Read Online The Possessions of a Lady by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Gash
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time for a free meal. I dithered for a split second.
Aureole represented grub plus the Berkley Horse, but being a link in her sex
chain was a definite minus. I like to choose where to lose, so to speak. On the
other hand there was the mystery pickpocket Orla Maltravers Featherstonehaugh,
of London's Mayfair, who stole nothing but who promised supper. On the other other hand, I had given Aureole my
word of honour. On the other other
other hand, had I really meant it? Orla won.
'See you anon, Tubb. My auntie's in hospital.'
Tubb accompanied me. I stepped into the Trinity Street dark.
'Don't talk to her if she's in one of them cubicles, Lovejoy. It's bad luck.'
'It is?'
'Witness, wish, or will through glass opposites what you say!' He
was eager to guide me. 'Look at her through glass'll bring evil. Take care.'
'Er, right, Tubb.' I moved away from the barmy sod. Just my luck
to have Tubb foisted on my promising job.
He called after me, 'And stay away from them green hospital gowns,
okay?'
'Right, right.'
Okay, so green's unlucky. Has anyone ever seen a green nightdress?
I knew this bird once who wouldn't go out wearing green, though the colour
suited her. Tubb carries superstition too far. It was his downfall. He was
burgling a mansion in Lincolnshire. His mate was chewing a hawthorn twig while
jemmying the window—country folk call hawthorn 'bread and cheese'; children
like the taste. Only when Tubb had shone his flashlight had he seen the twig.
Superstition struck, for hawthorn indoors signifies calamity. Tubb let out a
shriek, roused the household. Police caught him less than a mile off lamming
along a hedgerow, which to this nerk proved how unlucky hawthorn is. Bonkers.
'Don't step on cracks, Lovejoy!' floated after me in the gloaming.
Like a fool I actually found myself trying to see the flagstones
in the lamplight. It only goes to show, daftness is catching. I should have
remembered that, and stayed safe. But I didn't so I wasn't. I started down East
Hill past the town hall clock, with Saint Helena and the True Cross, and
Boadicea glowering. Symbols. Tubb'd say they were unlucky, but he's cracked.
Lightning flashed, silhouetting the building against blackness.
The rain descended. Maybe Tubb was right. The downpour stopped me reaching the
Quay. I judged the traffic and dashed across to the Bay and Say pub, arriving
like a drowned rat.
'Wotcher, Lovejoy.'
Sadly Sorrowing was in. He got me a drink, a record.
'Ta, Sadly. What's the occasion?'
'Sold ten this week, Lovejoy. Great, eh?'
Sadly Sorrowing makes fake Regency writing bureaus. They're not
bad, but he makes too few to eke a living. He's called Sadly Sorrowing after a
greeting card rhyme he made up. London firms wouldn't buy it, so he had six thousand
printed—to be rare collector's items, you understand. He sends them out on
every possible occasion, to get rid. So if you get married, win the lottery,
lose a leg or have twins, you get a Sincerest Condolences card with his famous
couplet that begins, 'Sadly sorrowing sinners slowly soaring . . .' We all
joke, 'No, Sadly—we'll wait for the film.'
I told tourists they were Lord Fauntleroy's.'
'Great.' I gave up. Ten was his max. 'Here, Sadly. You know Brad,
eh?'
'Brad the boat builder? Wivenhoe? I live near him.'
'He ashore, or out sailing?'
'In this storm?' The rain was slashing at the pub windows. 'He'll
be out tomorrow down the Blackwater.'
Good news. Tomorrow, I'd not be poor, with Brad's help. Tinker
came in with Roadie. I stood them some ale with the remnant of Thekla's
largesse.
'Frothey went gorilla, Lovejoy.'
Roadie sniggered. 'I told her you'd gone with that posh sheila.'
'What're we after, Lovejoy?' Tinker gazed soulfully into his empty
glass. I got him another two pints, which was almost me cleaned out. 'You've
got that look.'
'Carmel has a sand job. I'm lumbered with Tubb.'
