The Grace in Older Women Read Online Free

The Grace in Older Women
Book: The Grace in Older Women Read Online Free
Author: Jonathan Gash
Pages:
Go to
thing called the polemoscope.
The French, always in the running when improving wickedness, called the
polemoscope a lorgnette de jalousie ,
the 'jealousy glass' of London.
    Basically simple, you can make one yourself. Take a tube
(cardboard if you like) and make a small telescope out of it same as usual. You
cut a long oval in the tube's side, and glue a mirror inside at an angle. Then
to the theatre and, affecting great interest in Mr. Shakespeare's tragedy, you
raise your jealousy glass. And you see, not the stage play, but the goings-on
in the box immediately to your right or left. And nobody knows . Folk can glance slyly at you all they like, but
all they see is you staring with wrapt fascination towards the stage. Actually,
you have a bird's-eye view of your friend's passionate scene in the adjacent
box and can focus on every ravishing grab and grope. Polemoscopes sold well.
    The ones that collectors favour most nowadays are the jewelled
ones, plus the rarities. The great Wedgwood did some All things being equal,
the smaller the better. Go for the ones concealed in toothpick quivers,
pendants or hidden in watches - this last the rarest.
    ‘In, Lovejoy,' Tinker was saying, pushing me.
    ‘I'm going, I'm going.'
    Across the street the girl in the peach dress was walking
purposefully along the pavement. So what?
    ‘I’ll be in the Drum and Dog, Lovejoy,' Tinker said, pity in his
voice. For himself, note, not for me.
    Tut your beer on the slate. I'll pay at weekend.'
    'We broke again?'
    Not even worth answering. I went in for my big scene.
     
    Most things actually aren't. Antiques taught me that. It's a sort
of law with me. It's simple, but complex inside, if you follow. Most things
aren't.
    Start with antiques. Antiques aren't, because mostly they're fake,
dud, Sexton Blakes, simulants, repros. Estimates vary, but the lowest is ten
per cent at any famed auction. Choose any great art gallery in the world,
forgeries are a tenth. And the highest proportion? The sky, the sky. Old Master
drawings are all fakes until proved genuine. And I do mean proved squared, cubed, finger prints of Michelangelo attested by
Scotland Yard, and the certificate of authenticity treble checked. And then
don't bother, for an Old Master drawing is sham. Only a true divvy knows.
    It goes for other things too. Marriage, cynics could say, is a
partnership of deceivers based on convenience. Government isn't. Policing
isn't. Truth usually certainly isn't. Holiness positively certainly isn't its
beautiful self. But the real front runner for being definitely not what it's
cracked up to be is Law. Lawyers, laws, legalities, The Law in all its
grandeur, is one enormous fraud. We don't have Law, we have lawyers. Sadly,
lawyers've won the game. One or two judges, maybe a politician here and there,
is aware of this terrible criminal conspiracy, but they're as helpless as the
rest of us. I entered the law courts without misgiving. I've misgiven so often
there was no point.
    'Lovejoy,' I reported.
    The goon looked up. 'Hello, Lovejoy. Thought you was still with
that rich bird in Wales.'
    Some memories make you wince. I winced stealthily, not to give him
satisfaction. Den Heanley's a stout uniformed bloke with a walrus moustache,
fancies himself at nine-pin bowls of a Saturday night at the Welcome Sailor,
sails off Southwold. He has a cousin in Zurich's police, so he knows I killed
my missus once, he says. He has a wayward daughter, sixteen, who manages
illicit chemicals and university students. He's worried sick, his wife suicidal
over the girl. Outwardly, he's the avuncular custodian of our legal portals,
ticks names off a tally list.
    ‘I've no money for bribes, Den.'
    ‘ Fees , Lovejoy. The
law's against bribes.'
    'Ha, ha, Den.' I looked about. 'Where do I go?'
    'Through there, and - '
    'And wait,' I finished. 'Chance of a cupper?'
    Taking his pen, I signed Winston
Churchill, 1, Hyde Park Gate and walked through. Nobody else waiting.
Distant voices
Go to

Readers choose

T. S. Joyce

Kate Elliott

Andrea Camilleri

Neil Cross

Lora Leigh

Scott Nicholson

Dorothy B. Hughes