The Sin Within Her Smile Page 20

  ‘There’d been rumours. I dropped by, on the pretence of checking up on its vaccinations. They were a young couple. We chatted.

  I heard a noise, went to the drawer. It had pneumonia, was battered.’

  ‘What?’ I couldn’t stop saying what. The lights were on now, a bank, security check, uniforms testing locks.

  ‘I couldn’t speak.’ Humphrey sounded so tired. ‘I asked why the baby was in the drawer. Covered in vomit, it stank. They’d just finished their meal, a Chinese take-away. Watching television. The place was a tip.’

  ‘What... ?’ I meant, What did they say?

  He smiled a smile I hope I never see again. ‘The man said, “What’s it got to do with you?” So I hit him.’ He stopped, worried. ‘No. I don’t mean therefore I hit him. I mean I started hitting him. You see? The woman came at me with a knife. I beat them both to the floor. They couldn’t stand up.’ My silence gave him time. ‘If the baby hadn’t cried out, I’d have carried on pounding them both until they were dead. Murder, you see? Me, a murderer. I took the baby to hospital.’

  ‘?’ I asked, zero syllables.

  ‘One of my colleagues is a consultant there. I could trust him to keep the baby in. I went to the police station. By then the couple had reported me. I was arrested.’ I listened, stricken. ‘It never recovered. Poor little mite died, day three.’

  ‘But that was . ..’ I dried up. ‘Justice?’ The word is a laugh. A bitter legal laugh, but still a hoot.

  ‘Is there such a thing? I resigned, wrote to all my patients. Sent word to the General Medical Council.’ That terrible smile. ‘A doctor can’t take an oath to save folk, then smash them about.’ He almost snorted. ‘My patients organized a support petition.’ ‘Anybody would have done the same, Doc.’

  ‘Humphrey, please, Lovejoy. Not Doctor.’ He heaved a breath. ‘Just thought to tell you that reporter was right. My wife left. Shame, you see.’

  ‘You get my medal, Humphrey,’ I said. ‘Is this why . .. ?’ You can’t really say suicide. How do doctors ask?

  ‘I was down. I’d lost my chlordiazepoxide.’

  I remembered the plastic bottle. ‘Ah, Phillida’s found them. Only, doctor’s handwriting, eh?’ I chuckled unconvincingly. Doctors don’t write their own names on prescription bottles. The pharmacist writes the patient’s. So why ‘Dr Lancaster’? Therefore

  Humphrey shared that name. Only one way for that. ‘Just tell her I’ll smack her wrist if she finds them again, okay?’

  ‘Oh, good.’ He gestured. ‘Coming? Suppertime.’

  ‘Not yet. I want to find a, er, bookshop.’

  He left. I gave him a couple of beats, then started into the square with a loving smile. It died before I’d gone a yard. I ducked back swiftly. They hadn’t seen me. Luke, in Mrs. Arden’s motor. They seemed very good friends. I checked that no windowpanes reflected me for the eagle-eyed Luke, and sloped away.

  Which gave me time to ring Doc Lancaster. There was some jiggery- pokery about getting through. Some bird made me listen to Delius’s Sea Drift.

  ‘Wotcher, Doc. It’s me, in Walia Pura, a.k.a. Welsh Wales.’ ‘Lovejoy?’ He tried to sound bored. ‘All well?’

  ‘The constabulary are anti us nutcases.’

  ‘So Wales has sussed you, Lovejoy! Nothing amiss?’

  ‘Is he your brother, Doc?’ I came straight out with it, sick of mucking about. It was Mrs. Arden knowing Luke narked me.

  He hesitated for a beat, ‘Mmmh. Nice chap, get to know him.’

  I said. ‘Doc. Did you organize the whole farce?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Lovejoy?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Is there a word?’ Like teaching a kiddie to say please.

  ‘Organize the trip? No, of course not. Why would I?’

  ‘Then why’s your brother on it, and not on some cruise with willing ladies with stars in their eyes?’

  ‘Because you were going, Lovejoy.’ I listened in disbelief. Me? Doc thinks I’m a prat, always has. ‘I couldn’t risk him on holiday without a friend to turn to. Superb doctor, but solitary.’

  ‘Me?’ I got out.

  ‘I trust you, Lovejoy. Knew you’d give it a go.’

  God, but it was cold. The Carmarthen wind stings your eyes sometimes when you don’t expect. I wiped my nose. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about him?’

  ‘Humphrey wanted to go incognito. In fact it was only when Vana said that I - ’

  Headache time. ‘Vana who?’ I asked, cunning Lovejoy.

