Read Online The Possessions of a Lady by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Gash
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gasped when I let go.
'Listen. Lydia is not like you or me. We're nigh on rubbish. She
isn't. Keep mum, or I'll break your arm. Understand?' I didn't know if I could
fulfil the threat, being a coward, but I could at least bludgeon him and run.
'What's so special about her?' he choked, feeling his neck.
'She's so special about her, see?'
Enough, in case he decided to fight back. I told the snog-gers
sorry, and brightly returned.
'Roadie's checking the weather.' I eyed Lydia. She smiled shyly
back. 'You're bone dry, love. It's teeming cats and dogs.'
'Mr. Boxgrove kindly gave me a lift from the railway station. He was
seeing off Miss Aureole's friend.'
'How kind,' I said. Lydia talks like an abbess.
'Wasn't it?' She smiled, sun breaking through cloud. 'He gave her
a ticket, a map and everything. He would have introduced but she was in desperate
hurry. She seemed so tired. Just back from Salford, too.'
Deep down Roger's a shagnasty. I wasn't jealous, but didn't like
him giving Lydia a lift. Change the subject.
'Tinker? Aureole owes me a Berkley Horse, okay?'
'Is that an antique, Lovejoy?' asked Lydia.
'Er, no,' I lied. She'd have her notebook out any minute. 'It's,
er, a wooden display stand.'
Tinker frowned. 'You got that right, Lovejoy? Isn't it . . . ?'
'Get another pint,' I bawled, nudging him hard. I smiled at Lydia.
'Tinker always misunderstands.'
Her tea was served on a tray with doylies, if you please. The old
Bay and Say had never seen such elegance. I glanced gratitude to Prissy, who
went red and looked away. She's nice, Prissy.
Something was odd, though. Roger doesn't do kindnesses except for
money. Tinker knowingly caught my anxiety, gave one of his spectacular coughs
as cover, shaking the rafters as far as the Roman ruins, and went for the ale.
'Sorry, miss,' he said, returning carrying five pints. I wish I
could do that. I once tried lifting three, but spilled two. His rheumy old eyes
streamed. He wiped snot into his palm, and gulped phlegm down with relief. 'My
chest's getting worse. I need a drink bad . . .'
'Oh. Please, Mr. Dill. Allow me.'
He swiftly vanished her proffered note into his mitten. 'Wouldn't
dream—ohwellifyouinsist. Ta.'
'Would you care for a cup, Mr. Roadie?' Lydia asked, pouring. T am
pleased about Miss Carmel's new . . .'
'No!' I shot in, then lamely added as everybody in the pub stared.
'He's allergic to tea.'
'Er, yep, allergic'
He was learning. My head ached. I kept sane by asking Lydia about
'Antiques For Trade Experts' in Chichester. Outside, thunder stuttered,
quivering the floorboards. It was a while before the din dwindled and folk
started to come in shaking umbrellas.
'And now, Lovejoy,' Lydia said eagerly, coming to the end of her
diatribe about Georgian furniture. 'Could you tell me of the successes of
Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.?'
Roadie laughed. Tinker looked uncomfortable.
'Well,' I said weakly, 'we've been after
' Successes , Lovejoy.'
She frowned. 'I insist.'
I managed to say it seventh go.
'None, love.'
Her luscious lips thinned. 'In all that time ?
So I explained, down to my present penury and homelessness.
That night I slept on her mother's sofa.
7
That sofa night was longish, as nights go. I'm not one to lie
awake fretting. If you sleep, you sleep. I usually read, or lie smiling at
memories. But not tonight. Mavis warned me (a) not to move one inch, and (b) not
to touch a single thing, like I was going to nick her teaspoons. (They were
only electroplate anyway.) I sighed. I'm what prejudice is for.
The storm crashed and pealed. The living-room fire died. I watched
the embers. Hearing Lydia moving about upstairs made me unhappy. Worse, I was
outwitted.
