The Vatican Rip

CHAPTER 2

I've always found that youth's no deterrent to age. The ultimate proof was the Pinnacle Peak Language Academy, a big, modern but old-looking house on the outskirts of town.

Arcellano had instructed me to report there, making all heads turn by snapping his fingers that snowy January day in the pub and passing me the card one of his goons whisked over. The card read Specialists in Modern European Languages.

'You're going to school, Lovejoy,' he'd said. 'To learn Italian.'

'I'm hell as like.' I'd hated school.

'You register tomorrow.'

This was beginning to look too organized for my liking. 'Can't I just buy a phrase-book?'

'Not for this job.' He rose then, a gentle picture of threatening behaviour but still smiling. 'Your wages will be delivered every Friday.'

'Oh.' I cheered up. These language schools are all the same—a convenience for foreign students to get a visa and for our own students to go on the scive. Simply register, attend the first couple of lessons to show willing, then it's off to the boozer with a part-time job on the side for extras. I thought what a nice simple bloke this bloke was. And a charming nature. 'Right,' I said, keeping the card and carefully not yelping with delight as Arcellano and his grovellers made to depart. Money for jam at last. He paused.

'One thing, Lovejoy. About your wage.'

'Oh, that.' I tried to sound only casually interested, but was pleased he'd remembered the details, like how much.

'It depends on how you do.'

'Eh?'

His blank smile was beginning to get me down. 'Good progress, you get good money.

Little progress, little money.'

I thought, what bloody cheek. 'Then you can stuff your schooling.'

'—And no attendance,' he said quietly, 'no Lovejoy. Arrivederci.'

I watched the unpleasant bastard go. Thoughts of Margaret, Tinker, Jane and the rest rose within me and stayed. Antiques is a rough game. Antiques plus Arcellano was unthinkable. I thought for an hour before leaving the pub.

There was no doubt left in me. Some failures were just not worth having. Back to school for Lovejoy.

* * *

I have to tell you this next bit because it's where I met Maria. And she became more of the rip than ever I wanted, and in a way I hate to remember even yet.

The next morning was bright with that dazzling winter brilliance you get living near the cold North Sea. To the east the sea-marshes glistened, trees standing in spec-tacular white silhouette against the blue. Even the thought of schooling didn't put me down. I'd wangled my Unlearned way through childhood. A day or two more would be peanuts.

And maybe they included dinner.

I got a lift into town on a horse-drawn wagon, since there had again been snow during the night and all the modern mechanical wonder-gadgets were frozen under drifts. At such times East Anglia's one useful vehicle is Jacko's cart. He is a smelly, cheerful old devil, much addicted to light opera, who runs a ramshackle removal van in summer and Terence in winter. Terence is his gigantic shire horse, ancient as a church and about twice as big, and he pulls this wooden farmyard cart which Jacko, a bórn comedian, rigs up with nailed planks he calls passenger seats.

'Is it true you're going to school, Lovejoy?' Jacko called as I climbed up. He was falling about at the notion.

'Shut it, Jacko.' I hate the way word gets round our village.

But he choked with laughter all the way down to the brook and across the water-splash where the town road begins. I had to grin weakly and put up with him because he lets me on for nothing. It was a lot kinder than it sounds—I still owe him for six journeys from last winter when the black ice had blocked us in for three days.

Jacko put us all down at the Albert tavern, from where we could walk up the slushy hill into town. I ploshed my way out to the Pinnacle Peak Language Academy, my chirpiness dwindling with every wet step.

The lowering sky to the south-west was leaden, promising yet more snow. The wind was rising, the air dank and chill. I was hungry as hell, perishing cold and imprisoned in a trap of utter misery by that lunatic Arcellano. My antiques trade would vanish. My life was a wreck.

So I went to school—and met Maria.

From then on things went downhill.

* * *

The so-called Academy was heaving. I'd never seen so many shapes and sizes and ages. Somehow a motley mob of people had battled their way to this emporium of learning and were noisily finding acquaintances among the press. There were kids, geriatrics, housewives, workmen, and elegant ladies obviously bolting from boredom.

The Pinnacle Peak's idea of welcome was a handshake in the form of grievous bodily harm from a bluff language instructor called Hardy ('everybody calls me Jingo'), a sermon full of veiled threats from a geriatric grammarian headmistress, Miss McKim, and a gentle reproof from old Fotheringay. He was heartbroken because I'd never done classics at Balliol. I sympathized, because so was I.

