponsonby. You know his Chelsea shop, Lovejoy.'
Know as in knew? They've lately discovered a new physics particle. It's one of those quark things, and exists for a billion-trillionth of a second, give or take a yard. For a brief moment I knew how it felt, one flash and goodnight Vienna. To an outside observer, the antiques game might seem pretty static, but from within it's zoom city.
'Is Gluck here?' I looked about.
'Him, in a market? Too grand. Took over that pal of yours in Chelsea. The lads still mutter about it.' That pal of mine? I was worn out.
'Padpas, Alice. I need an answer. Dosh is a sod.'
She stood. 'Thought you'd never ask. Come into my parlour, Lovejoy.'
Her van was just by the church, being watched over by a couple of graveyard winos.
She pays them in scotch. I didn't really want to, because divvying gives me hell of a headache in daytime. It's easier in the lantern hours but I don't know why.
'Look, Alice. I'll come later. What time will you leave?'
'About two, Lovejoy.'
