The Grace in Older Women (3 page)

3

Nothing gets very far from love. Antiques are already there,
because they personify love like nothing else. Antiques are it. Look at 'opera'
glasses, for instance.

As theatres and technology grew in the eighteenth century, so did
innovations among theatre-goers. Gentry moved into boxes, snootily quaffed and
noshed during the plays on balconies, far removed from the hoipolloi rioting
with pies and beer in the stalls below. But grand ladies found it irksome to
merely watch actors giving their all. They'd mostly gone for gossip, a chance
to suss out the gorgeous apparel of rival beauties. Even with the aid of 'prospect
glasses' - miniature telescopes - to observe the actors' dastardly deeds, shows
could be pretty dull. These 'lorgnettes', as the French called them, could be
put to more interesting use, especially if one's dear friend was in another box
across the other side of the theatre. What could be more interesting than
swivelling the prospect glass to watch her instead of Ben Jonson's play?

It could be more interesting still if one's best friend got up to
no good in the gloaming of reflected limelight, just when she thought she was
secure and incognito. And women crave to see other women at it - as long as
they themselves go unnoticed.

But ladies who planned assignations in theatres learnt cunning.
They came with fans, wore masks, adopted fanciful garb, used screens, employed
disguise. And gentlemen took umbrage at being overtly observed while in some
deep sexual intrigue. It became especially troubling when the lady concerned
turned out to be no lady at all, but some tart picked up in Covent Garden.
Duelling was in the air. Reputation was everything. Scandal was a fitting
reason to go about killing people who spread it.

Enter the inventiveness of Georgian London. Lorgnettes were hidden
in the handles of the gentleman's walking canes, in ladies' fans. Prospect
glasses were sold that folded, or shrank to minuscule proportions. All clever
stuff. But the worrisome fact remained, that if you wanted to spy on a friend
making love in the theatre's cosy dark, you still had to dangle out at an
ungainly angle and ogle with your mini-telescope in an unseemly way. You simply
could not pretend, when pretending is the woman's love game, always has been.
Another urgent call on Georgian instrument makers.

They solved it brilliantly, with a thing called the polemoscope.
The French, always in the running when improving wickedness, called the
polemoscope a
lorgnette de jalousie
,
the 'jealousy glass' of London.

Basically simple, you can make one yourself. Take a tube
(cardboard if you like) and make a small telescope out of it same as usual. You
cut a long oval in the tube's side, and glue a mirror inside at an angle. Then
to the theatre and, affecting great interest in Mr. Shakespeare's tragedy, you
raise your jealousy glass. And you see, not the stage play, but the goings-on
in the box immediately to your right or left.
And nobody knows
. Folk can glance slyly at you all they like, but
all they see is you staring with wrapt fascination towards the stage. Actually,
you have a bird's-eye view of your friend's passionate scene in the adjacent
box and can focus on every ravishing grab and grope. Polemoscopes sold well.

The ones that collectors favour most nowadays are the jewelled
ones, plus the rarities. The great Wedgwood did some All things being equal,
the smaller the better. Go for the ones concealed in toothpick quivers,
pendants or hidden in watches - this last the rarest.

‘In, Lovejoy,' Tinker was saying, pushing me.

‘I'm going, I'm going.'

Across the street the girl in the peach dress was walking
purposefully along the pavement. So what?

‘I’ll be in the Drum and Dog, Lovejoy,' Tinker said, pity in his
voice. For himself, note, not for me.

Tut your beer on the slate. I'll pay at weekend.'

'We broke again?'

Not even worth answering. I went in for my big scene.

Most things actually aren't. Antiques taught me that. It's a sort
of law with me. It's simple, but complex inside, if you follow. Most things
aren't.

Start with antiques. Antiques aren't, because mostly they're fake,
dud, Sexton Blakes, simulants, repros. Estimates vary, but the lowest is ten
per cent at any famed auction. Choose any great art gallery in the world,
forgeries are a tenth. And the highest proportion? The sky, the sky. Old Master
drawings are all fakes until proved genuine. And I do mean
proved
squared, cubed, finger prints of Michelangelo attested by
Scotland Yard, and the certificate of authenticity treble checked. And then
don't bother, for an Old Master drawing is sham. Only a true divvy knows.

