The Grace in Older Women (38 page)

'Listen, the pair of you.' I did my grimmest bent eye. 'I want no
criticism, not a word. You hear?'

'Lovejoy.' Priscilla grasped the nettle. 'We observed an
implicit liaison
between you and at
least three of the ladies visited. We heard you promise to return these
antiques, knowing it is impossible to do so in time!'

'I know.' I hesitated, decided in for a penny, in for a pound. 'I
need your help. In a fraud.'

Philadora was wide-eyed. 'Prissy! Did Lovejoy say fraud?’

'I did.' Looking into those eyes was like staring at four
brilliant blue saucers. 'Know what a roup is?'

'No,' they said faintly.

'A roup's an old Scotch country auction. Items were numbered in a roup-call,
meaning a list published before the auction day. Then you sell all, higher
bidder wins.’

‘But we haven't a list. Love joy - '

'Shut up, for Christ's sake!' I shouted, deafening myself in the
confines of the small motor. 'Just listen!' I forced a smile and waved as two
honking saloons cruised by, their drivers recognizing me at the last second.
Then I rounded on the two ladies. 'A roup nowadays has a special meaning,
different from the Scotch original. It's now a
fraudulent
auction. I publish the list after -
after
- the auction, to pretend things were all right at the time,
see?'

'But the dealers will complain that they never saw the list until
it was too late, Lovejoy.'

I could have banged their stupid heads together. 'That's where you
come in. You will stand at the exhibition entrance giving out a pamphlet,
forgery in general,
caveat emptor
and
all that.'

‘No list?' Priscilla asked, guessing the answer.

‘No list,' I agreed. ‘When the auction's over you will
deliberately litter the car parks and fields with discarded lists.'

'We've had no time to prepare a list, Lovejoy!' They were aghast.

‘No.’ Why can't people see the obvious? It wears me out. ‘The
items won't
be
listed, just loosely
grouped.'

‘But what about the exhibitors, Lovejoy?'

‘You,' I said firmly, "will arrange a large supper party for
them all. At the Welcome Sailor. I, er, like the landlady. Take them there in
charabancs at Mr. Battishall's expense. A celebration.'

‘We will?' said Priscilla.

‘Yes.' I started the engine. Mustn't be late for my own fraudulent
roup. 'During which.’ I added, keeping the ball bouncing, ‘you will abscond,
and return to help me.'

To help you what?'

I leant back against the headrest. God, I had a headache to split
the Pennines. 'Sell the whole exhibition, love.'

'Have you got permission from all the fakers and forgers who
actually
own
the exhibits, Lovejoy?'

'No.’

'Then how on earth can you possibly - ?'

'Not me, you stupid old faggots!' I yelled, apoplectic. ‘You
and
me.
We
will do it! There's no way to stop it now.
We've
obtained a load of antiques by criminal deception. There's no
going back.'

Furious, I drove into the column of vehicles, ignored the signals
of old George at the crossroads.

'Lovejoy,' Miss Priscilla said timidly as we arrived.

'What now?'

'Does this mean we're whifflers?'

That almost calmed me enough to smile. God give me strength. 'Yes.
Until the auction. Then you become ponders, people who pretend to make bids
randomly. But,' I added hastily in case, 'don't do it in earnest, okay? Or
we'll lose every penny.'

Philadora started up. 'Lovejoy, are we
criminals
?’

'Aye,' I said, harsh. I didn't like that, because I'm no criminal,
never have been.

'Oooh!' they moaned in horror.

Priscilla was made of sterner stuff, patted her sister's hand.
'Courage, Philadora,' she said quietly. 'Lovejoy doesn't want weak-willed
vicarage ladies. He needs partners of mettle. Remember his obverse and our own
zodiac meet at resolution!'

'Yes, Prissy,' Philadora whispered.

We alighted like troupers, marched in like that bit from 'Gunga
Din'.

32

They gave me a load of ribaldry, whistles, jeers. I made for the
steps, flourishing a hand in airy rejoinder.

The queue of dealers was no longer the orderly line Tinker had
described. It was a seething mob, some 250 strong.

