little bleeder. He rolled clear, scooted through the hedge. Says he saw nothing. Not bad hurt.”
“Did the Old Bill have any luck?”
He snorted. “Them idle sods. Archie’s trike’s a write-off, Lovejoy. Sorry, like. Archie says now he never had any message for you at all.”
“Any chance of finding out what his news was?”
“You think I’m not trying?” He was very aggrieved. “You’re a grumpy swine, Lovejoy.
I’m sweating my balls off while you’re…”
We slang-matched abuse for another costly minute before going over the payment—
part into Sidoli’s numbered account, part into Joan’s with my commission. I told him to pass the word to Jo somehow that I’d be trying to reach her during the early hours.
“She won’t talk with you, Lovejoy,” he was warning me as I rang off. I’d had enough of people explaining why everybody else was even more narked than me. I felt it was time I began to be justifiably narked instead, and decided to work out a scheme.
My scheme was temporarily interrupted by World War III. The Bissolotti convoys arrived that night.
Joan’s Ghost Train wasn’t due to open until the following noon, as was usual with the bigger rides. They drank too much electricity, needed extravagant cabling up. And Joan, being nominally without a feller, so to speak, depended on the main fairground: She paid her percentage to the fairmaster and received help with striking and pitching from Sidoli’s mob, hefty blokes. All except Big Chas, and Ern, his toothy walnut-faced mate, seemed to be Sidoli’s nephews, and dined at Mrs. Sidoli’s tent.
After fixing the antiques shipments with Tinker I went to Joan’s caravan. She had some stew thing frying or whatever it does. She was a good cook. Once, some days previously, I’d asked her what was worrying her. She’d smiled beatifically and said seriously, “Would you hate lentil soup?” which made me realize you can be somebody’s lover for a million years and never really know her.
“Wotcher, love,” I said, coming in. “Sid’s ordered no break tonight. We’re to open at eight in the morning.”
“Big Chas and Ern will be on the Caterpillar in an hour, Lovejoy.”
“Eh? That’s back to front.” We normally got the Little Giant Wheel and the generators centered first after the sideshows.
“Sid’s ordered.” She placed an aromatic dish for me and sat watching as I made to dine. I waited a bit. She was alongside me, elbows on the table, gray eyes and soft skin shining in the candlelight, like the first time I’d…
“Here, love. Are you not having any?”
“Not yet.” She sprinkled pepper on my grub, watching me nosh. This was typical Joan, guessing condiments for you.
“And you’re not in your working clothes,” I observed, mouth full. “You seem…”
“Ready for bed,” she completed. She was smiling but not in a way I liked.
“What’s up, chuck?” I said.
She gave that curt nod at my hands. It was a gesture I recognized and had come to love. It meant: Carry on, my reply will be along in a minute. Obediently I did, but sussing out the caravan. Joan’s home. It was her place. Where the outside wheels had stopped for the night didn’t matter. Inside, the candlelight, the soft furnishings, the old photos of her parents who’d started the Ghost Train, the romance books she read in quiet times… I stilled, waited. This feeling is one I mistrust. In antiques there are enough terrible risks without heartache.
“You’re leaving tonight, Lovejoy, aren’t you?”
How women do it beats me. I’d not said a word. “Maybe, love. I’ve a job on.”
That abrupt nod. “On the door mantel,” she said quietly. “I’ve guessed how much you’re due. Not wanting to ask Francie direct.”
There was an envelope on the shelf over the speer. “Look, Joan, love,” I tried uncomfortably, but she shushed me with her other characteristic gesture, a tiny handshake with a blink.
“Don’t, Lovejoy.” Her eyes climbed from the table to mine. “I’ve no illusions. Life is a lone business, isn’t it. Nobody’s permanent. We’re like places.”
Places? “Will you tell Sidoli?” That’d stop my flight for certain.
“There’s no way of keeping a… partner if he’s going anyway. Even the best affair is only half a film. You get the movie up to the interval.”
I could have clouted her for making me feel bad. Women always blame me. Why should I be the one who ends up with this rotten bloody sense of being ashamed? She put her hand on mine gingerly.
“Don’t feel like that, darling. It’s nobody’s fault.”
I pulled my hand away. “I wasn’t feeling like anything,” I said bluntly. “Silly cow.”
She smiled properly then. Her eyes were wet. “No, Lovejoy. Of course not.” She rose, took my hand, pulled me to the curtained alcove.
“Look, love,” I said weakly. “There won’t be time…”
She slipped a breast into my hand, then slowly raised her arms to shed her gown. “Yes, there is, Lovejoy,” she said quietly. “It’s tomorrow there won’t be time.”
Past one o’clock on a cold frosty morning, fed, loved, and enriched in material ways, I left Joan’s caravan and started work with Big Chas and Em hauling the cables for the generators.
“You’re late, Lovejoy,” Em said, grinning. We worked by paraffin lamps until the electric’s set. “I worried you’d
