The Grail Tree

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Authors: Jonathan Gash
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done any buying lately?’
    He thought hard – no mean task at this hour – and shook his head. ‘None I know of.’
    ‘He sold a pair of Satsuma decoratives,’ Margaret put in. ‘A collector, out Ipswich way. I could be wrong.’
    ‘Lovejoy?’ Nan the barmaid was pointing. Lydia’s interesting silhouette showed against the frosted glass. ‘She won’t come in,’ Nan called.
    ‘Why the hell not?’ I growled. Margaret and Nan were smiling. Tinker went out. She came sidling in, frightened to touch the furniture and looking at the floor. She only managed to move her lips soundlessly when Nan called a good morning. With true grit she sat down on a pub chair without giving it a quick polish. Nerves of steel. Her fingernails were clean, just like Margaret’s. I closed my hands in case mine weren’t.
    ‘What’s up, love?’ Tinker crashed in cheerfully. ‘Never been in a pub on your own before?’ He cackeld a burst of foul-stinking noisy breath, splitting his sides at his light banter.
    ‘No,’ Lydia whispered. That shut Tinker up. He’d assumed that’s where people came from. ‘Good morning, Mrs Lovejoy.’
    ‘Er, Margaret Dainty, Lydia.’ I got that in swiftly. These misunderstandings give people ideas.
    ‘Oh dear.’ Lydia half rose in panic but Margaret calmed her with a friendly word and sent Tinker for some more orange juice. He reeled giddily towards the bar, wondering what the world was coming to.
    Actually, I’ve been married, if that’s the right word. It wasn’t bad except that the aggro with Cissie got me down. I’d felt like a half-pint Tom pitted against a relentless armourplated Jerry. I scrutinized Lydia during the preliminary skirmishing between her and Margaret. They both seemed pleased. Despite Lydia’s soft and shy appearance, I was on my guard. I reckon women are a very, very tough-minded bunch, being gifted with all the advantages in life.
    ‘I
was
married, once,’ I chipped in, hoping to clarify matters. A mistake.
    ‘Oh, do forgive me.’ Lydia’s eyes filled. ‘When did it . . . ?’
    ‘No, no.’ This was all getting too much. Lydia was obviously one of those birds whose conversation gets queerly deformed halfway through. ‘Divorce. Actually it was my fault . . .’
    A woman usually likes this sort of modesty, knowing it can’t possibly be true because each thinks all other women are basically undesirables even on a good day. My unblemished humility didn’t work this time. Lydia froze.
    ‘
Oh.
’ She switched instantly to outrage, lips thin as a bacon-slicer. ‘I
see
.’
    ‘That reveals my base, carnal nature,’ I saidpleasantly, and saw from her expression that the million warnings she’d had were coming true.
    ‘Miss Evans did furnish me with the advice that . . .
certain
antiques dealers were of a
certain
disposition.’
    I couldn’t help staring. She sat there indignantly, full of wholesome fruit, morals and wheatgerm. There’s a lot of people about who actually talk like this, many more than there used to be. It’s probably caught off the telly.
    ‘Good old Jean,’ I said. ‘But about antiques, love.’
    ‘It’s only his way, Lydia,’ Margaret said.
    A familiar figure loomed in the doorway and waved. I didn’t even gesture towards my wallet. Tinker, on his way back with a fistful of glasses, shied nervously.
    ‘Morning, Tinker,’ the Old Bill said.
    ‘Why, hello, Mr Maslow.’
    Lydia sat watching in horror as Tinker’s filthy mittens distributed the glasses round the table. You could see that microbes were suddenly on her mind.
    ‘Maslow, Lovejoy,’ Tinker whispered. ‘A right bast – er, a real grouser.’ Street traders’ slang for a bobby of serious and unpleasant disposition.
    Maslow stood at the bar chatting to Nan, his back towards us. On the Continent, he’d have been stymied, but you never get an English pub without six thousand mirrors on every wall. He could see in everybody’s earhole.
    I nodded for Lydia to start up. She

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