Paid and Loving Eyes

There is no battle of the sexes. No such thing.

Never mind that everybody talks about it, says it rages all the time. It doesn’t exist. Reason? Everybody’s on sex’s side. And it wins hands down.

Of course, we pretend like mad that there is. What utter hypocrisy. What a hoot. Women, like sex, won any conflict long before the starting whistle blew. They knew so. And why? Because they’re the only supply.

Mind you, sometimes sex can resemble all-out ground war. It did that afternoon with me and Jodie. I actually found myself staring at the bruises on her, in horror that I must have done those. She laughed, called me stupid, asked if I offered the same service to all birds or was it just her, light chit-chat the way they do when they’ve proved you’re an animal in infant’s clothing. Nothing we can do about that, either. I wondered why a woman like her would put up with an oaf like me.

“You know something, Lovejoy?” She was almost purring, while I cursed and tried to find the kettle and swore blind somebody’d nicked my tea bags. “I could go for you.”

“Like we’ve been holding a novena?”

“Who’s the latest bitch?” She tutted when I glared round at her. “I don’t mean your popsies. Or that whore you drove for Gazza the other night. I mean the latest.”

“What’ve you done with my sodding milk?”

It was curdled in its bottle. Astonishing. The weather must have been thundery. Or was it simply old? I could remember buying it… whoops, a week ago? God, time flies. I looked hopefully at her, lying in that recumbent dreamy posture that brings back the ache.

“Fancy nipping up to the bungalow shop for some milk, er, love?” I’d tried for Jode a few times during, but passion had interfered with reason and Jode hadn’t quite made it. I vaguely wondered if Jodie had.

Well, that really set her laughing, shaking so her breasts came to be the only thing in the world. She was still laughing when I chucked in all thoughts of brewing up and waves on the seashore went dot dot dot. It was only afterwards, on the way to see Gobbie, who’d know about Leon the French divvy if anybody would, that I started wondering if she was so badly hooked on Troude that she would willingly go with a scruff like me on his orders. To keep me on the chain?

I’ve no illusions about love. I believe, honestly do believe, that women do what they can get away with. I mean, take any staid reliable lady. Supposing she meets Handsome Jack; he says, Come, dwoorlink to some resort—safe from prying eyes, cast-iron excuses for her family and loved ones. He’s rich, romantically unattached, excellent company, amusing. What does she do? Spurn this upstart with a Victorian avast-ye-Satan? No. I honestly think ninety-nine point nine recurring per cent of respectable matrons would say yes, and go for that hidden lust, only they’d call it secret romance.

I’m not being cynical. I’m being sad, realistic. Nothing against it. It’s just that we’re somehow compelled to act as if we all believe that morality wins hands down. It doesn’t. We know so.

Gobbie, know-all and undeceived. That is to say, he’s old as the hills and seen it all. He even knows—knew— Leon.

I found him at a boot sale. For those unacquainted with East Anglia’s pastoral pastimes, this isn’t selling footwear. You fill your car boot (trunk in Americese) with any old dross, take it to the appointed place—playing-field between matches, schoolyard, village green —and pay to park your gunge-stuffed vehicle among other GSVs. Then you sell your rubbish to anyone who’ll take it, and buy everybody else’s rubbish to take home in your poor groaning old motor. It’s recycling at its best. If it wasn’t for boot sales, the world’d be nipple-deep in tat. Gobbie was there, staring morosely at the teeming field. ,”

“Wotch, Gobbie.”

“Hello, Lovejoy.”

This sale was in aid of scouts and guides and brownies. Novelty yodellers did their stuff on a mock-up bandstand. Tambourine singers competed. A youthful morris team wore itself out ruining the village cricket pitch. Brownies served tea and crumpets heavy as lead. Fathers shifted crud from one car to another. A gaggle of antique dealers scavenged and prowled. I recognized a few, Liz Sandwell, Merry Halliday, Rhea who gives sexual favours for genuine Georgian furniture, Capability Forster who designs your garden then sends his lads to nick valuable antiques from your home. Harry Bateman too, I saw with surprise. His wife Jenny’s hooked on some non-starter, but doesn’t care. Big Frank from Suffolk, silver-mad and on his umpteenth wife.

“Gaiety gone mad, eh, Gobbie?”

Gobbie’s so named from his long-range spitting prowess. A true cockney old-time dealer, Gobbie. And a veteran of the Continental night runs for the antique trade. Retired.

“Riot, son, innit?” he said drily. “Got a prile of ointment pots, though.” He tapped his bulging coat pocket. He only deals in secret now he lives with his daughter. She thinks antiques degrading.

“Goo’ lad you, Gobbie.” I eyed him speculatively. “Any Singleton’s?”

Singleton’s Eye Ointment has been on sale within living memory. It was originally Dr Johnson’s (not that one) of 1596. Singleton took over three centuries back, selling the stuff in parchment. These pots had a few name changes over the years, but after about 1858 became Singleton again. Look for early unglazed examples, the rarest. You still find ointment pots pretty cheaply—a day’s wage on average. Boot sales rarely charge more than a few pence for anything, so Gobbie’d done well.

“Here!” Some bloke rushed up, pointing, furious. “You in charge? Those little bastards are dancing on the cricket pitch, for Christ’s sake!”

I knew there’d be trouble. A leaf blowing across the hallowed turf can cause heart failure in village cricketers. I saw a dog shot once for wandering on our village’s.

“Leave it with me, sir,” Gobbie intoned, to my astonishment. “I’ll move them directly.”

“I should flaming well think so!” The bloke tore off to be furious elsewhere.

Gobbie resumed as if nothing had happened. “No Singleton’s, but still not bad.” We watched the parades, the turmoil of milling folk. Then, “You in with that Frog, son?”

“Resigned, unpaid. Glad to be out of it.” I was relieved he’d spoken first. An astute old bird is Gobbie. He’d