Jingo Hardy enrolled me in a dusty side room. I nearly fainted at the fees printed on the form. One week's worth would have kept me six months.

He boomed a laugh. 'Don't worry, Lovejoy. Yours have been paid. Ten weeks of special instruction.'

He told me to wait in the hall, so I sat on one of the radiator pipes and watched Jingo Hardy, in the thick of things, inform a small disorderly bunch that they were intellectuals about to tackle Russian literature. With poisonous cheerfulness he bullied them off into a side room, leaving only a moderately-sized horde milling blindly to and fro.

What with the warmth and the comfort I must have nodded off or something because the next thing I knew I was being criticized and prodded with a shoe, which proved I was awake again. The hallway was empty. This woman's voice was saying sharply, 'And what do you think you are doing?'

'Waiting.'

I blinked up at her. She was one of the loveliest women I had ever seen. Dark, slender, bright and stylish with a warm tweed-and-cardigan look. Pearl stud earrings. I fell for her. She toed me again. The crowd had vanished. A faint hum arose from the rooms all about, school now in session.

'You're a tramp, aren't you?'

'Not yet.' I said. The irony was lost on her.

'Please leave, or I shall call the police.'

I said, 'Lady. Prod me again with your toe and I'll break it. Off.'

She withdrew a yard. 'Why have you no socks on?'

'Drying.' I got them off the radiator and felt. Still damp, but I started to put them on. All I could do now was tell Arcellano I'd tried and they'd threatened to have me run in.

'And shoes?'

'Give me a sec.' I'd sloped them on the pipe, heels down, in an attempt to dry the cardboard which covered the holes.

She was watching. 'Do you have far to go?'

You can't help staring at some people. There ought to be Oscars or something for hypocrisy. Today's message from this luscious bird: piss off or I'll call the police, and have a pleasant journey strolling through the blizzard. People amaze me.

'Yes.'

'Oh. Well. Where's your overcoat?'

'Still at my tailor's.'

She flushed then and developed the injured look of a woman wanting some man to take up this particularly cumbersome crucifix. I didn't help by spinning out my dressing process. She stood her ground, though.

'One thing, love.' I stood and stamped my cardboard inners flat. 'Swap that painting to the other wall.'

'I beg your pardon?'

I stepped across and lifted the watercolour down. 'Never over a radiator. Never in a centrally heated hallway if you can help it. Never facing what sun we get. And never where people smoke.'

The little watercolour sketch was a Thomas Robins, the sort of thing he did before doing the proper Dutch fishing-boat scene. He liked storms in harbours. I'm not all that old, but I can remember the time four years ago when his best paintings could be got for an average monthly wage.

'Take your hands off our property—'

She came at me so I cuffed her and yelled, 'You could have made me drop it, you silly bitch! Look.' I dragged her near to the modern photorepro of 'The Stag at Bay' which I'd just taken down. 'That,' I explained into her stunned eyes, 'will stand anything. This original water-colour is vulnerable.' I spelled the word to give her cortex time to adjust to the learning process. 'So we put your repro picture anywhere, see? It'll not warp, change or fade in the sun. On the other hand, love, original paintings by Thomas Sewell Robins need care.' I spelled that too, mounted the watercolour, then walked to the door.

'You hit me.' She was still preoccupied with being annoyed.

'I'll come back next week, love, to check you've not swapped the pictures back. And I'll accept no crappy excuses about your painting being school property.' I wagged a finger to emphasize the threat. 'A genuine antique is everybody's, no matter who owns it.

Remember, now.'

She suddenly said, 'You're Lovejoy.'

'True,' I said, opening the door to the kinder world of winter. 'And goodbye.'

She suddenly became a supplicant. The abrupt transformation was really weird. 'Please.

Don't go.' She even tried a winning smile. I'd never see a quicker—or more desperate—

conversion. 'I'm—I'm your special instruction counsellor assignment.'

'You're my what?' Nowadays everything sounds like the UN.

She gave in and used language. 'Teacher. Please come back in.'

I hesitated between the blizzard and the deep blue sea. Normally I'd have stormed out in a temper, though I'm usually very mild. The reason I didn't was the sheer desperation in her eyes. Somehow I'd annoyed her at first, but now there she was full of frantic appeasement. I could have sworn she was afraid. Maybe she needed the money or lived in terror of mighty Miss McKim.

'Can I dry my shoes on your radiator?'

'If you wish.'

'And socks?' I added shrewdly.

'Of course.' She moved past me and pushed the door to.

