Florida’s bedroom vocals. ‘The bus’ll come soon, love. Don’t be late.’
Some hopes. Charlotte was determined to have the last word. ‘Mummy says you have too many aunties, Lovejoy.’ ‘Right, love,’ I said weakly. ‘Tell your mummy OK.’ Charlotte puts these strong views in her free-writing compositions at school.
‘Here!’ Prince shook the workshop door. ‘Witness all!’ Summer followed us. I hate wet feet almost as much as I hate a wet head. I stepped on to the wood shavings. They hurt like hell.
‘See!’ Prince brandished his cane. ‘Unreadiness!’
‘I can explain,’ I said wearily, but I couldn’t think up a single excuse. I’m useless in the morning until I’ve had my stand-up bath and a shave and breakfast.
‘How?’ Prince howled. He marched to the painting on the easel, sending my heart into my throat. I’d killed myself working at it. I’d only been abed an hour before the wretch had arrived ranting. ‘Doing superfluousness!’
Summer strolled in, shavings crunching. ‘What is it, Lovejoy?’
Prince yelled, ‘I tell what iss, commissar! Iss Lovejoy daubs!’
‘It’s a copy of a copy,’ I said, stung. ‘Better than the original.’
Summer tried to scratch it, the disbelieving swine. I stared truculendy at him, but praying inwardly that he wouldn’t have the wit to sniff the canvas. Phenol and formaldehyde will ‘dry’ new paint pretty quickly. I’d gone like a mad thing, covering the O’Conor with a new thin canvas (please protect the surface with gelatin if you try this) then over-painting its surface. My new painting was a Klee, white and a stringy stylized bird. Klee did hundreds of the damned things. So did everybody else.
Summer looked intently at the frame. I’d deliberately carried thick pigment over. It was rock hard, thank God.
‘Damage that,’ I complained, ‘even police slush funds couldn’t buy me off.’
He gave a sleet-filled smile at Prince. ‘Lovejoy’s joking, sir. One of our famous East Anglian wags. Imagine how amusing I find him.’
Prince boomed, stamping with rage. ‘He demeans me!’
Prince finds words like ‘is’ and ‘daub’ difficult, so how come he’s perfect with demean?
‘Has he defrauded you, sir?’ Summer was trying to rile me.
‘Certainly not, Tony.’ Florida arrived like a goddess, radiant and alluring. ‘Lovejoy never defrauds. He simply ... errs.’
‘He defraud!’ Prince swished his cane. I backed away.
With no clothes on, you feel vulnerable. ‘That heap not finished!’
He indicated bits of the Nicholas Brown bookcase-desk that lay about in various states of undress. I knew how it felt.
‘Lovejoy,’ Florida said. ‘Why are you practically naked, wet and wearing a stolen hat?’
‘Hat and wetness, from rain. Nakedness, from intruders.’ ‘That’s sufficient. Inside, Lovejoy. I shall deal with these two.’
‘I didn’t know you knew Mr Summer,’ I said to her as I passed. She didn’t bat an eyelid. I said to Summer, ‘I didn’t know you knew Florida.’
‘Mr Champion and I were young constables together,’ he said.
Florida eyed me to judge the effect. Summer smiled. I don’t like it when the Plod smile. They’ve every reason to, being above the law, but I wish they wouldn’t.
‘Police?’ I croaked. Florida’s husband an ex-Ploddite? ‘He’s above all that now, Lovejoy.’ Summer wandered about the workshop, studied the bowl of water by the easel. ‘Isn’t he, Florida? Owns his own security firm. Locks, alarms, vehicles, men.’
I said nothing. I didn’t want Summer poking around too much, though the O’Conor canvas was concealed under my hasty Klee.
‘Lovejoy. Why is your palette under water?’
‘Oil paints are expensive. Oil and water don’t mix. Immerse your palette, then take it out days later, blot dry, and you can start painting straight away, see?’
‘Clever.’ He weighed out another smile. ‘Not like acrylic paints, then?’
