Read Online The Lies of Fair Ladies by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Gash
Ads: Link
old genealogy-daft Yank twittered up, delved for
certificates into her cavernous leather.
"I have Scots ancestors! But I didn't find—"
"—records in London?" I gave Luna the bent eye, rubbing
finger and thumb. She reached for her handbag. Connie was impatient.
"English ancestors from July 1837, General Register Offices, London.
Edinburgh for Scotland, starting 1855. The General Register Office." I
said it slowly. "Don't go to the wrong one, okay?"
"You have the address, Lovejoy?"
"It's in Edinburgh's bloody phone book."
Luna sidled up, slipped me a note. I stuffed it into the old bat's
bag. "Only take pencil. They strip-search you for ink up there. Remember
'Mac' and 'Mc' are separate, or omitted, or just 'M.' And Peter and Patrick
were interchangeable names the further north you go—"
''Lovejoy!" from Connie. I told
Miss Turner so-long.
Connie's impatience had decided her about letting Luna come. Much
more odderer. She was frantic. I mean, what was the big deal? Miss Turner
warbled a distant good-bye. I waved absently.
Connie drove us out through Polstead towards the old airfield at
Boxtenholt. The three of us, note.
When everything was—what's the vital word, begins with C?
"Are you cold, Lovejoy?" I'd shivered, an angel on my
grave. "You should have stopped for your overcoat."
Thank you, Luna. "It's countryside. Nothing but
scenery."
"He's not got one," Gunge boomed after some miles. He's
not quick. Who is?
"I'm sorry. I didn't . . . Wouldn't for the world ..."
Luna apologized for the remainder of the journey.
Connie took me aside as we alighted at the disused airfield.
"Lovejoy. You're sure she's all right?'' I said give over.
Boxtenholt village is in a hollow, a tributary vale. The common
pasture stands higher, a windy exposed stretch of scrub with a couple of
ancient trackways. During the war it was an aerodrome, American bombers.
There's a derelict breeze block building, a tumbled control tower, sheep. A
wooden sign clumped mournfully against the gaping window space—had the damned
thing been doing that since 1945, for God's sake? Enough to give you the
creeps. Kiddies fly kites and lovers snog on Boxtenholt Heath. There's an
ancient tumulus in the center, now rudely marked by an Ordnance Survey stone.
"This way."
Connie's idea of deception was to park at one end of the heath and
march us to a gray guardhouse on what was the aerodrome's perimeter, down a
flight of concrete steps. She had a flashlight. Me and Gunge shifted some
fallen slabs blocking a metal door. Connie had a key.
"Wait, please." I drew Luna to one side as Connie
entered. Gunge close behind. We were alone. I spoke in the gloaming. "Luna.
If you say 'Isn't this wonderful' once more, I'll give you a pasting.
Capeesh?"
"Oh, Lovejoy! Gangsters say 'capeesh'!" She scanned my face for signs that I was sharing in
all this excitement.
I gathered her garments in a fist about her throat and lifted her.
I can do it, with the weak. "Do you understand? Silence. Your last
chance."
"Yes, Lovejoy."
We followed Gunge and Connie. They had lit candles.
"Something to sit on, Gungie," I asked. "Pile a few
blocks."
Evidently cells, below the guardroom. Dank, now, with seepage from
rain. It felt lovely, glowing with the beauty that only antiques can give. They
were covered with dust sheets. Somebody had had the wit to roll an old carpet
for the mound of vibrating brilliance. Concrete beams above, concrete walls
around. These cells would be there in a million years. I felt queasy, told
Luna, then Gunge, then Connie, to see the cellar door was propped ajar.
Divvying is a dour, rather sickening business. Idyllic, of course.
It's to do with antiques. The poor old divvy suffers every time. I've known,
over the years, eight or nine of us with this gift. Some have it just for
furniture, paintings, jewelry. Whatever, it's hard on the soul. Sin's
easier—you get something for that. Though aphorisms are always wrong.
