Every Last Cent

Ten minutes later I was wolfing fish, chips, mushy peas, and a ton of bread in Woody's nosh bar when Paul plonked himself down opposite and called for some chips. Woody does wonders with grease, fries everything in it except beans. His belly always shows through his unbuttoned shirt, black hair fungating up from below. Thick blue smoke hung in the air. His fag ash flaked down onto his rotting cakes. Why does TV never show places like Woody's, staple East Anglian nosh bar that keeps society going? TV

cooks only tell you how to baste lampreys.

'Wotcher, Paul. Who's looking after your eagles?'

'My helper. Millicent.' He was lavish with the vinegar and brown sauce. 'She's especially good with harriers. They hunt in flocks, unlike the rest of—'

'Your wife Jenny,' I interrupted quickly. He had the grace to look sheepish. 'She and her pals threatened to hang me at Vice's wharf.'

'It's that lad of yours, Lovejoy. Mortimer's too honest for his own good.'

'Don't you start.' I wondered why I'd come to find Paul in the first place, then my mind cleared. 'Here, Paul. You train your birds up Saffron Fields, right?'

'You want to see them fly, Lovejoy?'

'No, ta. You'll have seen the lodgers, posh Yanks?'

'Mmmh. The woman's a bit hairy. She's into the supernatural. Her husband Taylor Eggers is quite pleasant. He's into antiques, drops in the pub.'

But something felt awry about the Eggers. Or maybe I was just hoping to rile the bonny Susanne, seeing she talked Mortimer down.

'She one of these spirit mediums?'

'Definitely odd. Wouldn't like to cross her.'

'She doesn't mind your birds, then?'

Paul grimaced. 'She charges me a daily rate. Mortimer lets me fly them free, keep the rabbits down on the Short Tom pasture.'

'How come she doesn't know that Mortimer owns the place?'

'How come you don't know, Lovejoy?' he accused, then nodded understandingly. 'You're trying to keep out of the way, is that it?' And added, 'The boy's agents in St Edmundsbury do the letting. You know country folk, Lovejoy. They can keep mum for ever, if they want.'

Question two: 'There's some auctioneers who're twitchers, isn't there?'

'One bloke,' Paul corrected. 'He's a serious birdwatcher. You know him. Nice geezer, Lanny Langley-Willes. Sotheby's, Christie's, the rest.' He leaned close, the ultimate revelation. 'Birdwatchers hate being called twitchers, Lovejoy.'

And now the difficult question. 'Paul. What's Jenny looking for lately?'

His features didn't change when I mentioned his wife, but heartache always shows through.

'Regency and Victorian furniture. And some portrait.'

And now I really was worried. Antique dealers aren't secret. The trade can also be very laggardly. Yet all of a sudden the local dealers were ganging up to march on Rome, viz.

me. Why? Something was going on, and I'd not heard about it. Worse, the slowest-selling antiques are always excellent Regency and early Victorian furniture.

Check the auction records. It's true. Even the sale of a single scroll-pedestal card table would be talked of for days.

Suddenly I wanted to ask if Jenny was still shacking up with Aspirin, but tactfully shelved the question. 'Does anybody know what the Eggers are after?'

'Some old portrait with a funny name. I'm just glad I'm not an antique dealer.' He looked at the coins I pushed across the table. 'Keep it, Lovejoy.'

'It's your change. Put it in your bucket. And ta.'

And I went in search of Rio Dauntless. If you want the truth, first find a liar. Nobody lies like Rio Dauntless, except me.

5

ESCAPE ALWAYS LOOKS greener on the other side of the fence. I sat on my doorstep trying to work out exactly what fence. My ancient Austin Ruby was just visible among tall weeds. Maybe I could sell it? Except people complain because it lacks an engine, selfish sods.

Parenthood? Kids can keep it.

Children, I'd realized in my swift introduction to fatherhood, get into trouble (e.g.

leasing Saffron Fields to loony Yankees) then drag you in so that it becomes your fault (e.g. ruining the antiques trade). And finally they concoct barmy schemes to make everything worse – 'Hire actors, Lovejoy,' etc, etc.

I told the scrounging bird life, 'I'm off. Fend for yourselves, okay?' I ignored the reproachful stare of Crispin my hedgehog and left the lot of them to it.

The town nearest our village is ancient. Even its New Town area is old, so named because in AD 67 Queen Boadicea of the Ancient Brit Iceni tribe encouraged urban planning by razing the entire joint. I was glad to be leaving greenery and zooming back to civilization. Towns are safer. Sure, irate tribal queens may pillage and burn, but that's not half as creepy as a forest, it it?

A mile along the main road I got a lift from a pretty lady in a little whirry motor. She invited me for coffee. Eager to please, I accepted. Disappointingly it turned out to be a Salvosh sing-along hymn session in the Drill Hall. I didn't mind. In fact I felt quite good, swelling her numbers and doing my bit for God. He repaid my generosity by providing some cold bread pudding (which I can't stand) and fruit flan, which I like but which was horrible. I promised really sincerely to attend every Thursday for ever and ever. See?

Towns help. Countryside can do you in.

I wish I'd remembered that.

The market was just packing up when I got down Scheregate Steps among the barrows and awnings, and got hailed by Vi Anaconda on her market stall. She sells dry goods, which means dross like ribbons, children's plastic toys and suchlike tat. She sings – I use the term loosely –in taverns at night, doubling her money by brief sojourns in drinkers' motors before wending her way homeward like a good girl. It's where she gets her nickname. I like Vi.

'Wotcher, Vi.'

'Hello, Lovejoy.' She eyed me from beneath her striped cloth and the straggly balaclava she wears. 'Surprised to see you're still in one piece.'

'Misunderstanding, Vi.' My wayward brain talked me on. 'Hey, Vi. Why do birds'

nicknames come last, and blokes' nicknames come first?'

'What the toss you on about?' She was stuffing her items into black bin bags.

'Well, Mirrorman Tate is Mirrorman, right? But you're Vi Anaconda. If you were a bloke, we'd call you Anaconda Vi, see?'

She paused to sigh. 'What're you after, Lovejoy?'

'I'm broke. I need—'

'A team of actors, right? Tina Maria Stevens says she'll do it.'

Everybody knows my business, except me.

'Er, look, love, I don't want birds.' Mortimer was only fifteen, for God's sake. Time enough for females when he was older. Also, I'd never even heard of a female divvy, so how could I make Tina Maria into one?

'Stop it, Lovejoy.' Still narked, I glared while she sold some customer a flashing plastic sword and three flashing plastic bouncy balls. Then she said evenly, 'You're behaving like an outraged parent. Your lad's got more sense than you, twice your brains, ten times your savvy. Tina Maria lives near Saffron Fields anyway. She'll keep in line.'

Meaning tradition would control Tina Maria's potential lust? Tina Maria is neat, always brilliantly turned out, and has an antiques place called Tina Maria Interiors. She lives alone in a house – it's got a well in the living room; no, honest, it really has – and trades pre-Victorian gunge. She hungers to become an actress, which is like sinking on a rotting plank and hoping to swim to a different plank several shark-infested miles off.

Thespians are a dodgy lot. I've heard that.

'Well, if there's nobody else.'

'How many do you need? I heard another four.'

'How'd you hear, Vi?' I was as secret as the UN.

'Some Yank in corduroys, been asking the market who's a divvy. Wants a naff painting of some crone.'

Mrs Eggers's bloke from among the leeks? I decided I needed some gelt to escape from this tangle.