'Where the hell. Lovejoy?' from Litterbin, smoking a cigar as long
as his arm l been waiting frigging da

Ten minutes to go, Binny.' I consulted an imaginary watch, checking
the crowd. They were all here, Farouk and his nephews, Montgomery and Corinth,
Addie Allardyce and her jealous husband, taking notes on her clipboard, Bog
Frew from the Old Vic in cape and ermine hat, ominously Big John Sheehan's
Cavern and Tomtom looking in from some neanderthal landscape, Vasco, Big Frank
from Suffolk. Harry Bateman and his Jenny, who loves effeminate Klayson - don't
ask me how - and scores of other faces familiar, half-forgotten and unknown.
The Brighton circus was in, the Liverpool lads- BJS's connection there - some
Glasgow blokes. I felt really quite proud, the lot all haring in on my say-so.
Even Jox, ready to notch another failure.

Oh, and Holly Heanley, eyeing me steadily. Now, I didn't want her
here, lest I be accused of assisting the hotel owner's Lolita obsession.

'Ladies and gentlefolk,’ I began into a chorus of derision, 'today
sees the biggest exhibition of forgeries ever shown. I promise you: it utterly
eclipses the British Museum's Fakery exhibition. At great cost, it shows that
you can't trust appearances when buying antiques.’

'What else is new, Lovejoy? ' some wag yelled.

‘What else is
old
?'
somebody gruff capped, causing roars of laughter so I couldn't hear myself.

'Any police here?' I called. It shut them up, heads shaking all round.
'This is the order of play, then. You enjoy the items, place orders if you
wish. But Customs and Excise people will be in as ordinary women, okay?'

'Women' means innocent members of the public, if there is such a
thing. Dunno how the term came about, but it's everywhere.

'So no mention of any auction, or you'll all get dunned for Value
Added Tax. So, silence until the exhibitors leave, okay?'

The crowd growled anger. I understood the resentment. Robber
barons still prowl our fair kingdom despite Magna Carta. They are called civil
servants, and their creed of brutish rapacity government.

'What about this auction, Lovejoy?' Litterbin called. The throng
silenced. Blokes like Litterbin tend to be Monday experts - dealers who only
know when it's all over, the hindsight-blindsight brigade. They remain
know-alls all their lives.

'It starts at six precisely. One mention of it to any exhibitor
means it'll be cancelled. And I'll spread the word tell who was the
blabbermouth. Understand? I'll be auctioneer, to ensure fair play . . .' A roar
of jeers and laughter. I wafted them down, smiling but worried in case some of
them didn't go along with the notion. It had to succeed, or I'd be done for.
'In the hotel dining room. Tinker's whifflers on the doors, nobody in after the
first hammer, okay?'

'The women and filers, Lovejoy. What about them?'

'Any public will be shunted at the five o'clock close. The
exhibitors will be bussed away at five-thirty by my helpers. None will remain.
That'll leave you miserable lot and me to the auction. Teas and snacks in the
entrance hall. Questions?'

'Why're we limited in numbers, Lovejoy?' a Liverpudlian voice
spoke up. 'We've mates due in an hour.'

'They can see the exhibition, but only you lot get auction
tickets. I want eyes.'

'Faces' are hoodlums; 'eyes' are recognizable friends. I was
pleased with the response, everybody nodding yes, that's okay, sensible.

My cue to bang on the door. Tinker opened it, decidedly the worse
for wear. He had three whifflers, all blokes I knew, and the Misses Dewhurst.
They had books of tickets at a desk, were busily initialling them.

'Charge high,' I whispered to Priscilla, and sailed by.

The stampede began, up the steps, into the corridor. I strolled
in,

looking for something to eat. Maybe that pleasant serving maid
Whatsername would prove kindly to a hungry benefactor like me. I do nothing but
help people, get little enough appreciation.

The exhibition would have graced London's best showrooms in its
complexity. I made a quick tour of the whole place, partly from bravado, but
also to boost morale.