It goes for other things too. Marriage, cynics could say, is a
partnership of deceivers based on convenience. Government isn't. Policing
isn't. Truth usually certainly isn't. Holiness positively certainly isn't its
beautiful self. But the real front runner for being definitely not what it's
cracked up to be is Law. Lawyers, laws, legalities, The Law in all its
grandeur, is one enormous fraud. We don't have Law, we have lawyers. Sadly,
lawyers've won the game. One or two judges, maybe a politician here and there,
is aware of this terrible criminal conspiracy, but they're as helpless as the
rest of us. I entered the law courts without misgiving. I've misgiven so often
there was no point.

'Lovejoy,' I reported.

The goon looked up. 'Hello, Lovejoy. Thought you was still with
that rich bird in Wales.'

Some memories make you wince. I winced stealthily, not to give him
satisfaction. Den Heanley's a stout uniformed bloke with a walrus moustache,
fancies himself at nine-pin bowls of a Saturday night at the Welcome Sailor,
sails off Southwold. He has a cousin in Zurich's police, so he knows I killed
my missus once, he says. He has a wayward daughter, sixteen, who manages
illicit chemicals and university students. He's worried sick, his wife suicidal
over the girl. Outwardly, he's the avuncular custodian of our legal portals,
ticks names off a tally list.

‘I've no money for bribes, Den.'

‘
Fees
, Lovejoy. The
law's against bribes.'

'Ha, ha, Den.' I looked about. 'Where do I go?'

'Through there, and - '

'And wait,' I finished. 'Chance of a cupper?'

Taking his pen, I signed
Winston
Churchill, 1, Hyde Park Gate
and walked through. Nobody else waiting.
Distant voices pontificated, echoed. A door slammed. Footfalls thumped.
Silence. More fairy voices, a stern bass intoning somebody's name.

Quarter of an hour. Another. Half an hour.

Rising, I returned to Den. 'How much longer?' A posh suited bloke
advanced.

'Lovejoy? I called out, and you ignored me! That's the action of a
bounder!'

'Sod off,' I said. It was the thunder man from the auction. Medium
height, furled brolly, waistcoated double-breasted suit worn with such
assurance you could almost believe they were still in fashion. Moustache like
that old comedian. He'd have his bowlers privately made (sorry, built; you
build bowler hats), Bates's of Jermyn Street, London.

'Guard! Make this hoodlum speak in a civil manner!'

‘Yes, sir.' Den's eyes gave me an imploring look. 'Lovejoy. This
is the chief magistrate, Mr.. Ashley Battishall.'

'Sod off.'

'Heanley,' the thunder man thundered. 'Bring him to me the instant
he's given his evidence!'

He strode off. Unfortunately, you need really long legs for a good
stridey exit. He tried, didn't make it. And I think bowlers are only for squat
navvies or tall effete gentlemen who are deadly shots and can ride dromedaries.

'He ever ridden a dromedary, Den?'

Den sighed. 'Don't start, Lovejoy.' He perked up with a smile at a
distant echo. 'They're calling you.' He pointed with a pencil. I hate that. 'If
you get done, Lovejoy, it's Bill Tyrone on the cells.'

Bill, custodian of us honest people penned in our town dungeons,
gets me fish and chips from Sadie's.

If it's all right with you, I won't go into detail about the
court. The ritual's repellent, their tricks hideous, the whole charade
disgusting. Lawyers can't see it, of course, because it's their livelihood.
Makers of poison gas must have their own rationalizations. Juries listen, or
don't. Judges listen, or don't. The mouthies talk, trying to seem lifelike. My
bit concerned a polemoscope.

'Would I be right to say you gave the defendant one of these
instruments?' the barrister asked when he could be bothered.

'Aye.'

'An antique?'

'No.'

That made his team shuffle papers and glare.

He cleared his throat, to put the knife in. He flapped a paper at
me, an irritating fly.

