The Cutting Room (17 page)
oh aye, compared to what it’d been it was a palace, but it just wasn’t there, know what I mean?’ This is the cue for a
dramatic pause. The listener realises he is meant to nod
sagely, as if he really can see Victor Gilmartin’s gleaming, new pub, fresh from its makeover, but mysteriously incomplete. `That’s when I met this boy,’ and he’ll wave his hand at Feme, grey and grizzled, on his usual high stool by the bar, `and it all fell into place. “What you need, Mr Gilmartin, is a few antiques, something to add a bit of class, some old-world
stag at bay leering lopsidedly from the peak of a peppermint mountain (here the listener might have to struggle with his
expression), `and a whole new world opened up to me.’
Victor Gilmartin is the antique dealer’s angel. A hard man,
responsible for the expressway that slices through the city and the consequent eradication of some of the finest Victorian
architecture in Britain. A man under whose tarmacadamed
roads are reputed to lie not a few bodies. In the rolling eyes of a frightened stag Victor Gilmartin discovered a love for
antiques, and in Victor Gilmartin’s enthusiasm for a dreadful daub he had spent a day hauling from pub to pub, Ferrie
discovered a mark.
Ferrie is close. He worked Victor slowly, testing him,
pushing a little further with every deal, but careful not to kill the goose. The day he scored fifty pounds for a white porcelain po he knew he would never go thirsty again.
Ferrie’s dealing days are over. He is now the unofficial
curator of Victor’s collection. Installed by the bar from
2 p.m. till closing time every day, he gives Victor the nod
on when to buy. Slip the Ferrie a bung and he’ll give your
goods a boost.
`Lovely that, nice piece of carnival glass,’ he might say
about some ugly dish confined to the hall cupboard since
Granddad won it at the shows. `Don’t see much of that
nowadays.’
And Victor’s hand goes into his pocket. Ferrie guards
Victor, treats him gently. A greedier man would have blown
think he lacks ambition, others that he is playing a long game, working up to an audacious deal that will see him
comfortable, somewhere far away, where it would be
difficult for Victor Gilmartin to put his hands round Ferrie’s neck and squeeze.
The gantry in Gilmartin’s is twelve feet long, amberstocked
and glowing. Patrons gather round long wooden
tables on pews and prayer seats. Oak, culled from churches
Victor demolished in his previous incarnation, lines the walls.
Barmen, in swinging kilts of mismatched tartan, glide from
table to bar, floating silver trays of drinks above the heads of the crowd, without spilling a drop. If it were not for the
ginning faces in the portraits that line the walls, the illuminated, chipped porcelain and flawed glass, it would be a
pleasant place. As things are, it is an aesthete’s nightmare.
There was a buffalo head mounted at eye level on the far
wall. A young girl stroked the sparse hair on its nose sadly.
Time.’
A hundred years ago this strange-looking beast had run
across a green grass plain in a herd that shook the ground with the weight of their hooves. Alongside comes a train. Red
cattle-guard pointing the way, grey smoke trailing behind.
The stoker shovels coal into the boiler, the driver pulls the whistle from the sheer excitement of the chase. Midway, in
the third carriage down, a man lifts his rifle to the open
window, levels his sights, focuses, squeezes the trigger and bam, one buffalo to be sawed, scooped, stuffed and preserved.
Victor was behind the bar, avuncular as ever.
`What do you think, Rilke? I just bought it this afternoon.
stag at bay leering lopsidedly from the peak of a peppermint mountain (here the listener might have to struggle with his
expression), `and a whole new world opened up to me.’
Victor Gilmartin is the antique dealer’s angel. A hard man,
responsible for the expressway that slices through the city and the consequent eradication of some of the finest Victorian
architecture in Britain. A man under whose tarmacadamed
roads are reputed to he not a few bodies. In the rolling eyes of a frightened stag Victor Gilmartin discovered a love for
antiques, and in Victor Gilmartin’s enthusiasm for a dreadful daub he had spent a day hauling from pub to pub, Ferrie
discovered a mark.