‘No. They’d dissolve
Some hopes. Charlotte was determined to have the last word. ‘Mummy says you have too many aunties, Lovejoy.’ ‘Right, love,’ I said weakly. ‘Tell your mummy OK.’ Charlotte puts these strong views in her free-writing compositions at school.
‘Here!’ Prince shook the workshop door. ‘Witness all!’ Summer followed us. I hate wet feet almost as much as I hate a wet head. I stepped on to the wood shavings. They hurt like hell.
‘See!’ Prince brandished his cane. ‘Unreadiness!’
‘I can explain,’ I said wearily, but I couldn’t think up a single excuse. I’m useless in the morning until I’ve had my stand-up bath and a shave and breakfast.
‘How?’ Prince howled. He marched to the painting on the easel, sending my heart into my throat. I’d killed myself working at it. I’d only been abed an hour before the wretch had arrived ranting. ‘Doing superfluousness!’
Summer strolled in, shavings crunching. ‘What is it, Lovejoy?’
Prince yelled, ‘I tell what iss, commissar! Iss Lovejoy daubs!’
‘It’s a copy of a copy,’ I said, stung. ‘Better than the original.’
Summer tried to scratch it, the disbelieving swine. I stared truculendy at him, but praying inwardly that he wouldn’t have the wit to sniff the canvas. Phenol and formaldehyde will ‘dry’ new paint pretty quickly. I’d gone like a mad thing, covering the O’Conor with a new thin canvas (please protect the surface with gelatin if you try this) then over-painting its surface. My new painting was a Klee, white and a stringy stylized bird. Klee did hundreds of the damned things. So did everybody else.
Summer looked intently at the frame. I’d deliberately carried thick pigment over. It was rock hard, thank God.
‘Damage that,’ I complained, ‘even police slush funds couldn’t buy me off.’
He gave a sleet-filled smile at Prince. ‘Lovejoy’s joking, sir. One of our famous East Anglian wags. Imagine how amusing I find him.’
Prince boomed, stamping with rage. ‘He demeans me!’
Prince finds words like ‘is’ and ‘daub’ difficult, so how come he’s perfect with demean?
‘Has he defrauded you, sir?’ Summer was trying to rile me.
‘Certainly not, Tony.’ Florida arrived like a goddess, radiant and alluring. ‘Lovejoy never defrauds. He simply ... errs.’
‘He defraud!’ Prince swished his cane. I backed away.
With no clothes on, you feel vulnerable. ‘That heap not finished!’
He indicated bits of the Nicholas Brown bookcase-desk that lay about in various states of undress. I knew how it felt.
‘Lovejoy,’ Florida said. ‘Why are you practically naked, wet and wearing a stolen hat?’
‘Hat and wetness, from rain. Nakedness, from intruders.’ ‘That’s sufficient. Inside, Lovejoy. I shall deal with these two.’
‘I didn’t know you knew Mr Summer,’ I said to her as I passed. She didn’t bat an eyelid. I said to Summer, ‘I didn’t know you knew Florida.’
‘Mr Champion and I were young constables together,’ he said.
Florida eyed me to judge the effect. Summer smiled. I don’t like it when the Plod smile. They’ve every reason to, being above the law, but I wish they wouldn’t.
‘Police?’ I croaked. Florida’s husband an ex-Ploddite? ‘He’s above all that now, Lovejoy.’ Summer wandered about the workshop, studied the bowl of water by the easel. ‘Isn’t he, Florida? Owns his own security firm. Locks, alarms, vehicles, men.’
I said nothing. I didn’t want Summer poking around too much, though the O’Conor canvas was concealed under my hasty Klee.
‘Lovejoy. Why is your palette under water?’
‘Oil paints are expensive. Oil and water don’t mix. Immerse your palette, then take it out days later, blot dry, and you can start painting straight away, see?’
‘Clever.’ He weighed out another smile. ‘Not like acrylic paints, then?’
‘No. They’d dissolve
Similar Books
