Every Last Cent

4

OUTSIDE THE PUBLIC library Paul Blondel stands. He's Jenny Blondel's husband. I watched him. He grows hunting birds, uses them to collect money for the St Helena Hospice on shopping afternoons. Saint Helena, incidentally, is supposed to hail from our town but didn't. They say she found the True Cross, but didn't. Paul Blondel, however, is one of the few genuine individuals in this make-believe mad world. He knows all about Aspirin, his wife's secret lover, but is a gentleman and pretends he doesn't.

A crowd of admiring shoppers congregated about Paul's wooden perches. He wears a huge leather gauntlet. Drop money into his bucket, you're allowed to hold one of his wicked-eyed hunting birds. People actually queue to do it. Unbelievable.

'Yes, you can stroke her.' Paul was smiling at some infant.

Today's brands included a pretty owl-looking thing with a white downy chest. The child reached up and patted the creature.

'Keep your fingers away from her face,' Paul warned. 'She has her eyes closed, but she can sense something approaching and tends to snap.'

A large bird dozed on another perch, occasionally moving its feet so its bell clonked. It was hell of a size. God gets almost everything wrong in my book, but these two birds were exquisite, God on a good day.

'What do you feed them on?' some old dear wittered.

'Mice,' Paul said, pleased. 'And baby chicks. I tie a chick on a cotton and drag it along the ground.'

'How sweet!' sundry maniacs cooed.

'The hawk sulks,' Paul went on. 'I take him rabbiting and won't let him eat the little rabbits. I keep some for his supper. Gets really angry!'

Everybody laughed, a merry scene from English rural life. I felt dizzy and went to sit on Holy Trinity church wall, my forehead clammy. Nausea enveloped me. I came to moments later. A woman was dabbing my forehead with a damp tissue while her infant appraised me with scorn.

'Stay still, Lovejoy,' she kept saying. 'I get it too, all down my side.'

'He's scared of the birds,' the infant jeered.

'Shut up.' I tried to say it like Mrs Eggers, but it came out a bleat.

'Told you!' said the titch triumphantly. 'Cos they eat chicks.'

Paul came over with an owl. 'Sorry, Lovejoy. Didn't notice you, or I'd not have mentioned it.'

'They eat the eyes first,' the little psychopath remarked, swinging her foot. 'Paul shows us, don't you, Paul?'

'Miriam!' her mother scolded. 'Quiet, miss, or it's early bed. D'you hear?'

'Jenny told me about your trouble, Lovejoy,' Paul said. 'They're gunning for you. When did you eat last?'

'Just on my way to Woody's nosh bar,' I lied, making to rise but the infant carnivore's mother restrained me. Other shoppers stopped to watch, contentedly reminiscing about other dramatic faints they had known.

Paul brought out a note. 'Order me some chips, okay? I'll follow on.'

'Right,' I said, letting him stuff the money in my pocket. I don't know about other folk, but shame figures largely in my life. Here was me, a grown man, cadging grub money off a bloke who was giving his all to collect money for the Hospice for the Dying. I'm pathetic.

'Stay still a minute more,' the woman advised.

Another of life's mysteries: a woman can give you a bit of advice and make it sound like Newton's Laws. If I merely suggest something nobody listens, not even children and animals. I looked up.

'Do I know you, missus?'

'I'm a friend of Eleanor's. We used to live next door to her in your lane.'

Oops. Eleanor is little Henry's mum. I babysit for him some afternoons. Uneasily I wondered if she knew that me and Eleanor used to make smiles. I remembered her now.

'Satina? Sorry, love. I got giddy.' Her husband Luke is a customs officer of singularly sour disposition, while Satina was always happy as a lark.

'This is my little Miriam, she of the sunny attitude.'

Genetics work, then, I thought, assessing Miriam's candid gaze. Got it from her neurotic father, no doubt. Luke sees smugglers under every bed.

