Read Online The Possessions of a Lady by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Gash
Ads: Link
were robbing this mansion
'I know,' I said sourly. 'Maythorn indoors.'
'We broke, Lovejoy?' Tinker asked.
Roadie fell about as I hawked out my last groat. 'Some antique
dealer! Evicted, stony broke.'
'Aureole might have word of your niece,' I told Tinker sourly, but
didn't say she'd been on Aureole's dating agency. Tinker gave a grimace. He
looked shifty.
'Big John wants you about scossing the Yank Museum.'
'Oh, dear. I've just seen him.'
Sheehan must have decided he'd been too giving over that reffo.
Every so often he considers antiques as a career. That is to say, he decides
what antiques he wants, and we're expected to obtain them at no risk to him. To
'scoss' is to strip entirely of spoils, for later division.
'The one in the West Country?'
It's actually the only extant American Museum in the whole of
Europe. Established in the 1980s, it's still worth seeing. A great mansion
filled with old American furniture, patchwork quilts, utensils. Entirely
furnished, ready to inhabit, early New England vintage. Word said it had naff
security. I wondered idly what the USA had done to incur Big John's wrath.
'Tell Big John I'll think hard about it.'
'And Lydia's back. There she is.'
My heart gave a lurch, a rotten sensation. I'm in enough trouble without emotion creeping in. Don't get
me wrong. I'm in favour of Lydia, love, the lot. But travel light goes
fleetest, and Lydia was impedimenta. Women tidy my cottage—when I have one,
that is. Thekla's tender loving care lost me my home. See what I mean? They
tidy everything so my few clothes are untraceable. The arch tidier is Lydia.
Another lurch. I saw her shadow on the vestibule's frosted glass.
Two lads hauled in, laughing, joshing as Lydia hesitated. She'd dither there
until closing time unless I fetched her.
'Wotcher, love.'
'Good evening, Lovejoy.'
There she stood, blushing prettily. Slim, but not too. Dark blue
suit, smart hem, high-neck lace blouse, small matching hat, navy blue handbag,
neat white gloves. My resolution evaporated. I grinned like a fool.
'You're back, then, Lyd.'
'Lydia, please. May I . . . ?'
'Oh, come in. Tinker's here.'
We joined them. Everybody gaped, playing who's-the-looker. Women
gave her the cold eye, working out how to talk her down. They'd have a hard
time. She dulled every mirror. Tinker explained Roadie to her.
'Good evening, Mr. Dill. How do you do, Roadie?'
'Is she real, for fu—?'
Tinker clapped a hand over the youth's mouth and gravelled out in
a whisper audible on the Kent coast, 'Shut your 'ole, lad. There's a frigging
lady present.'
I smiled weakly. 'May I offer you a drink?'
'Earl Grey tea, please. Do they have biscuits?'
She drew off her gloves, knees together, ready for the sermon and
offertory. Body of a sinner, manners of a saint, soul of a nun.
'Is she real?' Roadie was astonished.
This called for my bent eye. He subsided while I went to ask
Prissy the barmaid for some Earl Grey tea and some biscuits. The bar lads
guffawed, but even they knew that Lydia was the classiest the pub had ever had
in its chequered seven-hundred year old history, and just eyed me with envy.
'You joking, Lovejoy?' Prissy asked. She was new, a Walsall lass.
'Tea and biscuits in the saloon bar? How much do I charge?'
'Make a note,' I offered gallantly. 'I'll settle up later.' Like I
say, Prissy's new.
' . . . a divvy can unerringly diagnose antiques, you see,' Lydia
was telling Roadie when I rejoined them. 'So Miss Carmel is particularly keen.
. .’
'How was the course, Lydia?' I interrupted. The less said about
Carmel's sand job the better. Lydia would assume it involved inspecting some
cabinet in a vicarage. 'Learn all about antiques? Porcelain? Wedgwood?
Paintings?'
'Lovejoy,' Roadie said. 'Your shag's telling us about some bint's
sand job.'
'Could I have a word, please?' I beckoned Roadie into the
vestibule. A snogging couple desisted, watched sullenly as I throttled the lad
until he went puce.
