up with ill grace.
'Sorry, love,' I said loudly to the crone. 'She's an alcoholic junkie. Spare a copper for her junkie friends. She's not had a drink for almost an hour.'
I fled the contumely.
11
I BELIEVE THAT women love a scrap. For what reason? Nobody knows. I used to know this placid woman. Placid, that is, until one day something went wrong at work, heralding a terrible fight next morning. 'Sorry, love,' I sympathized. Eyes shining, best dress on, she swung joyously from my cottage that Monday dawn, the songs of angels on her lips. And that evening arrived home blissfully replete. She'd had the ghastliest fight. Somebody else had got her comeuppance and retreated in tears. See? They love it.
It's the same with my understanding of people – lack of it, I mean. Some folk don't accept the obvious. 'Oh, it's raining!' this bird Nia once exclaimed, halting at the door. 'I said it would,' I pointed out. She rounded on me. 'Oh, you!' she spat, furious. 'Weather isn't my fault,' I told her, because it isn't. No good. She blamed me because she got wet.
Which brings me to Quaker, seeing I was in trouble and didn't know why.
First, I called at a shop in Long Wyre Street and got a small silver cup. Cost me the earth. Engraving was extra. I also bought – my next four days' meals – a silver trophy depicting a kite, the sort you fly on windy days with a string. I caught the bus, and eventually reached Quaker's house by the Quay, where the theatre is.
'Quaker? You in?' I knocked.
He is always in, seeing he's in a wheelchair and won't go out.
'That you, Lovejoy?'
I entered diffidently, hoping Maud wasn't home. She was, and came all a-bustle. She bakes cakes for church bazaars, orphanages, supports starving donkeys. Her father's a bitter brigadier, retired from lack of wars. (You'll see why in a sec.)
'Wotcher, Quake. Thought I'd bring your award, seeing you were too damned idle to collect it yourself.'
'Lovejoy! What a treat!' Maud engulfed me, flour leaving her mark on me like an exotic printing device. 'It's been so long! Cake and tea any moment!'
Here came Quaker, trundling in his wheelchair. Specky, stout, wheezing, he shoves the wheels. He's only thirty-one. Won't see a doctor, won't accept that he can't walk, run, jump, swim, sing, dance, fly, or any of the above.
'You just caught me, mate,' he said, his face rapturous. 'I was just off out. I'm in the sculling finals!'
'Don't miss the start because of me, Quake,' I called, but he'd pumped himself quickly into his room.
'Lovejoy,' Maud murmured.
'Shhh,' I said. Do lame folk hear better, or is that blindness? I needed Quaker's help, couldn't risk wives' whispers, though I like Maud.
'I'm going shopping at two, Lovejoy. Meet me in the Corn Market.'
'I'm in trouble, love. Quaker can help me.'
'Help me, Lovejoy,' she whispered huskily.
Quaker rolled back into view. I sprang away, hoping he wouldn't notice Maud's new flour imprint on me.
'They'll wait half an hour,' he said happily. 'Just give us time for a chat.'
'Who's your opponent this time, Quake?'
His face clouded. 'A bloke called Matterheim. Dolomite champion. He's in the Olympics.'
'Christ, Quake,' I breathed, anxious. 'You'll have your work cut out.'
He spun with extraordinary dexterity. 'He's odds on favourite.'
Into his room we went, Maud dashing to the kitchen to bring sustenance.
Not everybody gets to see Quaker's private room. It's vast, a specially extended part of his bungalow. You can see rowing boats on the Stour, canoes and things, sculling past this long picture window. Big as any classroom. At the far end, a glass wall. Seated in the conservatory through there, in the adjoining bungalow, sat the brigadier, Maud's dad, looking at me with sardonic eyes. I'm not quite sure what sardonic means, but if any geezer on earth's sardonic it's Brigadier Hedge. He acknowledged me with a nod, which from him is like a tournament. He wants his beloved daughter Maud to leave Quaker and get a life. She says no because Quaker needs her. Brig says Quaker's off his trolley, she should cut her losses. She says no. Joining the dots in the argument can wear you out. It sends me mental.
All round Quaker's walls are shelves covered with trophies, cups, bowls, vases, silverware, gold chalices. All sham. There's hardly an inch of wall that isn't stuck with plaques, shields, crests, ornaments that Quaker has not won hang-gliding, sprinting, shooting, swimming, high-diving. There are Olympic medals from the 1985 Mogadishu Winter Olympics for downhill slaloms and ski jumping. Quaker led our triumphant assault on Russian dominance of the downhill cycling races in the 1989 Honolulu Olympics. He collared the trophy for architectural Millennium designs. In fact, it's increasingly difficult to think up a new frigging sport or championship every blinking time I come.
He's done none of it. He's a dreamer whose dreams mean more to him than reality.
Hence my pathetic purchase of my kite trophy. Best I could do in such a rush.
'What is it, Lovejoy?' Quaker asked, spinning to face me.
Behind him, the brigadier rolled his eyes. I looked away. I always feel embarrassed at this stage.
'I feel a fraud, Quake,' I said. 'I've never ever won a thing.'