Satina hefted the pushchair round. 'Don't say I told you, Lovejoy, but Luke starts a special antiques investigation soon.'

Which explained why the town's antique dealers were gorilla about Mortimer.

'Lovejoy's scared about the chicks, Mummy.'

'No, darling. Lovejoy's just got a headache.' I watched her go. Smart, attractive.

Customs officers get all the luck. Warily I rose, testing my balance while Paul's hunting birds eyed me hopefully. I set off, trying to seem casual yet strong.

Ten minutes later I was wolfing fish, chips, mushy peas, and a ton of bread in Woody's nosh bar when Paul plonked himself down opposite and called for some chips. Woody does wonders with grease, fries everything in it except beans. His belly always shows through his unbuttoned shirt, black hair fungating up from below. Thick blue smoke hung in the air. His fag ash flaked down onto his rotting cakes. Why does TV never show places like Woody's, staple East Anglian nosh bar that keeps society going? TV

cooks only tell you how to baste lampreys.

'Wotcher, Paul. Who's looking after your eagles?'

'My helper. Millicent.' He was lavish with the vinegar and brown sauce. 'She's especially good with harriers. They hunt in flocks, unlike the rest of—'

'Your wife Jenny,' I interrupted quickly. He had the grace to look sheepish. 'She and her pals threatened to hang me at Vice's wharf.'

'It's that lad of yours, Lovejoy. Mortimer's too honest for his own good.'

'Don't you start.' I wondered why I'd come to find Paul in the first place, then my mind cleared. 'Here, Paul. You train your birds up Saffron Fields, right?'

'You want to see them fly, Lovejoy?'

'No, ta. You'll have seen the lodgers, posh Yanks?'

'Mmmh. The woman's a bit hairy. She's into the supernatural. Her husband Taylor Eggers is quite pleasant. He's into antiques, drops in the pub.'

But something felt awry about the Eggers. Or maybe I was just hoping to rile the bonny Susanne, seeing she talked Mortimer down.

'She one of these spirit mediums?'

'Definitely odd. Wouldn't like to cross her.'

'She doesn't mind your birds, then?'

Paul grimaced. 'She charges me a daily rate. Mortimer lets me fly them free, keep the rabbits down on the Short Tom pasture.'

'How come she doesn't know that Mortimer owns the place?'

'How come you don't know, Lovejoy?' he accused, then nodded understandingly. 'You're trying to keep out of the way, is that it?' And added, 'The boy's agents in St Edmundsbury do the letting. You know country folk, Lovejoy. They can keep mum for ever, if they want.'

Question two: 'There's some auctioneers who're twitchers, isn't there?'

'One bloke,' Paul corrected. 'He's a serious birdwatcher. You know him. Nice geezer, Lanny Langley-Willes. Sotheby's, Christie's, the rest.' He leaned close, the ultimate revelation. 'Birdwatchers hate being called twitchers, Lovejoy.'

And now the difficult question. 'Paul. What's Jenny looking for lately?'

His features didn't change when I mentioned his wife, but heartache always shows through.

'Regency and Victorian furniture. And some portrait.'

And now I really was worried. Antique dealers aren't secret. The trade can also be very laggardly. Yet all of a sudden the local dealers were ganging up to march on Rome, viz.

me. Why? Something was going on, and I'd not heard about it. Worse, the slowest-selling antiques are always excellent Regency and early Victorian furniture.

Check the auction records. It's true. Even the sale of a single scroll-pedestal card table would be talked of for days.

Suddenly I wanted to ask if Jenny was still shacking up with Aspirin, but tactfully shelved the question. 'Does anybody know what the Eggers are after?'

'Some old portrait with a funny name. I'm just glad I'm not an antique dealer.' He looked at the coins I pushed across the table. 'Keep it, Lovejoy.'

'It's your change. Put it in your bucket. And ta.'

And I went in search of Rio Dauntless. If you want the truth, first find a liar. Nobody lies like Rio Dauntless, except me.