'What . . . ?' the nerk
'I know,' I said sourly. 'Maythorn indoors.'
'We broke, Lovejoy?' Tinker asked.
Roadie fell about as I hawked out my last groat. 'Some antique
dealer! Evicted, stony broke.'
'Aureole might have word of your niece,' I told Tinker sourly, but
didn't say she'd been on Aureole's dating agency. Tinker gave a grimace. He
looked shifty.
'Big John wants you about scossing the Yank Museum.'
'Oh, dear. I've just seen him.'
Sheehan must have decided he'd been too giving over that reffo.
Every so often he considers antiques as a career. That is to say, he decides
what antiques he wants, and we're expected to obtain them at no risk to him. To
'scoss' is to strip entirely of spoils, for later division.
'The one in the West Country?'
It's actually the only extant American Museum in the whole of
Europe. Established in the 1980s, it's still worth seeing. A great mansion
filled with old American furniture, patchwork quilts, utensils. Entirely
furnished, ready to inhabit, early New England vintage. Word said it had naff
security. I wondered idly what the USA had done to incur Big John's wrath.
'Tell Big John I'll think hard about it.'
'And Lydia's back. There she is.'
My heart gave a lurch, a rotten sensation. I'm in enough trouble without emotion creeping in. Don't get
me wrong. I'm in favour of Lydia, love, the lot. But travel light goes
fleetest, and Lydia was impedimenta. Women tidy my cottage—when I have one,
that is. Thekla's tender loving care lost me my home. See what I mean? They
tidy everything so my few clothes are untraceable. The arch tidier is Lydia.
Another lurch. I saw her shadow on the vestibule's frosted glass.
Two lads hauled in, laughing, joshing as Lydia hesitated. She'd dither there
until closing time unless I fetched her.
'Wotcher, love.'
'Good evening, Lovejoy.'
There she stood, blushing prettily. Slim, but not too. Dark blue
suit, smart hem, high-neck lace blouse, small matching hat, navy blue handbag,
neat white gloves. My resolution evaporated. I grinned like a fool.
'You're back, then, Lyd.'
'Lydia, please. May I . . . ?'
'Oh, come in. Tinker's here.'
We joined them. Everybody gaped, playing who's-the-looker. Women
gave her the cold eye, working out how to talk her down. They'd have a hard
time. She dulled every mirror. Tinker explained Roadie to her.
'Good evening, Mr. Dill. How do you do, Roadie?'
'Is she real, for fu—?'
Tinker clapped a hand over the youth's mouth and gravelled out in
a whisper audible on the Kent coast, 'Shut your 'ole, lad. There's a frigging
lady present.'
I smiled weakly. 'May I offer you a drink?'
'Earl Grey tea, please. Do they have biscuits?'
She drew off her gloves, knees together, ready for the sermon and
offertory. Body of a sinner, manners of a saint, soul of a nun.
'Is she real?' Roadie was astonished.
This called for my bent eye. He subsided while I went to ask
Prissy the barmaid for some Earl Grey tea and some biscuits. The bar lads
guffawed, but even they knew that Lydia was the classiest the pub had ever had
in its chequered seven-hundred year old history, and just eyed me with envy.
'You joking, Lovejoy?' Prissy asked. She was new, a Walsall lass.
'Tea and biscuits in the saloon bar? How much do I charge?'
'Make a note,' I offered gallantly. 'I'll settle up later.' Like I
say, Prissy's new.
' . . . a divvy can unerringly diagnose antiques, you see,' Lydia
was telling Roadie when I rejoined them. 'So Miss Carmel is particularly keen.
. .’
'How was the course, Lydia?' I interrupted. The less said about
Carmel's sand job the better. Lydia would assume it involved inspecting some
cabinet in a vicarage. 'Learn all about antiques? Porcelain? Wedgwood?
Paintings?'
'Lovejoy,' Roadie said. 'Your shag's telling us about some bint's
sand job.'
'Could I have a word, please?' I beckoned Roadie into the
vestibule. A snogging couple desisted, watched sullenly as I throttled the lad
until he went puce.
'What . . . ?' the nerk
Similar Books
