smile
inwardly to herself. 'It's Lovejoy's.'
'Fortnight. No charge.' And that, said John, was that.
He left, his men tramping stolidly fore and aft, us all fawning
and hoping he'd remember how glad we were he'd called, then shakily blotting
our damp foreheads. Notice one thing? Doing a reffo takes no time at all. And
Sheehan didn't need to know what the item actually was. No money changes hands.
Normally, the ref is paid ten per cent of its value. Simple, eh? But if you
default, the ref simply inflicts what punishment he thinks fit. He can declare
you untouchable, a nothing' who is simply ignored by one and all and instantly
goes bankrupt. He can confiscate whatever he wants to make restitution. The ref
s word is, well, law. Sadly, refs don't do domestic cases, but let's hope the
time will come. We need laws. The trouble is we've only got lawyers. Where was
I? Calling, 'Ta, John. Appreciate it, ta.'
An hour later, exhausted, I reached my cottage. Its aroma disturbed
me, Thekla's perfume plus my grot. I sighed, got down to resuming life.
Solitude can be relief.
The sky was black, thunder on the go, lightning cracking the eerie
pewter sky. No rain yet. The estuary must be catching it. The air felt too
muggy to breathe.
Quickly I shed Thekla's husband's posh outfit and had a coolish
bath. I don't like heat. Summer's a pest, its sunshine making you sweat before
you've gone a yard. Give me grey skies any day.
Women undo seasons. Thekla had whinged about draughts, bare flagging
underfoot, no electricity, no phone, water from my garden's ancient well, et
endless cetera. She had everything reconnected in a trice, so she could remind
me every two seconds how grim things had been before she'd arrived, that I'd
cost her a fortune. I told her they would only cut it all off as soon as she
left, but women won't be told. They assume that everything's permanent when not
even life is that.
So I made a zillion phone calls while the going was good,
ransacked the place for stray money (found two ten-quid notes and a mound of
coins; Thekla hates change, pollinates every shelf with deposits of the stuff).
I hoped she'd leave her scented soaps, though they made me stink like a
chemist's, because proper soap's expensive and I get sick of stand-up washes in
well water using soap made of bacon fat and ashes. It's cheap, but wears you
out.
The water barrel I drained and filled with clean tap water. No way
to store electricity or gas. I brewed up, noshed everything I could find in a
great hot fry-up, ate a mystifying jar of small mushrooms (quite good really;
the label said they were truffles; I was really pleased; George III was crazy
for them). I slung ajar of Gentleman's Relish because you need a whole meal to
go with it and my prospects weren't that promising.
Thinking of the economic outlook at Lovejoy Antiques, Inc., I
ordered a picnic hamper, instant delivery, from Griffin's Stores ('Emperor Size
Hampers For Celebratory Occasions') on Thekla's credit card, couldn't think of
anything else so told them to send me three pairs of socks. I'm not much of a
thief. I wish I was. I ordered seven pizzas from the fast foodery but they
wouldn't bike them out to the village, lazy swine. Then the credit cards were
stopped. At this point I made the mistake of answering the telephone.
'Who?' I said guardedly. 'No, Lovejoy isn't here.'
It was a northern accent, restful the way your home town's broad
speech always is.
T have the right number, though?' She hesitated, laughed prettily.
Did I know that voice?
'What's it for?' My confidence returned. Bailiffs lack hesitancy,
and don't have pretty laughs.
'To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?'
My heart warmed to her. Who'd she said, Stella Somebody? I'd not
heard such eloquence since I'd left the north. Those Manchester-based TV sagas
ignore the north's politenesses, so they get everything wrong—accents, speech
rhythms, words. There was honest politeness in my native slum. Its speech just
sounds
Dates Mates, Sole Survivors (Html)