my forehead clammy. Nausea enveloped me. I came to moments later. A woman was dabbing my forehead with a damp tissue while her infant appraised me with scorn.
'Stay still, Lovejoy,' she kept saying. 'I get it too, all down my side.'
'He's scared of the birds,' the infant jeered.
'Shut up.' I tried to say it like Mrs Eggers, but it came out a bleat.
'Told you!' said the titch triumphantly. 'Cos they eat chicks.'
Paul came over with an owl. 'Sorry, Lovejoy. Didn't notice you, or I'd not have mentioned it.'
'They eat the eyes first,' the little psychopath remarked, swinging her foot. 'Paul shows us, don't you, Paul?'
'Miriam!' her mother scolded. 'Quiet, miss, or it's early bed. D'you hear?'
'Jenny told me about your trouble, Lovejoy,' Paul said. 'They're gunning for you. When did you eat last?'
'Just on my way to Woody's nosh bar,' I lied, making to rise but the infant carnivore's mother restrained me. Other shoppers stopped to watch, contentedly reminiscing about other dramatic faints they had known.
Paul brought out a note. 'Order me some chips, okay? I'll follow on.'
'Right,' I said, letting him stuff the money in my pocket. I don't know about other folk, but shame figures largely in my life. Here was me, a grown man, cadging grub money off a bloke who was giving his all to collect money for the Hospice for the Dying. I'm pathetic.
'Stay still a minute more,' the woman advised.
Another of life's mysteries: a woman can give you a bit of advice and make it sound like Newton's Laws. If I merely suggest something nobody listens, not even children and animals. I looked up.
'Do I know you, missus?'
'I'm a friend of Eleanor's. We used to live next door to her in your lane.'
Oops. Eleanor is little Henry's mum. I babysit for him some afternoons. Uneasily I wondered if she knew that me and Eleanor used to make smiles. I remembered her now.
'Satina? Sorry, love. I got giddy.' Her husband Luke is a customs officer of singularly sour disposition, while Satina was always happy as a lark.
'This is my little Miriam, she of the sunny attitude.'
Genetics work, then, I thought, assessing Miriam's candid gaze. Got it from her neurotic father, no doubt. Luke sees smugglers under every bed.
Satina hefted the pushchair round. 'Don't say I told you, Lovejoy, but Luke starts a special antiques investigation soon.'
Which explained why the town's antique dealers were gorilla about Mortimer.
'Lovejoy's scared about the chicks, Mummy.'
'No, darling. Lovejoy's just got a headache.' I watched her go. Smart, attractive.
Customs officers get all the luck. Warily I rose, testing my balance while Paul's hunting birds eyed me hopefully. I set off, trying to seem casual yet strong.
Ten minutes later I was wolfing fish, chips, mushy peas, and a ton of bread in Woody's nosh bar when Paul plonked himself down opposite and called for some chips. Woody does wonders with grease, fries everything in it except beans. His belly always shows through his unbuttoned shirt, black hair fungating up from below. Thick blue smoke hung in the air. His fag ash flaked down onto his rotting cakes. Why does TV never show places like Woody's, staple East Anglian nosh bar that keeps society going? TV
cooks only tell you how to baste lampreys.
'Wotcher, Paul. Who's looking after your eagles?'
'My helper. Millicent.' He was lavish with the vinegar and brown sauce. 'She's especially good with harriers. They hunt in flocks, unlike the rest of—'
'Your wife Jenny,' I interrupted quickly. He had the grace to look sheepish. 'She and her pals threatened to hang me at Vice's wharf.'
'It's that lad of yours, Lovejoy. Mortimer's too honest for his own good.'
'Don't you start.' I wondered why I'd come to find Paul in the first place, then my mind cleared. 'Here, Paul. You train your birds up Saffron Fields, right?'
'You want to see them fly, Lovejoy?'
'No, ta. You'll have seen the lodgers, posh Yanks?'
'Mmmh. The woman's a bit hairy. She's into the supernatural. Her husband Taylor Eggers is quite pleasant. He's into antiques, drops in the pub.'
But something felt awry about the Eggers. Or maybe I was just hoping to rile the bonny Susanne, seeing she talked Mortimer down.
'She one of these spirit mediums?'
'Definitely odd. Wouldn't like to cross her.'
'She doesn't mind your birds, then?'
Paul grimaced. 'She charges me a daily rate. Mortimer lets me fly them free, keep the rabbits down on the Short Tom pasture.'