The exhibitors were all in place, many of the blokes wearing their
best and standing by their stands. They were all checking their watches,
nervously asking each other the time - all exhibitors at any trade show do
this. Visit one, see if I'm right. I drifted through like a dignitary, my usual
down-at-heel self.

Noah was there, I was pleased to see, more like Pinocchio's dad
than ever, twinkly of eye, leather of apron. He had two glorious forgeries,
including the mahogany tripod table.

'Good of you to come yourself, Noah.'

'Nice to get out, Lovejoy.' He smiled from underneath his bushy
eyebrows. 'Can't help wondering what the catch is.'

'Suspicious old get,' I said. 'Seen a maid called Lily?'

Spoons was on the second landing. He'd brought his daft old - i.e.
new - Spanish mariner's astrolabe in sterling silver, but his candlesticks were
lovely against a cloth of royal blue velveteen. I told him off for not doing as
I'd said.

'Leave off, Lovejoy,' he grumbled. 'I brought my special, so don't
give me earache.'

It was lovely, Rare, these Dutch baby-in-the-cellar cups. Silver,
made from Elizabethan times up to the nineteenth century. The Hollanders call
it
Hansje in den kelder
, 'Little Hans
in the cellar', which is odd until you realize what it's for. Fill the bowl
with wine, a little silver babe rises up underneath a silver dome - whereupon
everybody present gets sloshed, because it's the traditional toasting vessel
when a baby's imminent. Like most antiques, its name's wrong - the 'cellar'
isn't, and why Hans anyway? Dunno. But Spoons had done a lovely job.

Speckie was there, tidy for once, with a
new
new pretty girlfriend to polish his longcase clocks. I told him
to stop her or she'd put everybody off. A woman's work is never done, but a
forger's work has to be finished well before the first customer happens by.

Linetta, one of my favourites, was quietly there, smiling beside
her precision porcelains. For a while I thought of asking her if she was married/engaged/available,
but got distracted by a glimpse of Juliana. I was almost sure it was her
familiar figure that flitted across the landing as I inspected old Doothie's
watercolours. He'd done sixteen, the paper bonny old stuff, with another thirteen
views, suspiciously Turner. He had his bottle specs on to show he was ailing
fast and therefore vulnerable to buyers' greed.

A nervous youth, stranger, was standing by a series of paintings
near the dayroom, his stand on a wall table's grey-beige cloth. It looked
really naff. I was about to explode, when I remembered who this might be. The
paintings were Far East, simple fakes done beautifully. They looked real,
without that giveaway stencilled appearance. From a distance they were
Chinnery.

'Lovejoy?' he asked apprehensively. He was clean, presentable,
looked sixteen and frightened. 'Auntie Margaret sends her . . .' he blushed,
inspected his feet, 'regards,' he ended, embarrassed at his aunt, actually over
thirty, feeling love.

'You Jaddo?'

'Jaddo Dainty.' He spoke defiantly. ‘I done these pictures.'

'You're as good as your auntie said. Look, Jaddo.' I lowered my
voice because other exhibitors were drifting across to see. 'Stay with the main
mob of exhibitors, right? You'll go to the Welcome Sailor for a meal. But see
me, Monday. Your auntie'd find me. You've a career ahead.'

'Will they sell?' he asked, desperate. 'Only, my dad's in trouble
and-'

'Fear not, Jaddo,' I told him. 'Give your auntie my love, okay?'

He reddened, mortified. I drifted on.

Even if I say so myself, it was extra special. Tapper had his coin
collector's cabinet, hallmark of the medallist. He wore a three-piece suit,
every inch the banker in pursuit of sidelong gain. Jackery had made the trip
from Lavenham. His forgery of Seurat's nudes was beautiful. God knows what
would happen when he returned from the Welcome Sailor and found it sold. But
you can't make an omelette without breaking Jackerys. Is that true or not?

The trio of gold fakers from Cambridge had come with a remarkable
amount of Croesus's Lydian Hoard treasure - fake you understand - and had
rigged up odd display strobes I'd never seen before. Talent abounded. They'd
got ancient-style music fibrillating the curtains, but I wasn't having that and
said to shut it up. I wanted discretion, muted voices, murmurs of appreciation.