To the police, you stated it was marked London made, 1878. Do you
deny this?'

'No.'

'Yet now you say it isn't an antique?'

'Yes.'

The magistrate cut in. 'Could you explain, Love joy?'

Him I knew from last year. I'd sold him a mahogany smallboy
without veneer. Lovely. Because he was a magistrate I'd told him it was a
reproduction I'd made, but he hadn't minded.

'Antiques begin in 1837, m'lord. Things made later aren't.'

'Aren't?'

'The Customs and Excise lot started to con the public into
believing antiques were defined as a century old, so they could charge money on
more things. Then people started claiming anything older than seventy-five
years, then fifty.' I paused, but nobody spoke. I added helpfully, k l don't
trust moving goalposts, Your Honour.'

'The, ah, device was marked as London, 1878?'

'Yes.'

'Very well!' The barrister flung his paper down to put the fear of
God in me. It didn't work, because the fear's already there. This wart was a
pillock. 'Why did you give it to the defendant, Packo Orange, a rival antique
dealer?'

'So he would keep quiet.'

'Quiet about what?' He looked blank.

'About a sympathy.'

'Explain!' He stood akimbo, jowls dangling.

i already have.'

'Lovejoy.' The magistrate was getting tired. An old bloke, he's
our town's contract bridge champion, hangs anybody who uses the Culberston
system. 'What is a sympathy?'

Packo wasn't in court, which was a pity. He'd like this. No
greater raconteur than Packo Orange. He was probably pulling his usual trick of
dying in the cells. He's an elderly mate of mine, paintings faker in Dedham.
Looks exactly like a garden gnome, beard and all, yet cohabits with a
succession of young blondes. His worn joke is that he changes them when the
ashtrays are full. You are expected to laugh.

'A sympathy's a painting, m'lord, done using sympathetic inks.'

'Lovejoy,' he admonished wearily, as if I'd gone two no trumps
without a knave for entry and only one point.

‘I’m telling you!' I said indignantly. The auction had a blank
painting, a sympathy, on sale. I wanted it badly. The dealers laughed, thinking
it stupid, but they're thick as a well wall. Packo knew it for a sympathy. So I
bribed him to keep out of the bidding.'

That is illegal!' somebody interposed.

My turn to be weary now. We have this hopeless law about the
conduct of bidders in auctions. It stands virtually unused.

'What did you bribe him with, Lovejoy?' the old beak asked.

'The polemoscope, and the Coke recipe.'

The what?' Everybody woke up at that.

'The recipe for Coca-Cola, sir. Packo was thinking of marketing
some, though it seems a waste of time to me.' The news seemed to have thrown
them. Consternation was about. I helped it along, seeing they were interested.
'I told him to convert it all back to imperial measures, because the Coke
company do it in metric nowadays. But that's not my fault, is it?'

Nobody answered. Two lawyers were whispering. Then, 'Recipe? Is it
not secret, Lovejoy?'

'Oh, aye. Packo thought 19.94 grammes of alcohol was too much-you
end up with a hundred litres.' I paused, adding helpfully, 'That's knocking on
twenty-seven gallons, Your Honour.'

They held the wary silence, a Byzantine court wondering who had
the sword.

'And 4.48 grammes of coca leaf, same as they used to. I showed
Packo how to do it. Have you ever tried measuring out 77.4 grammes of
glycerine? Phew! Can't see why 44.8 grammes of phosphoric acid doesn't rot your
guts.'

‘Isn't this unknown?' the old man squeaked.

'Yes, Your Honour. But everybody knows it. Like the pope’s secret
telephone beside the high altar, St Peter's in Rome.' The old bloke shook his
head. it's Vatican extension 3712.’

'Mr.. Moore? Relevance?'

‘It's just me, m'lord,' I said kindly. 'My mind's a ragbag. Things
stick. Like, Italians are supposed to rank the world's most scoundrelly blokes.
And, a male contestant was barred from the N Australia guest contest, even
though he'd won a local pageant hands down.' No response. I went on, 'The US
shows eight times more violent acts per hour on children's TV programmes than
in prime time . . .' I petered out.