Paid and Loving Eyes

how he is. Anything different.”

“I saw him at the Nouvello.”

“Mmmh.” The non-word spoke volumes of mistrust, almost fear. He tossed me a bunch of keys. “He doesn’t know I’ve gone, Lovejoy. Give him those.”

His anguish was all the worse for being quietly veiled. I mean, I don’t understand how two blokes and all that. But love’s a pretty rare plant. In this life there’s nowt else—except antiques and they’re the same thing anyway. I don’t know what I’m trying to say, except I was upset. You can’t really believe the Sandys and Mels of this world, not really. Like, they’ve parted every four or five days, tantrums and sulks, as long as I’ve known them. But when any partners finally separate, there’s a terrible dearth. Almost as if two such transparent phoneys were really among the few genuines in the whole Eastern Hundreds.

“Mel, look,” I hated this. “How about you phone Sandy and maybe meet him in the Marquis of Granby?” It always worked before.

He was already firing the engine. I felt cold. “No, Lovejoy. It’s over.”

He had sunglasses on. We’d not had any sun all week. For a minute he said nothing, while I tried to think of some magic phrase to cure all this. I get desperate when things suffer.

He said, “You were kind, Lovejoy. So many aren’t, you know. True kindness leaves no place for gratitude.” He glanced around the barnyard. “It’s only a small token. You’ll do their gambado anyway. It’s your nature. But advice from a friend, if I may?”

“What?”

“For once, just this once, don’t help, Lovejoy. Not anyone. Friend or foe. Or you too’ll finish up baffled.” He meant don’t do what Troude wanted, now Sandy was his backer. “I’m at my auntie’s in Carlisle.” He hesitated, then smiled that terrible smile. “Can you take another word of advice?”

“Yes?”

He indicated the steps up to the small office he and Sandy shared. “Steal the Kirkpatrick. It’s the best piece left.”

“Steal?” I yelled indignantly after him as he drove out. “Steal? I’ve never stolen a single thing in my life! I’d not stoop so low…”

Gone. I heard the motor slow by the dairy, turn near the Congregational chapel. Its sound dwindled. Nothing. I looked at the forecourt. The jardinieres were gone. The lovely Roman terracotta in the window was gone. I was furious about what Mel’d said. For Christ’s sake! Cracking a malicious joke like that. Surely it was a joke? A sad attempt at humour as he’d driven out for the last time, to conceal his heartache? As long as he didn’t really mean it. I mean, what sort of a rat would rob his friends?

The forecourt was empty, except for me. Nobody about. I looked at the bunch of keys he’d given me. At the steps. At the For Sale notice. And thought. Kirkpatrick?

Cornwall Kirkpatrick was a stoneware potter. American, Illinois. He decorated his jugs and whatnot with cutting satire—snakes as politicians, with biting inscriptions saying how horrible they were. His fantasy urns and geographical pigs (I kid you not) make you sleepless, give you bad dreams. Skilful, but alarming. And very, very pricey. So rare, they’d buy a good month’s holiday any day of the week. I always sell them—give some other poor blighter the nightmares instead.

But to steal? From friends? That’s the action of a real gargoyle, a despicable cad.

Only to test the door handle, I went up the steps. That meant I had to try the keys, open the door. And have a quick look round, see the Kirkpatrick was still there. Only for security and all that, because you can’t be too careful. I found it in my hand, Mel’s Kirkpatrick jug. Criminal to leave it. I mean, clearly it needed looking after, right? I decided I’d better take it home. Not stealing. No, honest. Not genuinely stealing. Only, somebody had to care for it, right? So I wrapped it up and hid it in the Ruby’s boot, just so it wouldn’t get stolen. There are thieves everywhere these days.

Baff’s house was on the way, so I drove there, more by instinct than anything else, wondering how much I’d get for the Kirkpatrick jug. Only 1870s, but packed with potential. I felt truly heartbroken over Sandy and Mel, but notched an exhilarating twenty-two on the bypass, in a lucky wind. Omen?

Baff Bavington’s a breakdown man. He’s a lazy devil, is Baff. My brother used to say that lazy people aren’t lazy—they’re merely clever. Breakdowning is a way of nicking antiques from unsuspecting ladies who live alone. You can do it to elderly couples, too, but Baff never did—after one incident when some old geezer turned out to be a dead-shot colonel with a twelve-bore.

Sherry’s his missus. She used to help him out, for authenticity’s sake. Baffs standard trick was this: break down, engine boiling over or something, in the very gateway of some old dear’s house. Baff knocks—can he please have some water for his radiator? (Sherry smiling anxiously from the motor.) Baff takes the pan of water, while Sherry nips round the back and susses out the house. She slips a window catch, or inserts a sliver of comb into a lock to make it easier to pick. There’s even a spray you can get that makes a window impossible to close properly —I’d better not tell you its name, or you’ll all be at it.

That night, back comes Baff, cleans out your antiques and other valuables while you kip. Easy.

The boyos—real hard-liner antique robbers—despise breakdown merchants because police always have their number. Within an hour of waking up, the robbed old lady’s on the blower to the Plod. Who of course have a score of other reported breakdown-style thefts in the vicinity. Somebody always has the car’s description. And Baff’s. And Sherry’s. Who suddenly need alibis… et relentless cetera. No, the boyos want scams you can do unscathed and often. Breakdowners are the lazy antique thief’s theft. It’s also risky. Which is why Baff’s done time.

Sherry was grieving in her mother’s cottage, which is where she and Baff live. Mum’s their chief alibi, forever in court testifying to the innocence of her daughter and Baff. I knocked, went through the sordid courtesies folk use to ward off grief.

“You were a real friend to Baff, Lovejoy,” Sherry told me, sniffing. My friends were having a hell of a day. Was it just me?

“That’s true, right enough,” her mum said, dabbing her eyes fetchingly at the mirror. “You’ll miss Baff’s trade, Lovejoy.”