'And I'm not in trouble for, erm, telling you about the pictures?'

'You mean hitting me,' she said evenly. 'No.'

It seemed there was no way out. Time for a truce. 'All right.'

'Thank you,' she said, and meant it, which was odder still. She extended a hand. 'I'm Maria Peck.'

We went all Regency. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance. Lovejoy.'

She didn't look local, not with those lustrous Italianate features and that complexion, but Peck is unshakably East Anglian and I commented on it while we shook.

'So I'm told,' she said, and added sweetly, 'Nothing like as unusual as Lovejoy, is it?'

Smarting, I thought, okay. Truce, not submission.

'This way, please.'

I followed her lissom form. Whatever lissom means, it's the right word.

Most women have an inherent grace, don't they, with awareness sort of built in. Well, the ultimate was Maria. I swear I was demented for her by the time we reached the classroom, though her attitude seemed to be one of instant aloofness once she'd got me to stay.

But why the terror when I was making my sullen exit? Last time I'd been at school they were glad to get rid of me. Fool that I was, I shelved the little mystery and forgot it.

* * *

Late Friday of that week it happened. I was in my cottage frying some pieces of apple.

It's supposed to be a countryman's delicacy, but was proving a failure. For a start you need oil for the pan, and I'd got none. Then you need a good stove, and the bastards had cut my electricity off in the midweek. The methylated spirit lamp, which I use for wax modelling, was going full blast—an erg an hour— and the sliced apples were barely warm.

The knock on the door surprised me. My cottage is fairly remote, on the outskirts of a small village. The lane leading to it is narrow and long and goes hardly anywhere else.

The daylight had faded an hour since. I cheered up as I went into the little hallway. My first week's wages were due for having attended that punk language school. Apart from having the opportunity to gape at the delectable Maria it had been a real drag, so I deserved every penny.

It was Arcellano and his two nerks all right, but not with my wages. The three of them were crammed into the tiny vestibule, blocking out the vague haze of snow light.

'Mr Arcellanol' I yelped with false delight, thinking of money, and hot pasties and beer at the White Hart. Hunger makes crawlers of us all. 'Good of you to call! Come in!'

Nobody moved.

'Where's the lights?'

'Erm, well, I've had the electricity cut off,' I said smoothly. 'Temporary repairs, you understand. This wretched weather brought down a cable—'

'What's the stink?'

'Stink?' I swallowed my irritation. The bastard was speaking of my staple diet. 'Ah.

Delicious country recipe. Fried apple. Actually takes hours to make. I haven't done the flaky pastry yet, or I'd offer you supper—'

A flashlight blinded me. With the beam flickering into every corner the two goons bore me backwards and slammed me down in a chair. Heavy hands pressed on my shoulders when I tried to rise. It's horrible to discover you are suddenly out of breath for no known cause. In that instant all I could think of was that quick glimpse of terror on Maria's face when I had started to cut out from the school.

'Is this how you live, Lovejoy?'

'Only temporarily,' I answered, narked. 'I'm having an extension built—'

'Hold him.'

A flashlight was beamed at my face so I could see nothing. With my eyes screwed up against the beam I sat and listened while somebody, probably Arcellano himself, shook out drawers and emptied cupboards and slammed doors and tore things in the darkness beyond the light. I knew better than to hope for neighbours or the police to arrive. The former wisely leave me alone, and the latter are only more trouble and I'd enough to be going on with.

Quite ten minutes later I heard Arcellano return. He sounded slightly winded from all his exertions. I felt the same and I'd done nothing but sit.

A lighter flared, showing his face full of unpleasant shadows. The light snapped off and a cigarette glowed.

'Why do you live here like a pig, Lovejoy?' He sounded surprised but honestly interested.

I tried to shrug but his burkes were still pressing me down. 'I'm a bit short. I've done a few good deals, though—'

'You've not, Lovejoy.' Even when smoke came into my eyes making me cough and blink I knew the sod was smiling. 'You are penniless.'

'Only temporarily,' I shot back. 'If I hadn't wasted the week on your frigging school I'd have—'

'How was school?'

That gentle query pulled me up. 'Oh. Horrible as ever.' I tried a chuckle. It sounded like a trapped wasp.

'Make much progress, Lovejoy?'

I swallowed. This didn't make sense. He sounded too gentle for somebody who had come in like Attila the Hun and wrecked the place.

'Quite a lot,' I lied cheerfully. My mouth was dry.

A paper rustled. 'Your report says different.' A silence. 'That's bad news, Lovejoy. Not for me. For you. Light.'