  ‘Mrs. Farahar. Wife of a senior American Air Force officer. It’s her charity, Cardiganshire’s her home county. Her family’s on my list. She was raising funds ..

  Too simple. I must be blind as a bloody bat. Vana Farahar’s voice had elided its Welshness, but now I detected it in a mental re-run. I suddenly knew all, nearly.

  ‘Doc? Any chance of you getting to these parts?’

  ‘Not really, Lovejoy. I’m on call. Keep in touch?’

  ‘Right.’ Well, it wasn’t my fault I hadn’t rung the blighter before now. ‘Cheers, Doc.’

  ‘Cheers, Lovejoy.’ I plonked the receiver down and started briskly towards the square. But it’s a kind of law with me: when a doctor wishes you good health, look out for plagues.

  Luke had the nerve to demand what I fed my dog on. I looked at Tudor, who’d magically reappeared.

  ‘Don’t they fend for themselves?’ I said.

  ‘In the Bronze Age, maybe. Now, you feed them.’

  Great, I thought bitterly. Another sponger, just when I wanted a clean pair of heels. ‘Luke,’ I called. ‘What on, mate?’

  He made no answer, uncooperative swine. See what I mean about being kind?

  Newginfawr was relieved to see us go. No crowds to jeer us out, nothing like that. But the whole town heaved a breath. I didn’t care, case-hardened.

  We were a rum lot, pulling out. I’d been up in the night, hearing Arthur blow soon after four. I’d looked across to see the pink caravan’s light. I’d pulled my mac on and gone across. Phillida was weeping on the caravan steps, Arthur in her arms. I went in, heated his bottle, took over. It felt funny, because I sleep naked mostly and had to sit on the steps with my knees together. Makes you wonder how women manage. Hell of a draught.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ I told her quietly. Arthur’s mouth leeched on the bottle with a yell of approval. ‘Mynydd Mal’ll be marvellous.’ I couldn’t even pronounce the blinking place.

  ‘It won’t, Lovejoy,’ she said. She’d pulled on her overcoat. The traffic lights by the church changed. Gripping. ‘He won’t be there.’

  ‘Course he will!’ I said, thinking, Who?

  ‘Gwyn said he would, but he won’t.’ She sniffed, rummaged, brought out a string of pearls, silver matchbox, a computer mouse, fountain pen and, fanfare, a hankie. ‘He made me come. I didn’t want to, Lovejoy.’ Tears flowed. I always want to clear off.

  ‘Why’d he make you?’

  ‘He said it’d give him an in, chance of a lifetime.’ She dropped a man’s wallet finding a new tissue. I picked it up, slammed my knees together. God, it’s a wonder women get anything done at all, knee problems all day long.

  ‘Did he?’ Gwyn who?

  ‘Typical,’ she wept on, answering obliquely like they do. ‘He’s always on about the big score.’ She made it a mocking citation. ‘As if he was buying the Derby winner. He can’t boil an egg.’

  I shifted uneasily. Women usually moan about me in identical terms. ‘Oh, give him the benefit of the doubt, love.’

  ‘Gwyn? You don’t know, Lovejoy. He’s been in business two years, and nothing. All my dad’s money. Even took the maternity money, bought a Russell Flint painting. It was a forgery. Typical. Everything he touches.’

  ‘What a shame.’ Arthur farted blissfully into the air of Newginfawr, grunted, sucked, gave me the bent eye at the artist’s name. I glared. It’s easy for infants. You should be out here, mate, I beamed back at him. I withdrew the bottle. He belched, G sharp.


  ‘It’s not, Lovejoy. It’s for life. He bought into the Arcade, near his friend’s car business.’

  ‘Gwyn in the car business?’ I asked, my heart griping.

  ‘With his friend, Mossie. Gwyn did his books, took calls, shipments, spares.’ She sat, elbows on knees. ‘Gwyn borrowed from a moneylender at Tey. I know he’ll mess it up.’

  Arthur cackled, kicked at the thought of impending disaster. I didn’t join in. Big John Sheehan is the only financier in Tey. He is very sombre news. Gwyn Hughes, Florence’s husband, was Jessina Mosston’s hubby’s pal. Christ.

  ‘Are you married?’ I asked. ‘Maybe - ’

  ‘He’s getting a divorce. She’s a bitch. She claimed he stole her pottery collection, but he didn’t.’

  Oh but he did, love, I answered inside. Florence told me. I’m basically a coward. I should have come right out. What can you do, though, when you’re feeding a bird’s babe and she’s brokenhearted? Her nerk was in Simon Doussy’s syndicate. Gwyn bought in with Florence’s valuable W. H. Taylor collection.

