Faces in the Pool by Jonathan Gash

Author:Jonathan Gash [Gash, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9780749011840
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2007-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

Flowers aren’t much of a mystery, though women go mad for them. Our village has a team. They compete against neighbouring flower guilds and win (or lose) cups. But where is the art? Whole books are written about how to stick them in a pot. Truly. It’s all my eye and Betty Martin. Flower plus pot plus water, leave the coloured end sticking out, OK? Life is busy breathing so get on with it.

But if you’re a flowerer, Lincoln’s your jaunt. Don’t miss it. I knew I’d be bored sick until I could clear off. Ted Moon and the Faces would be here somewhere. Find the link, then collect my money.

‘Every six years?’ I marvelled. ‘Bet they forget when it’s due.’

‘Silly. It’s famous.’

I doubted that. A six-year flower show must be different from the Nottingham Goose Fair and All Hallows E’en, because they’re engrained in the national consciousness. Some become immersed, like our old Martinmas, which blends with Armistice Day. You can tell when a ‘day’ or an ‘eve’ has made it because folk say a date’s nickname, like New Year’s Day instead of January First. I said all this. Fee ignored every word.

‘Isn’t it beautiful, Lovejoy?’

The cathedral truly is stunning. If you’re new to cathedrals, go and see Lincoln. Its Chapter House is enough to amaze. That tracery in stone, those dazzling surfaces. I was ready for its vibes, for hadn’t we seen those high outlines across the Fens, at the crossing of Fosse Way and Ermine Street, those prehistoric tracks? My wariness vanished at Lincoln Cathedral.

Feeling distinctly queer in the ancient place, I went wobbly near a small exhibition stand. Clammy, I found a pew as Fionuella moved swiftly into the floral throng. You couldn’t see the cathedral’s interior for flower stalls.

A middle-aged lady was seated nearby. ‘The scent setting you back?’ she said.

‘Er, it isn’t that, love. It’s that stand, I think.’

‘Lincoln is better than York Minster.’ (Tip: Lincolnshire folk always run York Minster down.)

I’d had enough urban warfare. Lincoln Cathedral’s lighting is crap. York’s is better.

‘You a visitor?’ When I nodded, she said bitterly, ‘They turned my stand down.’

‘Your stand? Flowers?’

‘I wanted to do King Stephen and Maud.’

‘The Period of Anarchy? Don’t flowers stand for peace?’

Our land has had its ups and downs. One of the downest was after 1135, when King Stephen was crowned. Grandson of the Conqueror, if I’ve got it right, he was opposed by Maud. This empress invaded us and marauded against Stephen. It’s a period so grim our collective mind wants to forget.

‘So why reject my display?’ she demanded. I wanted an aspirin, not a scrap. ‘Look at Scunthorpe!’

I racked my brains for Scunthorpe’s part in our civil wars. Were they pro-Stephen? I have a map in my cottage.

‘Their flower club has stands everywhere!’ She made her voice a simpering whine, mocking. ‘Byzantine cones depicting spring, can you believe? Lincoln’s club is the same. Ingrates!’

I thought, Wars over flowers?

‘So bo-o-oring. And Grimsby’s flower stand is rubbish. Henry the Eighth. How dull is that?’

Well, no.

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