Every Last Cent

36

ONE THING I'VE always got wrong is getting ready to go out. I once drove to a broadcast in Norwich in battered old slippers and didn't notice I'd no shoes on. Gran used to say I did it for attention. I think it's because I'm secretly worried sick.

This night I was different. Timothy's Florence had left me a note saying she'd gone to see the lawyer about her bankruptcy, ending it With love. No woman around when you need one, just good wishes.

Despite this, I spruced up. I found a tie and did my shoes with spit. I don't buy polish because it gets used up. Then I creased my trouser legs with two bricks and a steaming kettle. I tried to trim my frayed shirt cuffs with a razor blade but they finished up horrible so I turned them under with sticking plaster. I can never wash a shirt collar.

After the first day, a black rim is simply there for life. Belle four years ago was the last one who could do it, get shirts clean I mean. She was lovely. Those ten Belle Days she turned me out like Lord Fauntleroy. It didn't last. She got exasperated, said I drove her mad, and went to Manchester to become a concert cellist. She missed her vocation, could have run a lovely laundry (joke).

I did my teeth using plant pith, lots of it in my jungle. It's cheaper and cleaner than toothbrushes. Anyway, Paul Blondel the birdman says that waste toothbrushes choke seabirds in the Pacific, so I was doing my bit. Shaving's always a pest, razor blades so expensive. I did the old soldier's razor trick of honing a rusty blade by running it round inside a glass. I washed my one hanky and dried it on the kettle. I inspected my reflection in my plate. Gorgeous. I looked dynamite.

One worrying thing was Maud. Did she share Brig's dark intentions, that her husband Quaker should get the push and I take his place? She hadn't said anything. These mating games are always beyond me. Whatever happens between men and women is simply a fluke. Love, like family, is a lottery. I knew a bonny lady called Kitty, who married her bloke – a gambler and a thief – convinced she could reform him. Within a month she came a-weeping, asking me 'to set him up in antiques', like it was lending him a book. She went berserk when I said he wouldn't last a millisec. Later, he defaulted on his gambling debts, so the lads tailored him for a motorway robbery he hadn't done. He's currently doing a ten-year stretch. Mysteriously, his missus instantly flowered in his absence. Without a penny to her name, she has acquired a sports and leisure club in Brightlingsea. See? Luck.

Such thoughts warning me of possible mishaps, I smiled a glittering smile at my reflection, and went to meet Maud, the brigadier, Quaker, and any combination of others. I'd perhaps find out who his syndicate was. If Quaker kept out of the way, at least I'd maybe have Maud's company for a clandestine while. You never know. I caught the bus, shocked that my palms were damp. Shakily I dropped coins everywhere as I paid my fare, making passengers smile and raise who-is-this-oaf eyebrows. I said sorry, sorry, stared at the shadows among the countryside's trees.

It was frankly dusk when I walked through the park among the Quay Theatre crowd.

The rain had mercifully held off. The people were colourful – not as well turned out as me, I told myself jauntily. Mrs Thomasina Quayle was there in a smart evening dress contentedly chatting with Susanne Eggers and the mayor on the balcony. It overhung the water, illuminated with candles and flickering lamps. Copacetic, Consul Sommon would probably have said in American slang. He was there. I passed Taylor Eggers parking his motor. He waved. I waved back.

Music was playing. Coloured lights strung in the water. Boats glided under torches.

Romance was in the air. A bonfire flickered, making amber fronds of the riverbank trees. One pity was the aroma of hot-dog stalls. First whiff, superbly alluring. When you get close, the stink is charred flesh. Nauseous. Like some auctions and lovers' trysts, entrancing at a distance then frightening close to. Tonight, though, no omens allowed.

I'd get to the bottom of the whole thing.

'Evening, Lovejoy.'

'Hello, Olive.'

'Who's your lady for this gala evening?'

'You, if Lady Luck's kind.'

Very fetching, in slab Art Deco and a floral hat. 'Perhaps we can meet? I must see you.'

'Ta, love.'

And on I went, Burlington Bertie. I glimpsed her turning into the path of Taylor Eggers.

Why did she want to renew acquaintance with him, when he'd bribed her with those duff Light Brown Reject earrings? Or was she going for his ankles? Or had she simply forgotten? Except, what woman ever forgets how she was slighted, or who by?

'Well, well,' said the Serious Fraud Officer, Petra Deighnson. 'Do I espy Lovejoy?'

She wore cobalt blue. I never really like trouser suits. Women don't look quite as fetching as they're supposed, though some think severe-cut slacks the height of femininity.

'You plod, always asking my help. Yes, I'm me.'

'Know who the original Police Constable Plod was?' She fell in, taking my arm, amiability itself. 'They say he was PC Rone in Studland. Isn't it Dorsetshire? Enid Blyton called him that in her children's stories.'

'SFO research, eh?'

She slowed me, smiling. 'Staying for the syndicate meeting afterwards?'