I found I couldn't swallow any more. The beam moved to show his gloved hands and the crested school paper.

'Inattentive,' he quoted. 'Six reprimands daily for reading journals on antiques during lessons.'

Had it been that many? 'Rubbish.'

'Homework: nil per cent.'

I'd done none. 'I've been a bit pushed lately—'

He read on relentlessly, 'Altogether a hopeless start.'

I protested weakly, 'Most of the others are young, still in school. They're naturals—'

'That's not true. There are only four children in your class. The rest are adults. One is fifty and did better than you, Lovejoy.'

I seethed in silent fury. The bastard had checked up What kind of employer checks up?

Where's trust gone?

'The others distract me.'

'But your afternoon teaching is individual. I should know. I paid for it. And your teacher says: “Total lack of motivation.” Well, Lovejoy?'

That sounded Maria all over. She and I had wasted every afternoon in a soundproofed room, if you can believe it. I took three goes to start my voice up. 'I suppose this means no wage this week, eh, Mr Arcellano?'

He rose and I got the light back in my eyes. 'True, Lovejoy. But I have to go away for ten whole weeks. I can't leave you here without motivation, can I?' There was some shuffling nearby. One of the goons was getting ready for something. Arcellano's voice hardened. 'Our deal's on, Lovejoy. It's on because I said so. Play dim if you like, but you suffer the consequences. Understand?'

'Well, yes,' I was saying when somebody clouted me.

'Hold him.'

Gloved hands gripped my head while Arcellano extinguished his cigarette on the point of my chin. I whimpered but they held me fast. I was going to bring up some very convincing excuse when they started on me. Even now I can't for the life of me remember what it was, but I know it would have been a cracker. I'm good at excuses.

* * *

There's a knack in cooking. I've not got it, but I once had a bird who was really great.

Sally used to make these fantastic meals, never the same twice and so many different flavours you never knew what you were eating half the time under all that taste, which is quite an achievement because eating's a right drag. We parted when she developed suspicions—almost quite unjustified—about a rich widow who used to call sometimes when Sally was out at work. I've found that women always want to believe the worst, when it's so much simpler to believe what's easiest. I had stopped being sick about eight o'clock or thereabouts. By a fluke no bones were broken and the bleeding had stopped on its own while I was flat out. In the light of my spirit lamp I could see my face puffy and battered, with a prodigious blister the size of an igloo bulging from my stubble where the bastard had burned me with his fag. No cuts, but dried blood down my neck from one ear, one eye black and bulging, and my right shoulder sprained. The cottage was a hell of a mess.

For some reason I was tired, even after such a long enforced slumber, so I dozed on my divan for a while. Then my hunger returned and I started warming the pan again.

The cold slices of apple stared reproachfully up at me in the gloom. What with the state I was in, she must have been knocking donkey's years before I heard and let her in. My favourite teacher.

I need not say much about the rest of that evening, or of that night. Maria shot a handful of terse questions at me, to which I gave terse unfriendly answers, seeing she was to blame for the battering Arcellano's serfs gave me. She looked closely at me with the aid of the spirit lamp's watery blue flame. Then she did a quick reconnaissance while I glowered sullenly at my pan through my one good eye. Eventually she said she'd be back and went. I heard her tyres skittering and crunching on the snow.

Ever the optimist, I was trying to raise a brew-up when I realized she was back. She must have nicked my key somehow, or maybe I'd given it her. I forget which. She lit a candle and stuck it on a plate. Then another. The lovely golden light bathed the cottage's shambled interior. It looked in a worse state than me. I wondered where she'd managed to buy candles at this hour.

She took the saucer of apple off me and scraped it into the bin in my kitchen alcove.

That was the start. She must have made them work—an all-time first—at the Treble Tile because she'd fetched some hot nosh as well. Chips, fish, sausages, a pot of soupy stuff, and bags of cheese, bread, a cake and milk and tea and, among the rest, apples by mistake. I didn't grumble. I'd run out of Ann's grub two days before. Playing at being an angel of mercy was obviously doing Maria a power of good because she was silent for the first time ever. Until then I thought I'd never met such a talkative bird in my life.

I ate her nosh slowly and slurpily while she tidied, always a bad sign in a woman. The more racket they make the more you're for it. Not saying a word, I whittled my way across two platefuls while her slamming and rattling went remorselessly on, a sort of creeping barrage. She was watching me by that sort of feminine feel which requires tight lips and no actual stare. I could tell because the instant I finished she swept thé dishes aside and sat washing my face in a cupful of lukewarm water. The sensible lass had used eight whole candles brewing tea.