For a couple of minutes before
certificates into her cavernous leather.
"I have Scots ancestors! But I didn't find—"
"—records in London?" I gave Luna the bent eye, rubbing
finger and thumb. She reached for her handbag. Connie was impatient.
"English ancestors from July 1837, General Register Offices, London.
Edinburgh for Scotland, starting 1855. The General Register Office." I
said it slowly. "Don't go to the wrong one, okay?"
"You have the address, Lovejoy?"
"It's in Edinburgh's bloody phone book."
Luna sidled up, slipped me a note. I stuffed it into the old bat's
bag. "Only take pencil. They strip-search you for ink up there. Remember
'Mac' and 'Mc' are separate, or omitted, or just 'M.' And Peter and Patrick
were interchangeable names the further north you go—"
''Lovejoy!" from Connie. I told
Miss Turner so-long.
Connie's impatience had decided her about letting Luna come. Much
more odderer. She was frantic. I mean, what was the big deal? Miss Turner
warbled a distant good-bye. I waved absently.
Connie drove us out through Polstead towards the old airfield at
Boxtenholt. The three of us, note.
When everything was—what's the vital word, begins with C?
"Are you cold, Lovejoy?" I'd shivered, an angel on my
grave. "You should have stopped for your overcoat."
Thank you, Luna. "It's countryside. Nothing but
scenery."
"He's not got one," Gunge boomed after some miles. He's
not quick. Who is?
"I'm sorry. I didn't . . . Wouldn't for the world ..."
Luna apologized for the remainder of the journey.
Connie took me aside as we alighted at the disused airfield.
"Lovejoy. You're sure she's all right?'' I said give over.
Boxtenholt village is in a hollow, a tributary vale. The common
pasture stands higher, a windy exposed stretch of scrub with a couple of
ancient trackways. During the war it was an aerodrome, American bombers.
There's a derelict breeze block building, a tumbled control tower, sheep. A
wooden sign clumped mournfully against the gaping window space—had the damned
thing been doing that since 1945, for God's sake? Enough to give you the
creeps. Kiddies fly kites and lovers snog on Boxtenholt Heath. There's an
ancient tumulus in the center, now rudely marked by an Ordnance Survey stone.
"This way."
Connie's idea of deception was to park at one end of the heath and
march us to a gray guardhouse on what was the aerodrome's perimeter, down a
flight of concrete steps. She had a flashlight. Me and Gunge shifted some
fallen slabs blocking a metal door. Connie had a key.
"Wait, please." I drew Luna to one side as Connie
entered. Gunge close behind. We were alone. I spoke in the gloaming. "Luna.
If you say 'Isn't this wonderful' once more, I'll give you a pasting.
Capeesh?"
"Oh, Lovejoy! Gangsters say 'capeesh'!" She scanned my face for signs that I was sharing in
all this excitement.
I gathered her garments in a fist about her throat and lifted her.
I can do it, with the weak. "Do you understand? Silence. Your last
chance."
"Yes, Lovejoy."
We followed Gunge and Connie. They had lit candles.
"Something to sit on, Gungie," I asked. "Pile a few
blocks."
Evidently cells, below the guardroom. Dank, now, with seepage from
rain. It felt lovely, glowing with the beauty that only antiques can give. They
were covered with dust sheets. Somebody had had the wit to roll an old carpet
for the mound of vibrating brilliance. Concrete beams above, concrete walls
around. These cells would be there in a million years. I felt queasy, told
Luna, then Gunge, then Connie, to see the cellar door was propped ajar.
Divvying is a dour, rather sickening business. Idyllic, of course.
It's to do with antiques. The poor old divvy suffers every time. I've known,
over the years, eight or nine of us with this gift. Some have it just for
furniture, paintings, jewelry. Whatever, it's hard on the soul. Sin's
easier—you get something for that. Though aphorisms are always wrong.
For a couple of minutes before
Similar Books