My sparse living comes from detecting antiques, among the crud of
fakes. I feel genuine. They speak to
me, as in Thekla's fashion show with Loon Rodney's antique carpet. We divvies
are few and far between. I've only heard often besides me in my whole life, and
I've searched. The chance of
'Listen. Lydia is not like you or me. We're nigh on rubbish. She
isn't. Keep mum, or I'll break your arm. Understand?' I didn't know if I could
fulfil the threat, being a coward, but I could at least bludgeon him and run.
'What's so special about her?' he choked, feeling his neck.
'She's so special about her, see?'
Enough, in case he decided to fight back. I told the snog-gers
sorry, and brightly returned.
'Roadie's checking the weather.' I eyed Lydia. She smiled shyly
back. 'You're bone dry, love. It's teeming cats and dogs.'
'Mr. Boxgrove kindly gave me a lift from the railway station. He was
seeing off Miss Aureole's friend.'
'How kind,' I said. Lydia talks like an abbess.
'Wasn't it?' She smiled, sun breaking through cloud. 'He gave her
a ticket, a map and everything. He would have introduced but she was in desperate
hurry. She seemed so tired. Just back from Salford, too.'
Deep down Roger's a shagnasty. I wasn't jealous, but didn't like
him giving Lydia a lift. Change the subject.
'Tinker? Aureole owes me a Berkley Horse, okay?'
'Is that an antique, Lovejoy?' asked Lydia.
'Er, no,' I lied. She'd have her notebook out any minute. 'It's,
er, a wooden display stand.'
Tinker frowned. 'You got that right, Lovejoy? Isn't it . . . ?'
'Get another pint,' I bawled, nudging him hard. I smiled at Lydia.
'Tinker always misunderstands.'
Her tea was served on a tray with doylies, if you please. The old
Bay and Say had never seen such elegance. I glanced gratitude to Prissy, who
went red and looked away. She's nice, Prissy.
Something was odd, though. Roger doesn't do kindnesses except for
money. Tinker knowingly caught my anxiety, gave one of his spectacular coughs
as cover, shaking the rafters as far as the Roman ruins, and went for the ale.
'Sorry, miss,' he said, returning carrying five pints. I wish I
could do that. I once tried lifting three, but spilled two. His rheumy old eyes
streamed. He wiped snot into his palm, and gulped phlegm down with relief. 'My
chest's getting worse. I need a drink bad . . .'
'Oh. Please, Mr. Dill. Allow me.'
He swiftly vanished her proffered note into his mitten. 'Wouldn't
dream—ohwellifyouinsist. Ta.'
'Would you care for a cup, Mr. Roadie?' Lydia asked, pouring. T am
pleased about Miss Carmel's new . . .'
'No!' I shot in, then lamely added as everybody in the pub stared.
'He's allergic to tea.'
'Er, yep, allergic'
He was learning. My head ached. I kept sane by asking Lydia about
'Antiques For Trade Experts' in Chichester. Outside, thunder stuttered,
quivering the floorboards. It was a while before the din dwindled and folk
started to come in shaking umbrellas.
'And now, Lovejoy,' Lydia said eagerly, coming to the end of her
diatribe about Georgian furniture. 'Could you tell me of the successes of
Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.?'
Roadie laughed. Tinker looked uncomfortable.
'Well,' I said weakly, 'we've been after
' Successes , Lovejoy.'
She frowned. 'I insist.'
I managed to say it seventh go.
'None, love.'
Her luscious lips thinned. 'In all that time ?
So I explained, down to my present penury and homelessness.
That night I slept on her mother's sofa.
7
That sofa night was longish, as nights go. I'm not one to lie
awake fretting. If you sleep, you sleep. I usually read, or lie smiling at
memories. But not tonight. Mavis warned me (a) not to move one inch, and (b) not
to touch a single thing, like I was going to nick her teaspoons. (They were
only electroplate anyway.) I sighed. I'm what prejudice is for.
The storm crashed and pealed. The living-room fire died. I watched
the embers. Hearing Lydia moving about upstairs made me unhappy. Worse, I was
outwitted.
My sparse living comes from detecting antiques, among the crud of
fakes. I feel genuine. They speak to
me, as in Thekla's fashion show with Loon Rodney's antique carpet. We divvies
are few and far between. I've only heard often besides me in my whole life, and
I've searched. The chance of
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