The Grace in Older Women Read Online Free PDF Page B

the village.
    'I liked your last auntie. She has a dog,' Brenda said,
loudly confiding to the world. 'She's married to the vicar but bounces in bed—‘
    'Thank you! 1 Brenda's scarlet-faced mother shrilled quickly,
grabbing her change and dragging away Brenda Blabbermouth, who complained she
wanted to stay and see me be sick.
    'You better?' Tonietta can be kind when things were going her way.
'I'll get you a coffee.'
    'No, ta. I'm okay.'
    For a while I pulled myself together, watching the passers-by
shop. The precinct forms the centre of our town square. For a kingdom's most
ancient recorded town, the square is brand new. Paved, a few covered ways, two
arcades, a fountain, shops abutting, stalls and itinerant barrows, buskers here
and there, it's pleasant. There's even a caff, trying to look continental with
white plastic tables and chairs in clusters. Pigeons, of course, lending
droppings, ectoparasites, and authenticity to the scene. A girl from the music
school was playing a violin with intense preoccupation, some Purcell air I
think, a cap on the flagging by her feet.
    'What pale shell, Tonietta?'
    'This.'
    And she pulled out a small fan, a tiny thing. It beat a chime in
my middle that practically put me on my feet again better than any pick-me-up.
It folded, had fewer than a dozen sticks to it, and was mounted with traces of
gold. Definitely the real thing, but sadly broken, five of the blades badly
fractured, almost as if somebody had trod on the lovely creation. Late
seventeenth century, rare. No carefully sculpted holes in it that would have
been the giveaway sign of the 'quizzer', the quizzing fan that allowed a lady
to conceal her face with gracious modesty but peep at everybody. Of course, a
turtle carapace has thirteen great scales, with littler scales towards the
edge, so you are limited by size. This was genuine, not merely workbench
sweepings held together by melted gelatine.
    'Who's the duckegg that danced on it?' I hadn't touched it.
    'I have this new feller, Lovejoy.' Unabashed, she did a brisk
sale, a plastic comb. 'He's a driver, Hook of Holland ferries. He stood up,
sudden.
    'This is English.’ I held my hand like a child does playing
cowboys with imaginary pistols. Four inches, tip of the middle finger to where
your thumb forms the pistol hammer at your index finger's palmar crease. 'The
blades were only four inches long. Then they lengthened to nine, end of the
first George's reign. They went giant in the 1740s, up to two feet, but then
folk saw sense. Nine to eleven inches became a sort of norm.’
    'Real shell, then?’
    She was thrilled, but kept on serving. Connor brought her over a
huge steaming spud. My belly rumbled a begging plaint but he shuffled away
without offering me a mouthful.
    'Aye.' I touched it then, at least as thrilled as her. 'Sorry,
pal, 1 1 told it in sincere apology, and looked at its venation against the
daylight. You could hardly see the pallor of veins in it. 'You're beautiful, a
darling. You deserve the very best.' A tortoise-shell fan this old was beyond
belief.
    'Will you mend it, Lovejoy?'
    'Aye. It'll take awhile.
    ‘I’ll bring it. Got to have it photographed first.'
    She didn't trust me, after all I'd been to and done for her. Well,
nearly been, and nearly done. (Tip: when entrusting some antique to an ‘expert',
do two things. First, weigh it.
Second, photograph it. Then when it's
returned, so-say cleaned or whatever, you have a couple of measurements to
check that it hasn't been swapped for a fake.)
    'I'm at the library meeting some old crone. Then the priory ruins.
Six o'clock and eightish.'
    'Don't tell me, Lovejoy,' she said, sure of herself now I was
hooked on her priceless fan. 'The geriatric at six, the married bitch in the
dusk at nightfall. Have I got it right?'
    'If it's Lovejoy, dear,' a voice tweeted, 'it's never what I’d call the right way round!'
    Cyril stood there, a riot of coloured sequins. He and Keyveen had
lately become our town's most