Ten Word Game (7 page)

Spring is a woman I know. She bought a High Street holiday firm, and for three years was a lone operator. The only thing she couldn’t do for a tired traveller was change currencies, but the rest – book you to Thailand, sir, with a stop-over in Malta? – she could do. Fortune smiled, she made a stash of gelt, and one holiday season took on a young bloke to help. She was nearing forty, and Handsome Joe twenty-nine. He’d been a trainee auctioneer.

When Handsome Joe joined Spring’s travel agency, I was seeing Spring. She was merry as a carnival and full of stories, never stopped talking and wore colours that blinded me. She occasionally got tipsy, but so?

Well, before long I got the sailor’s elbow – nudge, splash – and I was banned from her second-floor Camden Town flat once Handsome Joe came to live, so to speak, under Spring. Soon after, I began to hear rumours. Handsome had been involved in
auctioneering
frauds in Norfolk. Nothing spectacular, such as
Sotheby’s and Christie’s might be proud of in their time-honoured way, just the old familiar milk-drop.

This simple fraud, incidentally, will defraud you sooner or later, so I’ll mention it. It’s where an
auctioneer
accepts bids “off the chandelier” or “off the wall”, as auctioneers say – meaning phoney non-
existent
bids – then knocks an antique down to some joker who’s really there but who afterwards raises trouble, claiming
never to have made a bid at all.
The trade calls it the milk-drop. The joker then goes spare in the auctioneer’s office afterwards, tearing his hair and storming out with, “Go on, then, sue me!”, etc, etc. Luckily, there’s a casual customer nearby who overhears this, and who instantly offers to buy the antique at a knock-down price. What a stroke of luck! The firm is only too glad to get rid of the item, unsold items being every auctioneer’s nightmare. Nothing damages their reputations more than having items left on their hands. Sotheby’s will tell you.

The auctioneer is then secretly paid the difference between the actual price and the estimate, or a third of the antique’s value, whichever is most. The accomplice is usually a woman who oh-so-casually visits the
auctioneer’s
office. She buys the antique. Her cut is the antique, which she gets for a few groats. Seems fair? Yes, except some poor soul loses out. It’s you, the
person
who sent the antique in, to be sold for an honest price. You really did hope for a fair honest auction. Handsome Joe worked the scam a dozen times with various women, until finally some jealous Norfolk colleague installed auto-video CCTV and had him arrested, fired, fined, gaoled, and drummed out of the Brownies.

Whereupon he leeched on Spring, and I was shown the door with the usual, “Don’t think this is goodbye, Lovejoy. We’ll still be friends…” while I said,
“Doowerlink, it’s been wonderful…” et dismal cetera. It’s always a laugh, especially when I’d slaved for years – well, three weeks – helping her to amass a collection of advertising and packaging collectibles. They weren’t really old, but I’d assembled a hundred of the things, which are everywhere and usually pretty cheap. Think tin trays marked Coca-Cola, boxes for Kellogg cereals, old cigarette posters of Players Weights and Robin Starch, those things we all keep meaning to throw out but can’t be bothered. I’d gone to some trouble to find her a 1930s Morris Trucks enamel advert. Spring’s reward was making smiles with me for a weekend because she was over the moon about it; and well she should be, because one of these enamel posters, if mint, will buy your family a month’s holiday in the Maldives. Later Handsome Joe scarpered with her entire collection. I went to see her, from sympathy.

“Don’t worry, Lovejoy,” she said, smiling with fondness. “I had him for three whole months. He
really
loved me, so I’ve known true love. How many women can say that? Okay, I lost a few trophies. It was worth everything.”

She even said the same when she got evicted because Handsome Joe had sold her travel agency and her flat using false documents. Spring went to the bankruptcy court smiling and content. End of story.

See what I mean? Paradise is women and antiques together. Women fix on one, and forget the other. It’s called delusion. The self-deception women like Spring operate, is a sort of trickery they seem able to manage quite well, thank you very much. I don’t understand how, but when it happens they’re unabashed. Spring blithely told the court, “I won’t press charges, Your Worship, because my Joe is really nice deep down.” This, note, about a gorilla who’d stolen her business, antiques, assets, and the house she lived in. Can you credit it? I
gave up on Spring after that, but still like her. I couldn’t say what I’d do if she came knocking, because women are the only gateway to heaven, and that’s also not my fault either.

No sign of any familiar face except for Marie, Veronica’s uniformed stewardess, ascending a staircase near the Crystal Pool on Deck Twelve. I watched a musical group perform under strung lights. The night air was warm, people were friendly, the bars hard at it and the cruise taking off in style. I could see why folk loved the life.