'Er. . .'

'I was hoping you'll be doing the antiques, Lovejoy.'

She indicated the stands that had been erected over the water. Everybody was there.

Big Frank with his next spouse. Ferd and his Norma, both especially pally with the mayor. Peggy Price and Cromwell – he in full Puritan fig with tall white collar and sombre black – and, surprising me, Ginny without Ox her driver-helper, though he'd be sure to be among the thickening crowds.

Petra Deighnson whispered confidingly as the crowd ooohed at fireworks hitting the darkening sky, 'I've seen the antiques' bills of sale. All legit, Lovejoy. Repro or genuine, they're honest.'

For a second I thought I caught sight of Mortimer, but it must have been my imagination.

'Legit? Honest genuine repro? You've a right porridge of words, missus.'

Shaking her off I said so-long and pressed through the crowd.

There's a pool that once was a wide water catchment into which the river flows. On the highest part of the bankside stands the Quay Theatre. It was once a mill. Barges and pleasure boats go by in summer. It looks really bonny with lanterns, streamers, floating lights and tableaux at carnival times. I'd spoken on its stage about antiques, back when I was trustworthy. I don't get asked now. I noticed Tramway Adenath's huge van – the flower gardener who was going to stab me with a dibble just because I'd ruined his garden centre, undermined his life campaign to restore Nature in a poisoned world.

Selfish sod. He was carrying plants up the wooden staircase. His missus, the worldly Merry, was hauling greenery. Still together, then.

'He's coming! He's coming!' people exclaimed.

'No prizes for guessing who, Lovejoy,' Maud said, slipping her arm through mine. I was in vogue tonight. 'Sandy's refrain. Hear it?'

Through the gloam came the strains of Handel's Water Music. Cameras flashed leaving our retinas unusable. My vision cleared. A golden barge glided upstream, shaped like an enormous swan, with Sandy in flowing golden sheets in the prow. I felt really embarrassed. Even for him this was ridiculous. All around people were applauding.

'How wonderful! Look!' Maud pulled me so we could see this shambles better. 'Isn't Sandy brilliant?'

Shimmering sparklers made waterfalls on the surface. Lights rippled along the bulwarks, spotlights playing. Sandy stood in dramatic pose, his features set into an expression he probably thought regal. He looked a right prune. I said so. Maud was irritated and slapped at my arm.

'Don't be a spoilsport, Lovejoy! He's being Queen Midas!'

Queen Midas? Wasn't Midas the king of Phrygia? Who finished up wearing donkey's ears?

The golden swan was rowed by so-say slaves, except even among the crowd I could hear the electric motor that powered the barge. Nymphs in flowing robes hung gracefully in the rigging, showering the spectators with golden petals as the monstrosity floated to the Quay. The applause was deafening. Sandy would have loudspeakers supplementing the clapping. It would be just like him.

'What's it all in aid of?'

She gazed at me in amazement.

'The award, Lovejoy! The refunding of the town's syndicate!'

Unease took me. I tried to sound nonchalant. 'What syndicate?'

'Our town's investors, Lovejoy! It's been in all the papers!'

Her eyes shone with pure admiration. Not for me, for Sandy. But how could he fund anything? It must be a scam based on promises. That old one.

The great barge, with Sandy in his daft heroic pose above the colossal swan's beak, searchlights playing on him, serenely neared the theatre. People were running from across the car park, desperate not to miss the spectacle.

Slaves, skin oiled to shine in the lantern light, hauled on ropes. A line of chanting slavettes, flaming torches held aloft, approached to welcome the hero. All wore flowing silver dresses, their faces and arms painted silver, quite macabre. Jeremiah Clark's Trumpet Voluntary crashed out, deafening us as an extending staircase rose from the swan's neck. Sandy stepped onto the stairway, gesturing majestically to the crowds beneath. The music changed to HMS Pinafore. Sandy was carried, still in his silly stance, through the dark night air above us to the balcony. Some loons, doubtless paid by the indefatigable Mel, started up a chant, 'Sandy! Sandy!' The crowd took it up, drowning out the music.

Sandy ascended – not too emotive a word – giving queenly gestures, tears of exaltation running down his gilded cheeks. He would describe this for ever now, in pubs all over East Anglia: 'Did you see me ...?' He'd send photographs to us all, then try to charge us for them when we'd chucked them away.

'Nobody else could perform like this, Lovejoy!'

Maud's eyes glistened with moisture, adoring it. I kept looking for familiar faces. My erstwhile team of actors arrived, Tina leading them into the theatre. Jules was one.

Conquistadores, on their way to new lands. I thought, once an actor, always.

On the balcony, the mayor – can you believe bloody politicians? – laid a golden laurel wreath on Sandy's brow. The background music burst into the Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah. Lot of Handel about tonight, him and Gilbert and Sullivan busily adding to Sandy's majesty.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' the mayor shouted. 'Your saviour and mine, Sandy. . .'

