Gold by Gemini (8 page)

‘Looks like a caricature. Genuine Burne-Jones.’

‘Genuine?’ A long pause, during which Greed crept ominously in. ‘I’ll give you the rubbish for nothing, Lovejoy,’ . Dandy said. Oh-ho, I thought. Here we go.

‘You said –’

He crouched into his whining position. ‘Look, Lovejoy –’

‘Bastard.’ I should have known he’d let me down, though Dandy Jack’s no worse than the rest of us.

‘No, honestly, Lovejoy. I didn’t mean I’d give you the drawing as well.’

‘Sure, sure,’ I said bitterly. I was unable to resist one final glance at the Burne-Jones. He was a Victorian painter, a bit of a lad who did a few dozen caricatures to amuse Maria Zambaco, a gorgeous Greek bird he shacked up with for three years before 1870. Maybe Maria put him up to sketching one of her bosom friends.

Dandy offered me a drink but I staggered out into the oxygen layer, as broke as when I’d arrived. That’s typical of some days in this trade.

There was a blue Lagonda occupying two-thirds of the High Street.

‘At last, Loyejoy.’

‘Oh. Hello.’ I really was pleased to see her. It’s the way it gets.

‘Well?’ She nodded at Dandy Jack’s window. ‘Did you get the picture?’

‘Er, no,’ I said lamely. ‘He, er, he wanted to hang on to it –’

‘You mean he won’t give if to you?’ she fired back.
She stepped out angrily. ‘You look drained. Have you scanned for him?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Right. Wait here.’ I caught hold of her.

‘No, love. I’m not up to a battle today –’

‘You’re a
fool
, Lovejoy,’ she stormed. ‘No wonder you’re penniless. You let everybody take advantage –’

I turned away, meaning to walk off because people were beginning to stare. And this lovely blonde was standing beside me, breathless and pretty.

‘Excuse me, please,’ she said. A picture, her lovely face anxious and her deep eyes troubled. ‘Are you Lovejoy? Can I have a word, please?’ There she stood, nice, worried, determined. Her smile was brilliant, full of allure. Women really have it. I decided I needn’t walk off after all.

‘Yes, dear?’ Janie cooed. She drummed her fingers on her elbows, smiling.

Now, women don’t like each other. Ever noticed that? If two meet, you can see them both instantly thinking: (a) What’s this bitch
really
up to?; (b) Thank God her clothes are a mess; and, following on pretty smartly, (c) Isn’t it time this ghastly female was leaving?

‘I heard you’re trying to find an old picture, sold at Gimbert’s auction, belonging to a Mr Bexon?’

I gaped. You just don’t ask that sort of thing in this trade. It’s like asking a Great Power which other nations it really hates at a peace conference. I suddenly caught sight of Beck stepping inside Dandy Jack’s. I instantly realized why Dandy hadn’t kept his promise about the sketch. Beck had heard me talking to Tinker Dill and was now arriving to buy the worthwhile stuff.

‘Eh?’ I responded cautiously.

‘I want it,’ she explained. I’m Nichole Bexon.’ She
took hold of my arm confidingly, better and better. ‘I’m trying to find my uncle’s things. A sketch, mainly. And two diaries. I was . . . away, you see, when his things were . . . taken to a sale. My sister cleared the house. It’s so unfortunate. I heard you were trying to find them as well. A neighbour.’

Good old Mary. That’s the trouble. In these remote little East Anglian villages rumour does a faster job than the new electric telegraph.

‘Ah, sorry, love,’ I said, smiling. ‘You’ll have to try Dandy Jack.’ I nodded at his emporium. And, innocently thinking to get one back on poor old Dandy for changing our agreed deal in mid-scratch, I added malevolently, ‘He has the things you want. He won’t let them go, I’m afraid. I’ve offered him the earth.’

‘Oh,
dear
.’ She looked almost in tears.

‘Is there no way at all?’ this chap asked. He’d been listening. I dragged my eyes from the lovely Nichole and noticed him.

Nichole seemed to have brought her tame male along, a real weed in Savile Row gear. The fool wore a city titfer. Honestly, some people. A hat in the Arcade’s like wearing a coronet at football. You know how some couples are just, not suited? Well, here was the archetypal mismatch. Her; lovely, cool, gleaming, luscious, a pure swinger. And him: neat, precise, waist-coat complete with gold watch-chain (not antique, the pathetic slob), rimless specs, glittering black shoes, and a Rolls the size of a tram. A worrier, accountant if ever I saw one. How a pill like him ever got her . . .

‘No,’ I said. Luckily, Janie had reached (c) by now.

‘Mr Lovejoy is a well-known art expert,’ she cut in crisply, ‘and even he hasn’t been successful. Sorry we can’t help.’