  Arthur got off to sleep, me singing ‘Marching To Pretoria’, my Unfailing soporific for infants. It woke half the town centre. Cheap at the price.

  Like I said, they were relieved to see us go from Newginfawr.

  The journey was suddenly harder. Preacher took the lead arguing transubstantiation with fence posts. Then Meg, edgy and cross. Then Luke, blue caravan, me last. Corinda had trotted in a state of wild nudity to the public loos screaming joyously when netted by Meg. Humphrey I’d inveigled into sitting with Phillida in my waggon. Rita was still doing her makeup after two hours. Duchess was screeching into the bright morning. Mr. Lloyd was watchful. Situation normal, you might say.

  Until the lumbering old bus chugged past.

  It’d been coming for some time, gears grinding, engine coughing, pistons sandpaper. I heard it hooting. The horses skittered. I just sat there holding the reins hoping that Pulse understood roadhogs.

  When finally it passed - Luke led us off - I gaped. The most derelict bus you ever did see. I’ve ridden in some, but never seen anything like this Leyland. It was a carnival. The windows were mostly cardboarded. Its paint was rust, mudguards gone. The tyres shone bald. The engine was exposed, the bonnet had disappeared. A goat - a goat - peered out beside the driver, a bearded bloke of immense girth. Folk waved. I waved back, smiling.

  The creation pulled in. People poured out like a football crowd. I jumped down. Anything was an improvement. The driver came through his mob, parting them like a biblical inundation. I went forward, hand out.

  ‘Good to see you. Lovejoy. You on the road?’

  He bellowed a laugh that made our nags wilt. I’d underestimated him. He was sumo-sized, with straggly black hair, a beard you could hide in. His shirt fungated pubic hair, his chest wire wool behind an enormous gold pendant. His jeans were a symphony of holes. The seven children were unwashed, tattered, the three women threadbare in caftans with earrings you could swing on, given the circumstances. The goat brayed or whatever. Kaliyuga, the fourth age of global degeneracy, was upon us. I began to think critical things, then remembered that I’d called my caravan friends a menagerie.

  ‘Lovejoy! Love of . .. ’ he twinkled, ‘ . .. joy! Get it?’ He boomed. I wished Calvin Jones had been here. He’d have met his match. His tribe laughed, applauded. He grabbed my hand in some complicated palm-rolling ritual I couldn’t follow but which set the children doing it amongst themselves. ‘Baptation C. Morris, bro,’ he thundered. ‘Ah stands foh friendship, right, each en every all?’

  ‘Right, right!’ his mob agreed. I found myself agreeing along, wondering what he was on about.

  ‘You going - ?’ I started. I liked him.

  ‘Sure, Bro Love!’ His eyes closed. ‘To the one true fezzie!’

  ‘Are you short of anything, er, bro?’

  ‘Spoken like a true travvie!’ He leant over me for a confidence. ‘Sister Cruza will unify you through prayer. She’s with Bro Bon foh a few holy moments.’ The women looked shy. ‘You know what Cruza means, each an every all?’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘are you American, er, bro?’

  ‘Bro Bap to friends!’ His correction set Ash whinnying away from this savage. ‘American in mah heart!’

  Thank God for that, I thought with relief. I’d enough problems, without having to weed American spies out. I saw Meg jump down and start towards us, fuming. I switched into my oblivious mode.

  ‘Bro Bap. Meet mah friends.’ It sounded weird, but was all I could manage. ‘There’s Luke. Here’s Meg. Preacher in the lead, still, er, praying - ’

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ Baptation thundered, raising his hand.

  ‘Er, quite.’ I raised mine, feeling daft. ‘Humphrey.’ Humphrey was carrying Arthur. Rita was peering from the window. Corinda started to strip. I quickly ran through the names, including Mr. Lloyd’s. ‘Some of us are not, er, usual, Bro Bap.’

  ‘Is anybody usual, Bro Lovejoy?’ Tears flowed in an instantaneous torrent. I stepped back astonished. The children and women gathered about him, patting him like some great wounded animal while he wept. Meg had frozen. She peered into the goat’s face. It decided to come down the steps. The horses didn’t like that. Baptation beckoned one of his women, ripped off part of her blouse and dabbed his eyes. She murmured gratitude. I thought, whatever turns you on. His tears dwindled.

