You knew I only ingratiated myself with your mum Marjorie to get even with you for going out with that horrible Cambridge copper. You saw I was trying to make you jealous.' I did a bitter laugh, nearly choked myself. Acting just isn't for me.
I honestly don't know why I do it. I always lose conviction halfway through, like suddenly forgetting a poem.
'I didn't know,' she said, astonished, too many unscripted prompts in her mind. 'I honestly thought—'
'Very well.' I stood, Mr Darcy before his fireplace, perfidious women all about. 'I shall leave, but it ill behoves ...' I stopped. I never say behoves. I hardly know what it means. 'If you won't help, then I'll go.'
'Wait, Lovejoy.' She saw the chance of a scoop and took my hand. 'Maybe I did misjudge you. You can't really blame me. I'll be in the Steps Caff tonight. I get off about eight.'
Relieved, I left with a murmured Mr Darcy adieu. If I'd had a lace hanky I'd have bowed. See? Tricking myself into being somebody else. One day it might be the end of me.
15
THE MARKET WAS already closing down Scheregate Steps, so the cheapo grub Filtho Shaughnessy cooks there to pollute our internal organs wasn't available. He packs up earliest of all the stalls because he's a lifeboat man down the estuary. Instead, I went to Princess Beatrice's Splendid Tea Shoppe on North Hill.
Bea Willing, no pun intended, runs it. With Marjorie's money I ordered a plate of scones, seven jam tarts, a pot of tea, a heap of toast, Lancashire cheese, and a plate of fried bread. I felt really proud. Bea served it with enough serviettes to stuff a mattress.
Every one of her four minute tables held posies of flowers. The curtains are chintz.
Portraits of Princess Beatrice (whoever was she?) adorned the walls. The name was spelled out in flowers over Bea's counter. Souvenirs were on sale near the fireplace, miniature busts, lace hankies 'as worn by our beloved Princess Beatrice!' and suchlike. I like Bea, who used to be in antiques but is now going straight. Princess Beatrice appeared to her in a vision.
'Can I tempt you to subscribe to my canonization fund, Lovejoy?'
'And help religion? My grampa'd have a fit.'
'No, dear. For our beloved Princess Beatrice!' Bea's eyes filled. 'I've got her really close to beatification!'
However hopeful, it's all hopeless. I felt sorry. Bea doesn't have a cat in hell's chance of getting Princess Beatrice made a saint. The process used to take a century, until Pope John Paul II started the modern sainthood epidemic. I knew – know – little about sanctity and less about princesses. Anyway, it's only women who can answer lineage questions — like who was ninth in line to the throne in 1935, and so on – on those tiresome quiz shows where you can win a million but nobody ever does.
'Wish you luck, Bea.' I started wolfing my grub.
She affects rustic dress, long russet skirt, smocked apron, lace mobcap, lace bertha when she has to go through to the kitchen. Bea has a pretty granddaughter aged eight dolled up in matching Victoriana who helps out during a rush (meaning when any two customers arrive simultaneously). Polly chews gum and hums Top Ten tunes. I have a lurking suspicion that Polly secretly enjoys spoiling Bea's Splendid Tea Shoppe ambience.
'Lovejoy?' Polly came to watch, swinging her foot. 'You eat fast.'
'Wotcher, Poll. I'm hungry, that's why.'
'I got chewing gum in my hair again last night.'
'You get it out okay?'
I once showed Bea how. You warm some chocolate in a pan, rub it briskly on the gum stuck to the child's hair, and it slides off like a dream. The butterfat, see? Continental chocolate doesn't work half as well. I made a lifelong friend in Polly, who sticks chewing gum into her hair every chance she gets to win a free boost of chocolate. The chocolate trick also does for chewing gum stuck on antique carpets. (Incidentally, for gum stuck on to small firm items, like a wooden carving or picture frames, put the antique into the freezer, if it'll take it. The gum lifts off clean as a whistle. It works for your best Northampton shoes as well.)
Polly is also my spy. No fewer than four antique shops are on North Hill near Bea's caff.
One elderly gentleman was in, reading The Times. He wore a hearing aid, the flex dangling. Safe.
'Spied anything, Polly?'
'Yes. A lady came with the police.' And as my heart griped, 'They raided Sandy's shop.'
She bent her head to spare the old colonel and whispered, 'Sandy's queer as a square frock. Did you know?'
'Watch your language, miss! You're only eight, you little sod.'
'Granma!' Polly rushed through the counter flap. 'Lovejoy sweared.'
'Tell him to stop it this instant!' from Bea's voice, distant in the kitchen.
The wretch had done it just to get me in trouble. Polly returned glowing with satisfaction and started to eat my fried bread. She cleared it almost as fast as me. It became a race. You wouldn't think a shrimp her size could engulf grub that fast.
'When?' I asked.
'Last night. I had to watch from upstairs because there was something bad on telly and Granma said I'd to sleep quick.' She swung listlessly in her little russet dress. 'Don't you want to know what happened?'
'Yes, please.'
'They took Peter Myer away. He's got nice ears. Nobody got shot.'
'Doesn't sound much of a police raid without shooting.'