We reached midnight in total silence, sitting primly side by side on my folding divan, knees together and politely clearing throats and watching candles glow. I always feel at a disadvantage when women tidy me up. Maybe that's why they do it. The battle started.

'Lovejoy,' she said carefully. 'What happened here is none of my business.'

How true. 'A disagreement with a customer.'

'Be that as it may.' She spoke the words exactly like she taught in pronunciation class, with gaps a mile long. 'But I'm not so stupid that I fail to see the connection between your bad first week's report, and this beating you have suffered.'

I told her rubbish. She fumbled in her handbag and brought out the crumpled report.

Arcellano must have left it.

'Then how did this get here?'

'It was posted to me by mistake.'

'Miss McKim never makes mistakes.' She read through it quickly, folding it after seeing her own handwriting. 'These reports are sent only to the sponsors.' She rose and paced, obviously going to put the boot in. 'Tell me the truth, Lovejoy. You've got to do well or suffer. Isn't that right?'

'Yes.'

'Very well.' She turned to face me. Two candles shone from behind her, casting a subtle corona round her from the shadows. I'd never seen such beauty in a woman in all my life, not since Helen, or maybe Lydia or maybe Sally the nosh queen.

Entranced, I mumbled weakly, 'Very well what?'

'We must knuckle down.' She spoke so full of sadness that for an instant I misunderstood and thought she'd spotted a way out for me. Then it dawned she meant working, and my bitterness returned. I was trapped between Arcellano, that non-smiling smiler, and this gloomy optimist. 'You sold your Italian grammar text—'

'I did no such thing!'

'I saw you,' she said calmly. 'In the junk shop on the Hythe. So I bought it back.' And she brought it out of her handbag, the treacherous bitch. 'It's no good glaring, Lovejoy.

Your signature's on the flyleaf.'

'You have no right following me—'

She smiled over my protest. 'And on the rare occasions you do pay attention in open class, Lovejoy, it's to Joan Culpepper.'

I asked innocently. 'Is she one of our group?'

'She's the lady next to whom you sit, Lovejoy. You started the week in the opposite corner.'

'Oh, her!' I'd obviously hardly noticed her, but Maria was not dissuaded, as usual suspicious without a single cause. 'The one with the Justinian period Roman quartz intaglio ring, modern setting in garnets on gold with raised platinum shoulder mounts?'

'Yes, her.' She tapped my knee with a finger, not knowing Arcellano's lunatic serfs had kicked it to a balloon size. I nearly screamed. 'From now on, Lovejoy, your Friday reports will be superb.'

'They will?' I brightened. Not only was this luscious woman delectable, but she'd obviously fallen head over heels for me. With Arcellano away for weeks and my bonus money rolling in… It was my trillionth mistake of the week. I asked, 'How'll we fiddle Miss McKim's reports?'

'You mean cheat?'

I saw her face. 'Well, er, no. Not exactly—'

She went cold as charity. 'There's only one way, Lovejoy, and that's to earn a good report.' She collected her coat and gloves. 'Don't worry, I'll see you'll get the right sort of help.'

'Erm…'

She walked towards the small hallway, rabbitting on. I had the idea she was smiling deep down. 'From now on, Lovejoy, you eat regularly. None of this heroic starving for the sake of old pots and ramshackle furniture—' I gasped, outraged at this heresy. It only goes to show how boneheaded women actually are. 'And from tomorrow your electricity bill will be paid. Light and warmth.' She smiled, adding sweetly, 'And distractions will be minimized. I shall see to that first thing tomorrow.'

She meant Mrs Culpepper. My head was spinning with all this. Or maybe it was the unusual sensation of not being hungry.

'Er, look,' I mumbled, 'can't we discuss this?'

'Yes. In Italian.'

'Eh?'

'You heard, Lovejoy.' Now her smile was open and visible, a beautiful warm silent laughter. 'From now on, ask for anything in English and the answer's no. But ask in Italian and the answer's…'

'… And the answer's yes?'

For one instant her smile intensified to a dazzling radiance. 'The answer's… quite possibly.' She stepped into the darkness, leaving me in the candlelight. I heard the cottage door go.

'Good night, Lovejoy,' she called from the winter midnight.

'Good night.' I was trying to say thanks as well but the latch went and she had gone.

You can't teach women anything about timing an exit. I've always noticed that.