Ferrie is close. He worked Victor slowly, testing him,
pushing a little further with every deal, but careful not to kill the goose. The day he scored fifty pounds for a white
porcelain po he knew he would never go thirsty again.
Ferrie’s dealing days are over. He is now the unofficial
curator of Victor’s collection. Installed by the bar from
2 p.m. till closing time every day, he gives Victor the nod
on when to buy. Slip the Ferrie a bung and he’ll give your
goods a boost.
`Lovely that, nice piece of carnival glass,’ he might say
about some ugly dish confined to the hall cupboard since
Granddad won it at the shows. `Don’t see much of that
nowadays.’
And Victor’s hand goes into his pocket. Ferrie guards
Victor, treats him gently. A greedier man would have blown
comfortable, somewhere far away, where it would be difficult for Victor Gilmartin to put his hands round Ferrie’s neck and squeeze.
The gantry in Gilmartin’s is twelve feet long, amberstocked
and glowing. Patrons gather round long wooden
tables on pews and prayer seats. Oak, culled from churches
Victor demolished in his previous incarnation, lines the walls.
Barmen, in swinging kilts of mismatched tartan, glide from
table to bar, floating silver trays of drinks above the heads of the crowd, without spilling a drop. If it were not for the
ginning faces in the portraits that line the walls, the illuminated, chipped porcelain and flawed glass, it would be a
pleasant place. As things are, it is an aesthete’s nightmare.
There was a buffalo head .mounted at eye level on the far
wall. A young girl stroked the sparse hair on its nose sadly.
Time.
A hundred years ago this strange-looking beast had run
across a green grass plain in a herd that shook the ground with the weight of their hooves. Alongside comes a train. Red
cattle-guard pointing the way, grey smoke trailing behind.
The stoker shovels coal into the boiler, the driver pulls the whistle from the sheer excitement of the chase. Midway, in
the third carriage down, a man lifts his rifle to the open
window, levels his sights, focuses, squeezes the trigger and bam, one buffalo to be sawed, scooped, stuffed and preserved.
Victor was behind the bar, avuncular as ever.
`What do you think, Rilke? I just bought it this afternoon.
`It’s great, Victor.’ I moved the girl’s hand from its melancholy caress. `But maybe you should hang it a wee
bitty higher. Victorian taxidermists used arsenic as a preservative.
That stuff’s got a long shelf-life - you don’t want to
poison the customers.’
Victor’s expression hardened; the friendly uncle was gone
and for a second I glimpsed the other side: a look caught in the brief sway of a car’s headlights, a man watching silently from the verge of a half-laid road.
`Bobby! Give Mr Rilke a drink on the house, then get that
bloody buffalo up somewhere high.’ He turned to Ferrie.
`That’s your job, telling me things like that.’
The Ferryman took a deep drag from his cigarette then
placed it in the ashtray beside the cremated remains of a dozen others. He lifted his face into the light. Thin weaves of new lines ran into deep tributaries of established wrinkles. A wise old Galapagos tortoise. He affected a slow response, the
better to think of a reply, then feinted it back to me.
`Ask him how he knows.’
I am not in Ferrie’s sway. But it does no good to make
enemies.
`It’s not well known yet, Victor,’ I lied. `There was a circular sent round the auction houses last week, otherwise I wouldn’t know myself.’
`Aye, well, much obliged to you. Amazing, eh? The enthusiasm was back. `The world of antiques. You never know what
you’ll find next. Bobby, fill the Ferrie’s glass while you’re at it.’
There was a congregation of dealers in the centre of the
room. I picked up my drink and joined them.
Edinburgh Iain was passing round the jewellery. A simple
silver bracelet set with one blue-green stone. `What do you
think that is?
`Navajo Indian.’
`Right enough. What do you think it’s worth?’
`Fifty quid.’
`More or less. What about this?’ holding up a single greenflecked, turquoise stone set in simple silver bracelet. `What
do you think this is worth??
‘The same,’ guessing a gag but going along with it anyway. `No.’ Edinburgh lain holds the bracelets side by side across the table in the midst of the shorts and the beers and the half finished glasses; the blue of the stones catches the lace frill of
dried, snowflake frost on drained tumblers. `No. Bugger all. And do you know why that is?
