J.

  viiij (or ix)

  1 Across she-ass for spinning (5) 2 Down delicacy much prized? (5) 5 Across a precious villain (6)

  VEDA glared again at the crossword. Jools was forty-two minutes late and she was waiting

  and waiting and waiting

  and

  waitingandwaitingandwaiting.

  She had spent the afternoon reading The Barmpot of Barnsley. About halfway through, her mind had melted and she had turned instead to Jump..... and found that ANTONIO's line "The jay will come" was indeed written as "the jay will come", that JASON was Jason and the Fortune players had thus remained faithful to the script as written.

  She had stared at the title page of the play for several minutes:

  JUMP,

  Or The Divil Will Take Thee

  Containing the horrible end of Vicenzo the Duke, the scheming plots

  of the Malcontent, and the bloodthirsty torments of Hieron. the Son

  A moƒt excellent comedie plaied by the earl of Jedbro, his men,

  at the Jubillee

  and written by Mr G. Jenkin.

  Printed by Isaac Iaggard, 1606

  but had found no clues at all. Finally her mind had exploded and she had made her way to The Jester.

  The barmaid drifted down to her table, flicked a damp dishcloth over the surface and tipped the old, cold cigarette butts from ashtray to hand.

  "Jenny."

  "What?"

  "One across. She-ass for spinning. Jenny."

  "Oh." Veda fills in the word. "Thanks."

  "How's the salad?" The barmaid looked tired, forty, lined features, fading roots.

  Veda decided to be nice despite risking an "I've been on my feet forty-two hours an' 'aven't 'ad a break" routine. So she smiled. "It's very good." She'd had a salade julienne while she waited.

  "My son did it," the barmaid told her, "Between homework, sports and rehearsals. He likes cooking, you know." She stared blankly through the windows. "I thought he'd find it hard to settle when we moved up from Wales but he's done ever so well. Settled in quickly. Loves his singing, loves his acting, loves his sports…his father would be so proud."

  So that was the accent. Land of my fathers, Yakky Dar, Saucepan Vach and all that.

  "Which part of Wales?" asked Veda.

  "Llanstinan," she lilted

  Llanstinan is a parish in Dewisland, Pembroke, South Wales, 2½ m. SW of Fishguard of 168

  inhabitants. The name derives from St Justinian (qv) to whom the parish church is dedicated.

  The church has no distinguishing architectural features. The village is near the source of the Afon

  Cleddau, on the Haverfordwest-Fishguard turnpike road and close to the Bronze Age Llanstinan

  Bridge which is made of 1 1.5 x 2 m bluestone slabs.

  "Right." Veda looked at her watch.

  "It was beautiful there," the barmaid sighed. "Better than Jericho Drive."

  Jericho, a village formerly in Jordan and close to the Dead Sea, 251 meters (or 825 feet) below sea level. In the Bible, it was the first place captured by Joshua after entering the Promised Land.

  Veda knew the Jericho Estate (or "housing development"), a conglomeration of modern houses thrown up in the late-seventies, distinguishable from each other only by the colours of the curtains and owned by squash-playing, lettuce-eating, tie-wearing white collar workers who would probably relish an evening in front of that excellent televisual treat Tiling, Painting, Stippling and Plastering, a DIY Guide or, if they're feeling very frisky, Plesantly Bulging's Get Fit Kwik.

  "When my husband died we were living in London," the barmaid was saying. "We'd moved there because of his work but he got run over. Left me with a young son." Her eyes were filling. "I still miss him."

  Veda looked out of the window. Where the bloody hell was Joules?

  "You married yourself? Any children?"

  "Not likely." Veda grimaced, sipped her gin and toyed with a shred of cabbage. Two paintings, reproductions, had caught her attention.

  "Oh, my lad's been such a comfort in my widowhood," said the barmaid.

  The first print was a painting of Apollo, Hyacinth and Cypress by Alexander Ivanov (1806-1858). It showed a muscular, laurel-crowned, golden-robed Apollo with his left arm draped over the left shoulder of a naked, curly-haired and rather concupiscent teenage boy who nestled against the Sun God's breast. The boy was holding Apollo's left hand in his right, thus dragging the arm further across his chest. His eyes were half closed. The expression on his face was languid, sensual and knowing.