She slipped into the Lagonda. It was sneering at the Rolls, nose to nose. The Rolls wasn’t really up to noticing riffraff for the moment and gazed into the distance. She gunned the engine. They got the message.

‘Then what shall I do?’ the beautiful Nichole said. ‘I must have Uncle’s things back. They’re nothing much. But he’d have wanted me to have them.’ She actually twiddled a button, one of the remaining few, on my coat.

I cleared my throat. ‘Er, well . . .’

‘Please?’ Flutter, flutter.

Women intrigue me. No, they really do. Say a woman wants ten yards of lovely Thai silk. She’d expect to have to pay for it, right? Same as a bloke wanting tobacco. Everybody knows it – you have to pay. But mention antiques and suddenly everyone wants something for nothing. Or, at the very least, a Constable or Rembrandt for a quid or two. And make no mistake, women are the worst. A man will laugh ruefully, say no hard feelings. But a woman won’t. You get the whole bit, the smoulder, the come-on, derision, the wheedle, and finally everything they’ve got thrown into the fray. Born dealers, women. You have to be careful.

‘Can you not help, please?’ Her chap tried to smile ingratiatingly. ‘You’ve been highly recommended to us, Lovejoy, as an antiques dealer. I would make it particularly worth your while. If it’s a question of money . . .’ he said.

The town stilled. The universe hesitated. The High Street froze. Nobody in the known world breathed for a few lifetimes as that delightful scent of money hung in the air.

He really seemed quite pleasant after all. Charming
in fact. Then Janie hauled me, literally yanking me off balance so I tumbled back into the Lagonda.

‘So sorry,’ she called out brightly, swinging me round and slamming the door. I grappled to lower the window.

‘My card,’ the chap said. ‘Phone me. Edward Rink.’ We were off like a Brands Hatch start. I sulked most of the way home holding his engraved card.

It’d soon be time for Algernon’s test. What a bloody day. Diddled by Dandy Jack,’ frogged by Beck and no nearer understanding the Bexon business, and now Algernon.

I’d reluctantly cleared away by the time Algernon arrived. In he came, cheerful and gormless. In his own way he’s an entire miracle. A trainee dealer for six long months and still thinks Fabergé eggs are crusty chocolate.

‘Good evening, Lovejoy!’

‘How do.’ I stared morosely into his beaming face. Why was somebody who gets me so mad so bloody pleased to see me every time?

‘Let us anticipate that my efforts will meet with your approval this evening!’ the nerk said. He reached out and actually wrung my hand. He stripped a layer of motor-cycle leathers and left them heaped in the hallway. ‘I am all keyed up!’ he exclaimed.

‘Did you read Wills?’

‘Certainly, Lovejoy! And the brass instrument book. And –’ he blushed – ‘the jokey book all over again. I appear to have been quite taken in!’

He laughed merrily as I led the way into the main room without a word. You can see why Algernon gets me down. He’s always like this.

‘On the table, Algernon,’ I cut in sourly, ‘are several objects.’

‘Right! Right!’ He sprang at them, oily fingers at the ready. I caught him in mid-air and put him back.

‘I shall cover all but one with a dark cloth, Algernon. You have to identify and price whichever’s exposed. Okay?’

‘Ah!’ He raised a finger delightedly. ‘Your identification game!’

I fetched the carriage clock across.

‘You’re allowed one minute. Remember?’

‘Of course, Lovejoy! How absolutely right to be so precise –’

I lifted him out of his chair by the throat, struggling for iron control.

‘Algernon,’ I hissed. ‘Silence. Clam. Shut up.’

‘Very well! I follow exactly!’ He frowned and glared intently. Then he closed his eyes to concentrate, heaven knows what with. Your modern intellectual at bay. I watched this performance wearily. I suppose it’s meant to be like I do when I’m scanning, the idiot. He opened his eyes, thrilled. ‘Right! Ready, Lovejoy!’

‘No,’ I said.

He concentrated hard. ‘Ah! The Sights!’

‘Good, good, Algernon.’

We lit two candles and the oil lantern before switching the electric off. I suppose there’s no point in rubbing these details in too much or you’ll not read on but I have to say it. You’ll all have made this mistake. What’s the point in looking at Old Master paintings by neon or tungsten-filament glare? Dolphins don’t do well in pasture land. Stick them in an ocean and you’ll never see any living thing so full of beautiful motion. Give antiques the kind of light they’re used to and you’re
halfway there. And for heaven’s sake space the flames about the room. Never cluster natural flamelight. It’s no wonder people get antiques wrong.

I sat myself down and took the time. I uncovered one small silver object. He prowled about, peering at and over it, for all the world like an amateur sleuth, I observed this weird performance with heartbreak.

