The Grace in Older Women by Jonathan Gash Read Free Book Online Page A

handkerchief. I swear she
was gloating, thrilled at threats, at her Ashley crushing my opposition.
    I nodded, know defeat.
    'That's my man!'
    Was it? Was I? J looked at them both. Triumphant, sure, but a serf
is a serf. Only very rarely does servitude become loyalty. They'd made a
mistake, and mistakes have to be paid for sooner or later. You'd think people
in their position would know that. People in my position do.
    'We welcome you to our cause, Lovejoy,' Roberta said. She extended
her hand. This time I went to take it, for the sake of appearances. I felt a
distinct pressure of her fingers on mine. In fact, if she hadn't looked so
delicate I'd have said it was just this side of a clutch. 'You will move in, two
days from now,' she added.
    'Move in where?'
    'Here. On my husband's orders.'
    He managed to look unsurprised, but it was close. First he'd heard
of it.
    'Sorry, love,' I said quickly. 'I've antiques to suss - '
    'Mrs.. Beth Pardoe can wait, Lovejoy,' Battishall said.
    Which made me gulp. 'Right. Two days, then.'
    They let me go. I was told to wait at the servants' entrance, for
a radio taxi to come and take me to Sudbury railway station. As I left the
room, a maid arrived pushing a tea trolley. It was laden with enough grub to
feed a regiment. Sandwiches, a huge trifle, cakes, tarts. I drew breath to beg,
but the maid frowned me on my way. However close to death's dark door, the
lovely Roberta was quelling any lingering anorexia. I went to stand outside and
wait, thinking about Whistlejack.
    Now, the horse called Whistlejack trod the springy turf about
1762, and pegged out soon after. Two legit honest genuine canvases of this nag
exist by the great Stubbs, one a lifesize painting of epic proportions, the
other a small rather mundane thing showing a groom with Whistlejack and two
stallions. Neither oil belonged to Battishall. Or was somebody stealing the
lifesizer for him this very minute? He'd said its arrival was imminent. But it
couldn't be thieved, not the huge portrait. So somebody was going to work the
shuff, were they? (Tell you about this marvellous trick when I get a minute.)
Which raised the question of who was a faker good enough to duplicate
Whistlejack's loving portrait. Two, in these parts, Packo Orange, in gaol. The
other was me.
    The taxi took its time. I was late for Addie, and the determined
Juliana Witherspoon. I wish now I had been too late.
     
    6
    There's a thing called morale. Elusive, but there when it is, if
you follow. It's the stuff that makes banks obey you, and women place their
implicit trust in your every word.
    But:
    Its absence is misery plus everything worse. Without morale, you
might as well stay at home. My own tactic, seeing I lack morale most of the
time, is to give in. If my opponent's a man, I might brave it out. If it's a
woman, I chuck the towel in straight off. Instant surrender. The reason? It's a
woman's world. They say it's not, just so they can get the upper hand quicker,
but they know and we know. Life is their game. Women have the referee's
whistle. You might say I'd given Juliana W. the sailor's elbow, but that wasn't
true. I'd only rejected her scheme of funds for her parish church's wonky
spire. I'd not really spurned her qua her. And believe me, a crone is never a crone. There's a grace in older women
that is missing from younger ones. I'd even go so far as to say that older
women are preferable. Comedians joke that they're more grateful, but it isn't
that. It's the older woman's sense of looking, saying something worth listening
to, their friendliness even. And their understanding, which goes a long way
with rubbish blokes like me because it can lead to something so precious that
it cools your soul like sweet rain. That something is called mercy. Show me a
dolly bird who has any. But an older woman, just occasionally, has a depth of
mercy to sanctify a saint . . .
    ‘Piss off aht of it, Lovejoy,' the girl said. 'You make me
frigging sick, you gormless festering