'Shhh,' I whispered, though what good's whispering when modern sound booms might be concealed in every twig? I added in a voice of thunder, 'Tell Quake good luck with the, er, boat.'
'Friday, Lovejoy,' Maud whispered, bussing me so-long. I left, exhausted.
To find the brigadier waiting for me at the bus stop.
'Isn't it time, Lovejoy,' he said without preamble, 'that you made an honest woman of Maud?'
People in the queue turned to look. He has a delivery like a Shakespearean herald: now hear this, oh world. I went red.
'Sorry, Brig,' I apologized. 'She's married.'
'That doesn't stop people these days, Lovejoy. And from what I hear—'
'Brig,' I said, broken. 'Ask Maud. If I were you I'd just fall into line.'
'She's living with a dud,' he boomed. 'He's not even a genuine dud. He's a sham dud, for heaven's sake. All that let's-pretend lameness, when he actually floats off in his punt at all hours. I reckon he's got another woman anyway, so where's the harm?' He eyed me wistfully. 'I'd like a son-in-law like you, Lovejoy. No mockery. And something would keep happening.'
'The bus is here.' It wasn't.
'I wish the silly bugger really was lame,' he said sadly. 'You see, Lovejoy, my world has changed. If there are floods in Mozambique, or a new miracle genetic rice gives some coolie the bellyache, then my generation's very existence is up the creek. Our Defence Weapon Procurement makes a trivial mistake, another chunk of my life shreds. A passenger plane crashes, and more of my generation becomes penniless. It's true, Lovejoy. It's that serious. I'm closer to the edge every time I open The Times.'
Seemed a bit pessimistic to me. I said so. And what could a penniless antique dealer do to straighten earth's calamities?
'You know the theory, how mankind started?' For a second he seemed deeply moved, but how could that be, him a stalwart brigadier and all?
'Which one?' I'd heard dozens, each as unbelievable as the next.
'Three million years ago, primitive australopithecines living in the rain forests divided.
One branch stayed vegetarian and are still monkeys. The others became carnivorous and learned to make war. They're us, Lovejoy. Man. Just remember that's all we are.'
He looked sad. I blurted out, 'Cheer up, Brig. Anything I can do, I will.'
'Thank you, Lovejoy. See me Friday, then. No later. Chin chin.'
I thought of saying toodle-pip, but he'd had enough disappointment in one visit. He looked a tired old man weighed down by desperation. How could I help a rich man like him, for heaven's sake?
'Tara, Brig.' I caught the bus. Things to do.
12
IT WAS THE most peaceful scene; village girls practising the maypole dance with ribbons, folk feeding ducks on the White Hart pond, no rain for once. Couldn't be better. Dealers were chatting all about, readying for the auction at Bledsew's. I wasn't restful. Inside I was in turmoil, with the worst of all feelings.
Hesk was trying to get me to endorse some fake Georgian drawings – Roman women seducing lovers in baths, frolicking maidens at it under arboreal fronds. I was waiting for Mortimer. Hesk narks me, always trying something on and getting it wrong. If he'd only take trouble, he'd be a classy forger. His drawings were not bad, just copies of those rapacious Pompeii scenes.
'Your black-letter Gothic inscriptions are wrong, Hesk,' I told him. 'You included the word pornography in, see?'
'It is porn, Lovejoy!' he cried, the prospect of a fortune dwindling. Two dealers, Becky and her mate Tony who deal in Jacobean (approx) glassware (approx) sniggered.
Derision is the way dealers express sympathy with others.
'No, Hesk,' I said patiently. 'The word pornography wasn't coined until Dunglison put it in his medical dictionary in 1857.' Hesk had dated them all Pornography 1813-1816.
'Oh.' He looked close to tears. 'Should I change it?'
He left, glumly studying his drawings. Suddenly Mortimer was there beside me on the bench. I managed not to infarct at his abrupt manifestation.
'Keep your voice down,' I managed to say when my heart resumed. 'There's a dozen dealers about. What ghost painting?'
'You painted four, Lovejoy.' He gave me a second to adjust. 'The ghost was a lady.'
'I remember.' The portrait was of a seated woman, an oval canvas. Pretty good. I'd auctioned one, done three duplicates, and had eaten real food for almost two months.
'Didn't you sell one to your friend Ferdinand?' he asked.
'Children are the pits,' I told him, resigned. He looked puzzled.
Once, a pal of mine Ferd had the happiest life imaginable. Bonny wife, decent job, twins – pigeon pair, boy and girl – could life be better? One day hankies waved, and off the twins went to university. 'We're independent now,' they told their parents, beaming.
Ferd and Norma his missus sighed fondly. Brave children, off into the big wide world.
Peace in the old homestead! Not a bit of it. I met Ferd the following week and asked him for a lift.