A few got into conversation but I made little response. I kept imagining I saw people I knew,
finally
concluding it was just me being worried sick. I couldn’t wait to get back to solid land. I don’t know why I was so scared. I’d been desperate to escape – on this very ship, in fact – and here I was, yet still spooked. If anybody wanted me nicked, they could have done the deed days ago.

Somebody offered me the ship’s newspaper for tomorrow’s entertainment. I read it through. A
morning
lecture, “Antiquities in Amsterdam”, caught my eye. A talk was listed, “Things to See in Holland”. Passengers were urged to book early for shore
excursions
. The headline was,
Welcome to Amsterdam!
I smiled, the first time since I’d left East Anglia. As soon as the ship stopped, I’d be off like a whippet.

Spirits rising, I left the wassailing swimmers and dancers to their jollity, and went to Suite 1133 to see Lady Veronica.

Marie opened the cabin door, the sturdy nurse Inga glowering in the background. Lady Veronica was
clearly
there on the sofa, in spite of which Marie went through the formalities.

“An assistant wishes to enter, Lady Veronica.”

Humbly I waited until her ladyship beckoned to any interloping serf. I felt I should be on my knees. Inga left, emanating hatred and slamming the door.

“Wotcher, m’lady.”

“Wotcher, Lovejoy. Did I say it correctly?” She smiled and gestured to an armchair. I crossed the plush carpet and sank into more luxury, looking round. The suite was superb.

The balcony windows were open. Summer night and music wafted in, the curtains stirring gently. We could have been on a garden terrace. Outside,
darkness
and starlight, with a gibbous moon drifting along, formed a setting for romance. Maybe this astral
influence
made me notice Lady Vee’s appearance. Every time I saw her she’d lost a few more years. Tonight she looked even younger. Women can do this
dramatically
: a lighter touch to the hair, more stylish dress, shoes, cosmetics, and suddenly a new woman meets your eye. This one was two decades younger, slimmer, active, certainly not in need of a wheelchair. She wore a long brocaded dress of midnight blue, and an amethyst necklace in gold. A huge zircon ring was her choice this evening. She was no longer the elderly worn-out invalid. Deception was afoot. I was pleased, because deception’s my game. It makes me feel at home.

She caught me staring and smiled, thinking
admiration
.

“What is it?”

“You silly cow,” I said.

Her face changed from beauty to savagery. “
What
did you say?”

“I suppose you use sun-ray lamps?” I pointed to her zircon ring. “It was once a lovely blue. You’ve ruined it. It’s gone muddy. I bet you leave it on a window-sill. Poor old zircon always gets shambled by daft mares like you, with more money than sense. UV light, direct sunshine, those glamorous tan-your-skin lamps, they all cause even the best zircons to revert to a
horrible
soiled brown. Yours is on the turn. See how it fails to pick up the light? You’ve killed it dead, silly bitch.”

She stared at her ring. “Gemstones can’t change, Lovejoy. They are millions of years old.”

“That doesn’t mean you can treat them like dirt.” This kind of ignorance really narks me. “And your amethyst is on its last legs, poor little sod.”

“My necklace?” She fingered it.

“Just because a woman’s gorgeous doesn’t give her the right to ruin an Edwardian necklace a jeweller
created
a century ago.”

She said faintly, “But I’m always most careful.”

“Balls, m’lady. It’s bleached at one side. I’ll bet you have it in an illuminated display cabinet, so the
peasants
can ogle it when your estate is thrown open to the paying public on summer weekends. Does some
ignoramus
clean it in a jeweller’s dip-bath, hoping it’ll sparkle more?”

She coloured slightly. She was the culprit.

“Honest to God, you women nark me.” I went
really
bitter, because antique gems can’t answer back for themselves and somebody has to do it for them. “You go mad for jewels, then ruin them. Your grandma wouldn’t have made those mistakes, love. Grandmas knew hell of a sight better. You take care of frocks,
shoes, jumpers, then insult your antique jewellery. Your pearls must be worthless.”

Involuntarily she glanced at a bureau. I guessed her safe was in there. “You are appallingly rude.”

“I’ll be Beau Brummell if you behave.”

A knock on the door made Marie revert to
ceremonial
mode. A uniformed man, his breast tag labelled Executive Purser, entered.

For the most part, I’m easy going. I mean, of the two genders women are preferable, and blokes come second, so when meeting someone I try to help. If they say hello and smile, I do the same. Does no harm, costs nothing. I don’t understand people who come in like gunfighters into a Western saloon ready to spill blood. This chap was smart and aggressive, looking destined at least for monarchy status. He was boss. Lady Veronica was instant attention, not quite
fawning
but willing to go further if he insisted. He wore insignia, black letters on gold, like a campaign medal and didn’t shake hands. Take that, oaf. I withdrew my hand. Take that, pompous nerk.

