this is a truly courageous romantic thing you're doing, Bernicka.' I said intently, 'I only wish I was as worthy of love.' And walked bravely into the night.
Twenty minutes later I was outside the village pub. It's supposed to close by eleven, but keeps going. I caught Cedric Cobbold just downing his umpteenth gin. He came straight away with his Elk. The three of us stood in the car park. Elk slobbers and scares the daylights out of me, whom it adores. I keep patting it, hoping I'll get my hand back. It rumbles. No more to be said, except that it likes tripe. I can't honestly see the point of him, but wisely keep such thoughts to myself.
'Got it here, Lovejoy.' It was in a velveteen case. 'You won't be disappointed. Leonardo used very dilute sanguine whole—'
'Ta, Cedric. Great.' I'd no time to discuss techniques.
'Money first, Lovejoy.' The old soak wouldn't let go. I gave him a roll of notes – well, a few strips of newspaper in one genuine note, but he'd only done ten minutes' work, for God's sake. Make the price match the job.
'Get gone, Cedric. The mark'll be along any minute.'
I left him quickly, crossed the road and nipped over the huge Haux wall. It came on to drizzle then, of course, so I had to crouch down covering the precious fake so it didn't get wet. I heard car doors slam, folk calling cheery goodnights, heard a couple pause under the branches of a London plane tree. For a second I wondered what on earth such a big tree was doing in East Anglia – shouldn't it be in London? Then I heard the couple's mutters. One familiar voice said, 'Did they recognize us?' The bloke replied,
'No. We were lucky. It was only old Cedric and that crook Lovejoy.' The female voice worried, 'Are you sure?' 'Positive. Can I see you tomorrow? Take the Bures road, in case Paul's back early. I'll take the coast road.' And so on, while I stayed hunched, rain trickling down my nape and blotting itself on my one shirt.
They left after a few sighs and mmmhs. I'm not proud of eavesdropping this way, but whose fault was that? People foist their private hangups on me all the blinking time, then I get blamed. That word crook stung, though, rotten swine. Paul, though, gave me a clue. I remembered the woman's voice. It was Jenny, Paul the birdman's wife, who was having a torrid affair with Aspirin, he of the drunken handstands. Except I know Aspirin's voice, and I'd never heard this new, cultured, decisive voice before.
Cars drove away. They all sounded run-of-the-mill motors, no sibilant Rolls Royces whispering homeward. I was tempted to stand up amid the foliage and peer, but dared not take the risk. I heard the pub doors lock, the chains across the forecourt clank in place. The village silenced. I stayed put, listening for Bernicka's car, feeling really down, wondering what I was doing. The scent of food had made me so hungry I went dizzy. I grew bitter. The landlord would be whaling into the remains of the pub grub while his missus readied for bed. To them that hath shall be given, but not me.
A car approached at walking speed, changing gear every throb. It could only be Bernicka, devil driver. Its cogs ground maddeningly. Unbelievably it notched into an even lower gear, stalled, took three goes to restart, and crawled nearer. I sighed. One cliffhanger after another. I heard the door open.
'Lovejoy?' Bernicka called loudly. 'Are you there?'
Secret as an invasion. A wonder she didn't sound the horn. I creaked erect and clambered over the wall, huddling my precious forgery, and ran to her car as if the bailiffs were after me.
'Off, Fangio.'
She drove off almost at jogging speed. On the way to her studio I told her how I'd burgled Sir Jasper Haux's mansion ('Those drainpipes; his library on the fifth floor, see?'
etc, etc) and lied how I did over the electronic protection units ('They're the new Eight-Nine-Nine model –used by the SAS ...').
'Is that it?' She stared apprehensively at my velveteen parcel.
'Yes, Bernicka. Keep your eyes on the road.' I've often noticed that women turn to look at you if you speak to them while they're driving. Blokes don't. Dunno why. 'I was very, very scared, love. I did it for you, doowerlink.'
'Oh, Lovejoy! You're so brave! Leonardo's own hand!'
She filled up. I almost did, too, because burgling the Haux manor house would have been really risky if I really had done it. I might have been arrested, put in a dungeon for years. I remained manly and bold.
'It's all right, Bernicka.' I gazed soulfully at her profile. 'You know I'd do anything for you, doowerlink, honestly. . .'
She got us a take-away meal at Bluebell's roadside caff by the main Aiz. I wolfed most of hers as well to help her finish it. Then I stayed at her place the rest of the night while she ogled the Leonardo drawing Cedric Cobbold had done for me. I was too worn out to stay gaping at his work, though it looked pretty good, nearly better than mine.
Maybe, I thought grudgingly, I'd pay him in full next time.
After all that, I reached my cottage worn out and slumped on my unfinished wall. The village children were skipping up the lane on the way to join the school bus. They were singing the little girls' ancient skipping-rope chant: Fair is foolish, short is loud, Long is lazy, black is proud, Fat is merry, lean is sad, Pale is pettish, red is bad.
It predicts their eventual lovers. Elizabeth, seven, is their leader and knows everything.
'You didn't come home last night, Lovejoy,' she said in condemnation. 'Dirty stop-out!'
Little Marie came to rifle my pockets. She's five.
'I got tired,' I improvised. 'And stopped at a friend's.'
'You sleep on Mrs Newcastle,' Jane explaining to the rest.
'No.' Elizabeth was annoyed at being contradicted. 'He sleeps on Mrs Vullamy. Her legs go in the air. I seed through his window.'
Christ, I thought. Little Marie glared. 'You've no toffees, Lovejoy. And no money!'
Everybody knows my business except me. Wearily I searched and found her a coin in the lining. She confiscated
