was older. Also, I'd never even heard of a female divvy, so how could I make Tina Maria into one?
'Stop it, Lovejoy.' Still narked, I glared while she sold some customer a flashing plastic sword and three flashing plastic bouncy balls. Then she said evenly, 'You're behaving like an outraged parent. Your lad's got more sense than you, twice your brains, ten times your savvy. Tina Maria lives near Saffron Fields anyway. She'll keep in line.'
Meaning tradition would control Tina Maria's potential lust? Tina Maria is neat, always brilliantly turned out, and has an antiques place called Tina Maria Interiors. She lives alone in a house – it's got a well in the living room; no, honest, it really has – and trades pre-Victorian gunge. She hungers to become an actress, which is like sinking on a rotting plank and hoping to swim to a different plank several shark-infested miles off.
Thespians are a dodgy lot. I've heard that.
'Well, if there's nobody else.'
'How many do you need? I heard another four.'
'How'd you hear, Vi?' I was as secret as the UN.
'Some Yank in corduroys, been asking the market who's a divvy. Wants a naff painting of some crone.'
Mrs Eggers's bloke from among the leeks? I decided I needed some gelt to escape from this tangle.
'Ta, Vi. Look, could you lend me ...?'
She wouldn't half me a groat, stingy cow. Affluence comes in the door and charity flies out of the window.
Funny, but I felt odd, because something thrilling bulged a sheet on her stall. My chest bonged. A genuine antique within reach? Shoppers thronged. I could see nothing except that little mound. 'What've you got, luv?'
'Silver things, Lovejoy. Take a look.'
She uncovered a dozen items of genuine hallmarked silver. Knives, forks, serving and table spoons, fish servers. I drew breath.
'Sorry they're tarnished, Lovejoy,' she said apologetically. 'I've got a tin of scouring polish. Not had time.'
'Chuck it, Vi.' I frowned. They looked good, meaning silver that's supposed to be silver happens to be real silver, if you follow. 'How much?'
'For the lot?' Vi stopped bagging her crud and peered. 'You okay?'
I'd gone sick and had to lean against her stall, beads of sweat on my brow. She perched me on her barrow, propping me upright until I nodded that I felt fine.
'It's my cutlery, isn't it?' She gaped at the silver. 'I got them for a spade and three Cotton Easters.'
And I hadn't the wit to pretend they were worthless. All except one was standard 1930s stuff you can get anywhere. Tarnished but not deformed, they must have lain in a drawer, been sold as a job lot on some old biddy's passing. I winced as her fingers touched the one that mattered. She pounced.
'This?' she marvelled, holding it up. 'A frigging deformed teaspoon?'
'Be careful, you clumsy cow.' She dropped it into my palm, coming to ogle.
It's always other folk get lucky. Look for a short bulbous-bowled spoon with a straight rat's tail handle. (They fake them in Egypt and Turkey, so be careful.) Dealers call it a diamond-point, because its hexagonal handle ends in a faceted tip. They also say its bowl is fig-shaped, which it's not – though you can always kid yourself in antiques. The main thing is the 'Arctic' leopard's head mark, in the bowl near the handle's insertion.
I'd only ever seen one, and only heard of three.
'Is it rare, Lovejoy?'
'Edward IV, love, made about twenty years before Columbus sailed.'
She clapped her hands. 'How much?'
'It'll buy you a new car plus a round-the-world cruise. And,' I added, returning it like sacrificing a finger, 'leave some change to reward a helpful friend.'
'Great!' she cried. 'See you, Lovejoy. Good luck with the clowns!'
Help a friend, lose a friend, my old gran used to say. Tired, I drifted through the market, blaming Mortimer for getting me into this mess. Nothing for it, but to resume my job at the Pot Race Garden Nurseries, where I laboured on days that go horribly wrong. They'd be glad to see me.
You walk from town along the river until it goes under a bridge. There it forms a pool where a meadow slopes up to old people's bungalows. The Pot Race Garden Nurseries occupy a few acres, selling things to gladden gardeners. It's run by Merry and Tramway Adenath, who live in a troubled marital state. On quiet evenings you can hear their rage as far as Southwold. Their fighting script's unchanged these twenty years.
They divorced three (some say four) times, but remarried repeatedly from a deep longing to resume conflict. The reason is Merry wants herbaceous efficiency while Tramway wants uninhibited growth. Which means Merry wants the Eastern Hundreds sprayed with lethal non-degradables. Tramway wants chemicals banned. Merry stocks her shelves with sprays, toxins, and molecules of fearsome potency, all of them synthesized by evil alchemists and guaranteed to necrose Planet Earth for eternity.
Tramway undoes this good work by propagating weeds. He develops sturdy dandelions and nettles resistant to every known herbicide, and grows them exactly where their pollen wafts onto Merry's potent sublimates. Marriage is total war.
Actually I'm on Tramway's side. You have to admit this couple is a good argument for bringing back duelling, though Planet Earth would lose out whoever won the shoot-out.
I entered through the car park and reported for duty.
'Lovejoy!' Tramway was pricking out some desperately sick weeds into meagre soil.
'Good to see you. Sorry those dealers are going to hang you.'
'Wotcher, Tramway. I'll escape when I've a bob or two.' Hint, hint.