A shake of the head.
`Racism. This is Navajo Indian and this is Indian. Racism.
Indian silver, the kiss of death.’
Dodgy Steve has to be seen, to be believed. A soiled yellow
cravat fails to conceal that beneath his fawn Abercrombie he wears no’shirt. His hair is thick and dark and parted on the left. He has a new Zapata moustache.
`Hi, Stevie. You in disguise?
‘Very funny,
He turns to a woman sitting beside him. Right now she is
not drunk enough to-go home with him, Steve waits. He has
the patience of a sinner.
Arthur has a book. `What do you think this’s worth? The wrapper is clean, bright, with a small chip in its lower front corner. I wonder if that chip was there this morning and what new flaws will be added before Arthur hits the sack. I
peel the wrapper away and examine the boards. Fine, no
bumps or cocking, spine straight and true. First edition, Eric Ambler, The Mask of Medusa.
I pass it back to him. `Nice. Good condition.’
`Oh it’s fabulous, fabulous. Out of this world.’ He’s on his third red wine. `Come on, what price do you think I’m
asking?
`Ach, you’ve got me, Arthur.’
`Guess. Go on, have a guess.’
`Well, it’s in good condition and that’s everything with
books.’ I’m hoping this will filter through and Arthur’s prize will not be taken out, displayed, fingered, jacket rent, spine snapped, lain in slops and eventually left under a stool in some bar between here and Yoker. `Detective fiction, first edition, 1943, good condition, say a ton?’ I’m flattering him. I think fifty would be nearer the mark.
`No that’s where you’re wrong.’ Arthur’s face is flushed,
little red veins stand out on his cheeks, blossom across his nose.
He is the happiest-looking drunk I’ve ever seen. `The warehouse was bombed during the war, went up like a rocket. Only a
handful of these ever got distributed. A grand and a halfl’ He slams the table with the book, the force of the slam goes through the company. `A grand and a half, Rilke. Christ, you can say what you like about Adolf but he done me a favour that night.’
An old soak by the bar spots his chance. `Hi, my faither was killt in the war.’
`Nae offence, man, nae offence. I’m a silly cunt on the
drink sometimes, just ignore me. What’re you drinking?’
The soak motions to his glass, still keeping the righteous
indignation, but indicating a pint of heavy will be reparation enough. `Just watch what you say about Hitler. He was a bad
bastard.’
`True enough, true enough.’ Arthur isn’t bothered, he
wants to get back to his book. If Hitler was here he would
probably show it to him. `Max, give him a pint when you’re
ready.’
`He killt my daddy.’
`Aye, a bad bastard, right enough,’ says Arthur, turning
away from the soak. `Mind, say what you like about the
Nazis,’ he stage-whispers in the direction of the main company, `they did the booksellers a fair few favours.’
We laugh. We are wicked men.
`Give us a look at it, Arthur.’
`Jesus, the brothers Grimm, Don Juan and Holy Joe,’
Arthur stage-whispers to me as John the book dealer stretches across the table. John’s brother Steenie sits, a morose, silent shadow, behind him. Never a word passes between the
brothers.
`It’s a beauty, right enough,’ John holds the book in his
hands, milking the moment, `but what about this wee
embellishment? The cover shows a primitive drawing of a
man’s face. With a gentle finger John traces an outline of
moustache, glasses and goatee beard. `It isn’t part of the
design, Arthur.’ John builds to his punchline. `It’s done in ink.’
Steve’s quarry is on her sixth G & T. No one knows who
she is or where he found her but she looks good. Short blonde hair streaked white round the crown and fringe, artful tendrils feathered around her face, forty-plus but neat behind and
thighs tucked into tight black trousers, a scoop-necked top
which shows just enough cleavage.
Just as I’m wondering why she’s with Steve, Arthur leans
over and says, `What’s she doing with that manky bastard?’
`The female mind remains a mystery to me.’
`Aye, sorry, I forgot you were a poofter. No offence, like.’
`None taken.’
`I mean I’ve been married twenty years now and the female
mind remains a mystery to me, too.’