‘Time’s up.’ I covered it. This is the nightmarish bit.

We sat in silence broken only by my drumming fingers, the tick of the clock and the squeaks Algernon’s pores made as sweat started on his fevered brow.

‘Go on, Algernon,’ I encouraged. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Erm.’ He glanced to judge the distance to the door. ‘Erm. It looks . . . sort of . . . well, a
spoon
, Lovejoy.’

‘Precious metal? Plastic? Wood? Gilt?’

‘Erm . . . silver?’ he guessed desperately. ‘Caddy spoon?’

‘Certainly.’ He beamed with relief. Examine antique silver in the correct light and even Algernon can spot it. ‘Yes.’ I even smiled. ‘By . . .?’ He didn’t know. ‘Three giant steps back, Algernon.’ His face fell a mile while I rose and uncovered all the little silvers.

He missed Hester Bateman, whizz-kid of 1785. He missed the stylish Sam Massey, 1790, and the appealing work of Charles Haugham, 1781. He had omitted to learn a table of hallmarks, and thought that a superb artistic piece of brilliant silverwork from Matthew Linwood’s gnarled hands was plastic.

‘Compare this lovely silver shellfish,’ I ended brokenly, ‘with the three in the museum tomorrow. His best work’s 1808 to 1820. Look up the history of tea drinking. I’ll ask you tomorrow why they never drank tea with milk or even sugar in the seventeenth century, and suchlike background gems.’

‘Yes, Lovejoy,’ he said dejectedly.

‘And go round the shops that sell modern spoons. Right?’ He opened his mouth. ‘Never mind why,’ I said irritably. ‘Just do it.’ I keep telling him there’s no other way to learn how to spot crap, gunge and dross. I saw his blank face and wearily began to explain for the hundredth time.

You teach a beginner about antiques by seeing if he has any feeling for craftsmanship. It’s everything. Antiques aren’t alien, you see. They’re extensions of mankind through time. It may seem odd that love instilled into solid materials by loving craftsmanship is the only creation of Mankind to defeat Time, but it’s true. In holding antiques you reach across centuries and touch the very hands of genius. I don’t count plastic cups or ballpoint pens stamped out by a machine. Fair’s fair. Man is needed.

First, you look round the local furniture stores to see new furniture. Then lampshades. Then shoes. Then modern mail-order catalogues. Then mass-produced prints and paintings. Then books. Then tools. Then carpets. Then . . . It’s a terrible, frightening experience. Why do you think most modern furniture’s so ghastly? And why’s so much art mere dross? And fashions abysmal? And sculpture grotty? Because of Lovejoy’s Law of Loving – a tin can is a tin can is a tin can, but a tin can made with loving hands glows like the Holy Grail. It deserves to be adored because the love shines through. QED, fans. Most of today’s stuff could last a thousand years and never become antique simply because love’s missing. They’ve not got it. The poor things were made without delight, human delight.

Therefore, folks, into your modern shopping precincts
for a three-day penance of observation. And at every single item stop and ask yourself the only question which ever mattered: ‘Does that look as though it was made with love, from love, to express love?’ Your first day will be bad. Day two’ll be ruinous. Your third day will be the worst day of your life because you will have probably seen nothing which gets a ‘Yes’. Score zero. Nothing you see will have been made with love. It is grim – unbelievably, horrendously and frighteningly grim.

Now comes day four. Go, downhearted and dismal by now, into your local museum. Stand still quite a while. Then drift about and ask yourself the same question as you wander.
Now
what’s the score? You already know the answer.

It’s the only way to learn the antique trade. Look at rubbish, any cheap modern crud on sale now. You’ll finish up hooked for life on what other people call antiques, but what I call love. Laugh if you like, but antiques are just things made full of love. The hands that produced them, in factories like flues from Hell, by some stupendous miracle of human response and feeling managed to instil in every antique a deep hallmark of love and pride in that very act of loving.

That’s why I’m an antiques dealer. What I can’t understand is why everybody else isn’t.

I ended my explanation. Algernon was goggling. He’s heard it umpteen times.

Algernon failed that whole evening miserably. He failed on the precious early Antoine Gaudin photograph I’d borrowed. He failed on a rare and valuable ‘Peacock’s New Double Dissection and History of England and Wales’, 1850, by Gall and Inglis of Paternoster Square (‘What a tatty old jigsaw, Lovejoy!’), and a child’s
George IV complete teaser, almost microscopically small – the teapot’s a quarter of an inch long – brilliantly carved from hardwood and very, very costly. Of this last Algernon soared to his giddiest height yet, asking brightly, ‘What kind of plastic is it, Lovejoy?’