  ‘You’re right. Ain’t he, each an every all?’ Tumultuous concurrence set us all grinning and patting. The goat sniffed me. I’ve heard they’re the cleanest of animals. ‘Look, bro,’ I chanced. ‘Please don’t take offence. But we’ve food, paraffin, milk.’ With a stroke of genius I added, ‘And a ton of oats.’ The once Meg’d made porridge it had proved inedible. Luke had stocked up in Newginfawr. I kept the goat between me and Meg. ‘Sugar, and ...’ We’d bacon, but I guessed Baptation’s lot to be hedge-huggers. ‘And bread.’

  ‘You ...’ His tears gushed forth. Meg turned puce. Luke interposed, talked softly to her. I started to cull our stores, mostly held in Preacher’s waggon. The children were marvellous, only taking what they were told. The women started prattling, and went ahead into their bus. I gave Meg a sack to carry as punishment for her rotten porridge.

  She stopped, aghast. I blundered into her, almost dropped six cartons of milk. ‘Lovejoy!’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ I excused politely, ‘it’s their place.’ They’d got washing strung between two window frames. Heaps of blankets, altars with alchemical symbols, sleeping bags, a sink piled with crockery. It seemed pretty normal, but Meg dropped her oats and shoved rudely out. I handed my milk to the women, smiled. Luke called a halt. He thought we’d given enough. Meg was tapping her elbows in fury.

  ‘That was pretty rude, Meg,’ I told her.

  ‘Not the mess, Lovejoy!’ She was apoplectic. ‘Those two ... doing it!’

  ‘Who?’ I asked, blank.

  ‘On the floor! It’s animal cries of an orgasm came.

  There actually had been a couple. Sister Cruza, I supposed, kneeling astride Bro Bon, her lovely body riding each thrust up into her, but I hadn’t taken any notice. It isn’t right to.

  I said, ‘But it’s their own home.’

  She spat her words. She was tiresome. ‘You’re even more of an animal than they are, Lovejoy! Don’t think I’ve forgotten. I’ll see you punished for taking advantage of Rita at Sunderhill.’ I honestly can’t see the point of Megs. ‘For depravity!’ She rushed to her caravan. I was mystified. Bap had said copulation was going on. Women never listen.

  ‘Listen up, y’all,’ said this non-American American. I looked round. Tudor was eyeing the goat. The loading was finished. ‘Come fezzie sunrise,’ he held a pose, arm aloft, chest dangling bells, ‘we travvies will joi-yern, y’all, with these holy Bro Luvvah uv Joy travvies!’ We had an invitation.

  He cut the scattered applause. The bus rocked with diminishing amplitude. I listened, reverent in holiness.

  ‘Amen,’ I said, feeling Bap want
ed a response.

  ‘I feel wholly unworthy.’ A trio of motorbikes roared, dopplering him into inaudibility. They pounded past, engines beating our ear* drums, stones spitting. I gaped, never having seen motorbikes so vast, chrome so brilliant, handlebars so high. Replicas of Baptation sat at a reclining angle. Their horns squealed, blew, hooted, howled, whined in salute. Bap waved, shouted after them. We watched them recede. He went on, ‘See how we’re travellin’? By stinking oil- smearing engine! It’s given to Bro Lovejoy to show us the way, using the living creatures for trans-port-a-tion! Pray!’

  Preacher seized the chance of his first ever willing congregation. I gave up and went to see that Boris was all right. He was in our caravan, tapping his knees, staring.

  ‘You all right, Boris?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ From another person such abruptness would have been insolent. He almost snapped, ‘Carry on!’

  ‘Look. My nag’s ankle isn’t right. Do horses get corns?’ I waited hopefully. ‘Only, Luke’s narked I gave those folk our grub.’

  He said, ‘I might take a gander. When everybody’s gone.’

  ‘Ta, mate. It’d be a load off my mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

  Closer and closer! I was so pleased that I didn’t see Luke until I bumped into the sly sod. ‘Sorry.’

  He nodded, checked Boris with a glance, came back with me to where Preacher was belting out St Paul gibberish.

  ‘Don’t, Lovejoy.’ Luke stood affably by.

  ‘Don’t what, Luke?’ I asked, amazed. ‘Somebody’s got to speak with the poor bloke.’

  He said quietly, ‘Leave well alone.’

  ‘What have I done?’ I asked. We both kept our voices low. ‘Don’t be friendly with travvies.’ He was really narked now, but I’d been too docile too long. It was time I acted.

  ‘No?’ I said evenly. ‘Then who’ll help?’

  ‘Heed me, Lovejoy. Last warning.’

  ‘Amen! Amen!’ I cried at a crack in the sermon, hoping to hurry it all to a conclusion. I never could stand St Paul. I think he’s a fraud. Ancient scrolls call him The Liar.

  If the syndicate had each other, I now had more helpers than anybody, with this load of travelling people. About time.