  "He's so busy these days, what with his javelin and acting and singing..."

  The original painting was in the Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.

  "I can hardly keep up with him..."

  "Sure," said Veda.

  "And he works so hard at his studies. Always learning... the things he knows...."

  The second painting was "The Bean King". The note stencilled beneath read:

  The Bean King (c. 1638) painted by the Flemish artist Jacob Jordaens (1593-1678) shows a national folklore tradition, the Feast of the Bean King, held at Epiphany. According to custom, whoever found a bean in his pie at the feast was acclaimed Bean King. It is suggested by Jeroen Vanderbildt in Visionaries and Journeymen that this tradition may have given rise to the story of Jack (Jac. Jordaens?) and the Bean Stalk. It is also the origin of the English idiom "bean feast", meaning a merry occasion.

  The painting hangs in the Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg.

  "Hi Veda." Julep Jejune, in light-grey nylon trackies and a pale-primrose T-shirt, had materialized beside her. "Sorry I'm late. Things to do, you know. Drink?"

  "Another G-and-T please." The barmaid smiled and scurried off. "How's your head?"

  "Still sore." He craned at the paper. "Jasper."

  "Huh?"

  "Jasper. Five across. Precious villain. Jasper."

  She filled it in. Then, turning the glass around in her fingertips, started "That porter." She looked at him. "Jannock ... he said he knew you."

  Juuls' eyes narrowed slightly behind the circular lenses. "Yeah," he said finally. "I know Jannock. We've had ... dealings."

  "He seemed pleasant enough," she remarked.

  "He's all right. Collects potties."

  "Jordans," she said.

  ''Bless you,'' said Jewels.

  ''No, jordans. Chamber pots.''

  "That's right." A quizzical glance. He started rolling a cigarette.

  "I noticed," she changed tack. "That he had the JASON tattoo." Jules' indifference radiated alert caution. "Jequirity Jimp told me about it."

  "Right." He licked the Rizla, flicked the Zippo. Flame flared.

  "Sent me some papers." She focussed on Julep's dark eyes. "About Jankyn and Jason."

  "Can we get something to eat? I'm starving."

  "Something," she said, "Beginning with J?" Suddenly she laughed. "You people. With your games and your codes and your secret signs. The Jasons. The Jasonic Lodge. Is that what it is? Some alternative? What's it all about, Jules?"

  Julep's eyes narrowed still further. He exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke and said firmly "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." He signalled to the waitress. "Tabby. Can you get me a taxi please?"

  "Jules!" she cried desperately. "Don't do this to me!" She reached for his hand. "It's driving me crazy. Everywhere I look is this... this Jason thing. The jazz, the map, the play, and someone sent me papers through the post... papers about Jason... papers from someone called J. J...Why? If you don't want me to know, why did you send them?"

  "I didn't send you any papers." He twisted his cigarette slowly into the ash tray. "I came here for a meal, not the Spanish Inquisition."

  Her fingers closed over his wrist like a steel trap. "You have the tattoo," she said fiercely, "On your left shoulder blade. I saw it."

  Julep Jejune's eyes narrowed to glittering slits. He clenched his jaw, paused, then said in a low, cl
ear voice: "J.A.S.ON is an acronym. It means Jason's Argonauts Sail On." He stood up. "Jemmy. 2 Down. Jemmy. Prized delicacy." Veda involuntarily glanced at the paper. "If you want to know more," he said, "You have to make a journey."

  "Where to?"

  Julep Jejune laughed. "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" he said, and left her.

  Veda watched him stride away, amazed that the evening had turned out so badly - she had again been Vociferous Journalist instead of Voluptuous Jezebel. God Almighty. Where next?

  She watched the faded Welsh barmaid flapping her damp cloth over the bar counter. So much for The Jester. But when she reached home, sprayed on the front door, in large bold letters, was the single word

  J A SO n.