“You’re the one in trouble,” he announced at me in a precise rasp.

Which was me done with. I watched them go through their hello-again rituals, and guessed they made secret smiles in the lantern hours. Well, so would I if this new, younger Lady Vee gave me half a chance. Brenda, a woman I know who runs a boutique in Sudbury, swears she can always tell when people are lovers. She also claims to be able to say exactly how long they’ve been at it, just by seeing them buy a
packet
of Maltesers. I’ve found no way of checking her accuracy.

“This is Purser Mangot, Lovejoy.”

“Is she here?” He ignored me, signalling to Marie who leapt to obey. She made him a drink, ice in last,
and fetched it at a swift grovel. She’d done it before. She offered me none. He glanced at his watch, gave it a curt nod that spared its life. Somebody could still make it on time, but the world had better watch out.

“They’ll all be here, darling, if the show tidies up.”

His head rose angrily at the conditional. As if on cue another arrival brightened the evening. Marie went through her admission process for a young uniformed lass I vaguely remembered as one of the dancers. She bubbled merrily in, greeted everybody – Mangot with discreet awe – and told me she was Amy the dancer, instantly demanding if I’d seen the show. I said it was the best I’d ever seen. It’s the only way with
performers
. Less than total adulation sends them suicidal. Mangot sipped, coldly inspected Amy as if he’d have her shot for crooked seams. She seated herself,
guardedly
thinking seams, but shone at my praise.

“We’re doing a new routine,” she offered. “Rehearsal time is difficult because – ”

“Because of disorganisation.” Mangot quelled her. “The
Melissa
runs smoothly unless people get sloppy.”

So there. Amy quickly agreed that everything wrong was her fault. Lady Vee smiled to placate us, while Marie let in and announced the comic who’d entertained us in the theatre, the nearly-famed Les Renown. He wore brash plus-fours and yellow tartan jacket and looked ready for a summer season on the pier. He too got a drink, unquestioned. Me, none.

“Thank you, Marie.” The dismissal worked
instantly
, Marie silently leaving to the kitchen. “Now,” Lady Veronica began amiably. “We all know why we’re here, except Lovejoy. We should start by telling him how we shall proceed.”

“Proceed with what?” I cleared my throat in the silence.

“I think we get rid of him,” Purser Mangot said.
“He’s a sham.”

“Okay,” I offered helpfully. “I’ll get off at Amsterdam.”

“No.” Astonishingly it was Les who spoke so
decisively
. No chuckles and one-liners now. “Lovejoy’s essential. We all know why.”

Except me. I said out loud, “Except me.” They looked at each other, eyebrows raised in silent
question
like parents used to when you were an infant hearing things Not For Little Ears. Lady Veronica kindly relented.

“The robbery, dear. We need you for it.”

“Why would you need me?” I was asking in a the voice of reason, when her words struck home. I stood up and screeched, “
Robbery
? A frigging robbery?” Sending a careless postcard would get me cemented under some new motorway, and they were going to involve me in a robbery. The whole world would know immediately where I was.

“Of course, dear.” She smiled. If I’d been nearer she’d have patted my head, there, there. “Stop
shaking
.”

“Lady, I’m in enough trouble.”

“Sit,” Purser Mangot commanded. I sat. I’m
pathetic
. “There’s no way out, not for you, not for any of us. This theft is going down, or the game is up and the thieves will get away with everything. It will be the costliest robbery since the Brinx-Matt.” He seemed proud.

“Lovejoy,” Lady Vee gushed, openly worshipping the odious creep, “we are the good people, not the bad. Don’t you see?”

“No.”

“Let me explain. I am what is known as cover.” She tittered shyly. “Who would suspect me? Purser Mangot is our legitimate authority. Amy is our talented
stage artiste – as such, she can go anywhere, and serves as a registered courier when passenger tours go ashore. That’s vital. And Les Renown is our charming scamp whom everybody loves.” She leant to me and whispered, “He’s really a policeman. Amy is only sort of police, more Fraud Squad.”

Amy was enjoying this, secrets unmasked and me thunderstruck.

“She has degrees from the Courtauld, you see. Fine Art and antiques. The pity is,” Lady Veronica said wistfully, “it isn’t as exciting as I’d hoped. So far it’s been quite mundane, apart from enticing you on board. I
loved
your kindness over Mr Benjo’s silly
garden
candles.”