'Gawd, Lovejoy. Might as well phone the Plod. His superstition'll
cock it up. Hear how he got nicked? They
Aureole represented grub plus the Berkley Horse, but being a link in her sex
chain was a definite minus. I like to choose where to lose, so to speak. On the
other hand there was the mystery pickpocket Orla Maltravers Featherstonehaugh,
of London's Mayfair, who stole nothing but who promised supper. On the other other hand, I had given Aureole my
word of honour. On the other other
other hand, had I really meant it? Orla won.
'See you anon, Tubb. My auntie's in hospital.'
Tubb accompanied me. I stepped into the Trinity Street dark.
'Don't talk to her if she's in one of them cubicles, Lovejoy. It's bad luck.'
'It is?'
'Witness, wish, or will through glass opposites what you say!' He
was eager to guide me. 'Look at her through glass'll bring evil. Take care.'
'Er, right, Tubb.' I moved away from the barmy sod. Just my luck
to have Tubb foisted on my promising job.
He called after me, 'And stay away from them green hospital gowns,
okay?'
'Right, right.'
Okay, so green's unlucky. Has anyone ever seen a green nightdress?
I knew this bird once who wouldn't go out wearing green, though the colour
suited her. Tubb carries superstition too far. It was his downfall. He was
burgling a mansion in Lincolnshire. His mate was chewing a hawthorn twig while
jemmying the window—country folk call hawthorn 'bread and cheese'; children
like the taste. Only when Tubb had shone his flashlight had he seen the twig.
Superstition struck, for hawthorn indoors signifies calamity. Tubb let out a
shriek, roused the household. Police caught him less than a mile off lamming
along a hedgerow, which to this nerk proved how unlucky hawthorn is. Bonkers.
'Don't step on cracks, Lovejoy!' floated after me in the gloaming.
Like a fool I actually found myself trying to see the flagstones
in the lamplight. It only goes to show, daftness is catching. I should have
remembered that, and stayed safe. But I didn't so I wasn't. I started down East
Hill past the town hall clock, with Saint Helena and the True Cross, and
Boadicea glowering. Symbols. Tubb'd say they were unlucky, but he's cracked.
Lightning flashed, silhouetting the building against blackness.
The rain descended. Maybe Tubb was right. The downpour stopped me reaching the
Quay. I judged the traffic and dashed across to the Bay and Say pub, arriving
like a drowned rat.
'Wotcher, Lovejoy.'
Sadly Sorrowing was in. He got me a drink, a record.
'Ta, Sadly. What's the occasion?'
'Sold ten this week, Lovejoy. Great, eh?'
Sadly Sorrowing makes fake Regency writing bureaus. They're not
bad, but he makes too few to eke a living. He's called Sadly Sorrowing after a
greeting card rhyme he made up. London firms wouldn't buy it, so he had six thousand
printed—to be rare collector's items, you understand. He sends them out on
every possible occasion, to get rid. So if you get married, win the lottery,
lose a leg or have twins, you get a Sincerest Condolences card with his famous
couplet that begins, 'Sadly sorrowing sinners slowly soaring . . .' We all
joke, 'No, Sadly—we'll wait for the film.'
I told tourists they were Lord Fauntleroy's.'
'Great.' I gave up. Ten was his max. 'Here, Sadly. You know Brad,
eh?'
'Brad the boat builder? Wivenhoe? I live near him.'
'He ashore, or out sailing?'
'In this storm?' The rain was slashing at the pub windows. 'He'll
be out tomorrow down the Blackwater.'
Good news. Tomorrow, I'd not be poor, with Brad's help. Tinker
came in with Roadie. I stood them some ale with the remnant of Thekla's
largesse.
'Frothey went gorilla, Lovejoy.'
Roadie sniggered. 'I told her you'd gone with that posh sheila.'
'What're we after, Lovejoy?' Tinker gazed soulfully into his empty
glass. I got him another two pints, which was almost me cleaned out. 'You've
got that look.'
'Carmel has a sand job. I'm lumbered with Tubb.'
'Gawd, Lovejoy. Might as well phone the Plod. His superstition'll
cock it up. Hear how he got nicked? They
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