Pandemonium. Ecstasy, the elation of people whose jobs were spared and wages secure. People all about shook hands and hugged. I bet they wouldn't give each other time of day on the street in the morning, but tonight was gala time. Mel – he must have run up the theatre stairs – held Sandy's hand aloft, champion boxer pose. Sandy bowed to the multitudes – see? Loaves-and-fishes talk gets even the most cynical after a bit.

The crowd roared. I saw Tex the Mighty Hex like a beaming Alp, head above the crowd.

'He could finish up emperor,' I told Maud.

'Oh, stop it!' she cried. 'Enter the spirit of the thing! Come on. We'll be late.' Impatiently she pulled me through the throng.

'Lovejoy?' Mrs Domander took my other arm. She held Peshy. It looked even more smug than usual, but I noticed it darted nervous glances at the sky as more fireworks went off. 'Could I sit with you?'

'Ta for the offer but I've to see the brigadier and Quaker.'

Her lower lip trembled a moment, though it could have been a Shimmering Cascade that just then made silver firefalls from the theatre windows.

'Only, I need to hand over your notes from the antiques sweep. Remember?'

Notes? We kept no notes. 'Did you get your motor back from Alanna?'

'Tinker brought it round.' Her mongrel snarled at me, not an all-time first. When did I ever do what it wanted?

'Good, love. Well, maybe tomorrow, eh?' I bussed her, carefully avoiding her wolfhound, and moved on.

'She's a pest, Lovejoy,' Maud said with satisfaction. We went towards the theatre with the crowd. 'You must watch her.'

Odd, though. I hadn't made any notes on our antiques sweep. Nor had she. And how had Tinker delivered her motor, when he'd no idea where she lived? Alicia was a wanderer. Local hotel owners give her a spare room, night and night about. It's pure chance where she kips. You have to leave her messages in the wall of Cramper Evans'

ruined chapel. After the pubs close she calls on Cramper to find out which bedroom she'll lodge in, giving a new meaning to the term No Fixed Abode. The thought almost made me look back, but Maud urged me on.

'Look, Lovejoy! There's Quaker!'

I failed to see her husband. We reached the theatre foyer just as the commissionaires started to close the doors. Maud waved tickets. Others exclaimed in distress at being shut out. I felt smug: you poor inadequates are excluded, whereas I'm among the gentry. Satisfaction always quells sympathy.

'Where?'

'Gone on ahead,' Maud told me. One or two people said hello. Many more said hello to Maud. She looked superb, radiant. I recognized the occasional face as we climbed the stairs, but Maud was the centre of attention.

'We have a balcony box, Lovejoy. We're not with the rest.'

New snobbery took hold and I went willingly. The auditorium was packed, newcomers filing in, a few discreet arguments starting up of the polite is-that-my-seat-madam kind.

Clearly a festival scene made for rejoicing. Were these all investors? I heard glasses clinking, corks popping, laughter. The stage's red velvet curtain was glaringly lit. To each side, Tramway had placed potted white flowering almond trees, the sort that go red and look sore at the twig tips, like chapped fingers that need cream when you're little.

'Isn't this exciting?' Maud whispered, hugging my arm. She hadn't let go. I felt in chains, Lovejoy in vincula. 'This is what I've really been waiting for!'

'Who on earth went to all this trouble?'

Her smile dazzled. 'Why, me, silly!' she said, and my chest went cold.

The orchestra struck up, 'Three Little Maids From School Are We'. The curtains parted, and Sandy came on with Mel and, wrong guess, that toe-rag Dennis who'd tried to get the lads to hang me when this whole thing started. In gymslips, false pigtails, spectacles and blacked-out teeth, they sang the song doing hockey-stick actions. The crowd went wild. Maud fell about, thought it was a scream. I was trying to think, kept looking about the audience.

No sign of Alicia Domander or Peshy now, though Sep Verner was on the front row. The dignitaries were in expensive boxes, champagne flutes on the balcony rims. Where was Mrs Thomasina Quayle when I needed her? Instead I get Serious Fraud Officer Petra Deighnson across from us, smiling at the stage. Familiar faces everywhere, Jenny Blondel and her Aspirin, astonishingly with Paul the birdman. Wasn't he divorcing her?

Maud squeezed herself like women do when they're enjoying events.

'You'll not regret it, Lovejoy. I promise.'

'Will I not?' was the best I could do.

'We'll be happier than I've ever dared to hope, darling.'

Sandy's trio minced from the proscenium blowing kisses. Such hilarity. Usually the Quay Theatre is Elektra and one-voice Sanskrit versions of The Cherry Orchard.

The audience quietened. And on came Lanny Langley-Willes, another bad guess, smooth and wholly at ease with the world. Professional killers are. It's only amateur killers get the shakes. I saw Maud's eyes shining with rapture. It was a good night for her, everything coming just so. The house lights slowly dimmed and Lanny began to speak. Like I say, you've got to admire class.