“That’s the last time I ever show anyone kindness,” I said. “Charity gets you in trouble. You don’t need me.”

“You’re the crook,” Mangot grunted, irritably
swigging
the rest of his drink and tilting his glass in mute command. Her ladyship herself rose and brought more hooch for the pig, confirming my suspicions. He bully, she Jane. Whatever turns you on, I suppose, but I couldn’t help feeling envious. I swallowed the insult because I’m not really a crook. I just manage life the best way I can. Amy’s gaze stayed on me, wanting me to react with violence as women do. I stayed cool.

“Why do you need a crook?”

“To be the one they watch, stupid.” Mangot swigged, grimaced.

Now, hang on, I thought, suddenly more alert. Good people don’t need a crook unless
they want somebody to blame afterwards.
It happens in corporate business, in big-firm scandals on the financial news, and in august antiques auction houses like Sotheby’s and Christie’s. It happens in governments. Classical case: When some duckegg is promoted to Cabinet
Minister, they want somebody to blame for things going wrong. It’s the blame game. They simply
wanted
me there to get arrested while they looked squeaky clean.

“In Amsterdam?” I asked.

“No,” a new voice said.

We all turned. A woman came from the second
bedroom
of the suite and headed for the drinks cabinet to pour her own. I recognised her, and my heart sank. It all fell into place, my abduction and the planned
robbery
. I’d known her. She was June Milestone from
television
, she of the long hair and dicey crook of a
husband
who was awaiting trial for embezzlement. She’d started the Antique Trackers Hour twenty years since, and it was still going on Channel Tee, highest
trunk-junk
show in the ratings. Was she staying with Lady Veronica? June was more elegant than I remembered. I usually watched her TV show for old time’s sake. She’d become more slender, shapely, and dressed with style. On telly she looked stouter. Actors always say TV adds ten pounds in the wrong places.

“No, not in Amsterdam.” She brought her glass, smiling. “Lovejoy, isn’t it? I’m June Milestone.”

“Where, then?” I would have risen to say hello, but gallantry was having a hard time of it in Suite 1133.

“St Petersburg,” she said easily.

“That’s torn it,” Les Renown grumbled. “He’ll have it all over the ship.”

“I thought we weren’t to tell him until we got there,” Amy said.

“St Petersburg?” I said, voice on the wobble. “Isn’t that – ?”

“Where the Hermitage Museum is?” June said
affably
, seating herself next to Lady Veronica. “Yes, when last I heard.”

“Rob the Hermitage?” I bleated. It took me three
goes to get the words out. “The world’s biggest art gallery? Over three million works of art? In 322 suites of rooms along thirteen miles of corridors? And you want me for
that?
”

June tutted. “You’ve gone quite pale. We are not robbing. We are
preventing
. You will come out of this like a knight in shining armour.”

“And you lot?” I said.

“We shall simply be doing our job.”

“Er, one thing. Who is doing the robbery, exactly? Are they on board the boat?”

“Boat!” James Mangot said with disgust. “Ship, you ignorant cretin.”

“Why don’t you arrest them now, then?” I asked doggedly, mind still fixed on Amsterdam, where we were to dock in the morning and I could leap off with a glad cry of farewell. I shivered, not acting. “I’ve heard about Russian gaols. They’re all snow and Gulags. They chuck away the keys and leave you to rot.”

“We are the good people,” someone repeated.

I thought, oh, aye, is that right? Then why do I always finish up hunted across our creaking old
kingdom
while everybody else gets the blondes, Monaco villas and yachts in the Caribbean? My expression must have given these thoughts away because Lady Veronica called the gathering to an end.

“Well, that has served our purpose!” she trilled. “We’ve all met, and explained our purpose on the
Melissa.
” She leant confidingly to me. “You’ll love St Petersburg! It captivates the interested traveller!”

“And no questions,” Mangot growled. “No
gambling
. No involvements, no stunts.”

“Don’t make waves,” Les Renown put in. “Don’t get drunk And don’t yak your head off.”

“We’ve put you with a quiet table,” June pointed out. “They’ll do quizzes and shuffleboard, maybe bingo and
go to our antiques talks.”

“I told them I’m a driver for some town council.”

Cried Lady Veronica, “How clever!”

“One’s a retired ploddite, dunno what rank.”

“Uniformed branch, ex-sergeant,” Les said with a sneer.

We rose to leave. I ached to escape, feeling
stultified
. Lady Veronica conjured up Marie to show us out. I got the feeling the stewardess had sussed the
corridor
, making sure nobody was around to see us leave. I found myself walking with June Milestone and
adjusted
my pace to her slow stroll. The others went on without a word.