The Rich And The Profane (27 page)

She smiled, lovely teeth, dimples, and drove out of the yard. Follow her to where? I couldn’t even say it.

On my own, I peered about. The back yard wasn’t overlooked. I hefted up the cresset, and wrapped it carefully in old newspapers I rescued from the dustbin.

Fifteen minutes later, Fd sold it to the Guernsey Antiquery Emporium. I told the dealer Fd fetched it over on the ferry from Wiltshire. I invented a provenance. My mythical great-uncle, erstwhile soldier in the Guernsey garrison, had brought it back, etc., etc. The chap tried telling me it wasn’t worth anything, sneering that I should take it back, and who nowadays wanted old iron lamps? I just shrugged, said OK, turned sadly away - whereupon he dragged me back and offered me what Fd asked. See? Confront antique dealers honestly, you get away with murder. I mean that with sincerity.

Half an hour later I found Splendid Sejour.

SPLENDID SEJOUR TURNED out to be a leisure centre packed with visitors. Unbelievably, it had a cinema. There was a fashion exhibition, swimming, bars, restaurants, other goings-on, it was all happening at Splendid Sejour. No antique shops, though. Planners wrong again.

The Gala Charity Auction was scheduled for three hours’ time. I milled, looked, searched, saw nobody I knew. Presumably it was too small an event for Mrs Crucifex and her harem of tame males. No sign of Irma Dominick. This disappointed me, after my notion that she’d be a potential ally. No sign of Marie Metivier, either, which made me sadder still. No sign of Martin, of Prior Metivier - though I saw that his Holy Priory Charity was listed as a beneficiary.

Boxing clever, I surged only where there were crowds to surge among. Roller skating, the bars, a nosh place after a couple of hours. No sign of Rosa, ex-landlady who’d let me down by buckling under hard pressure from local bigwigs. Surprisingly, no sign of Rita either, though I could see her stuff laid out among the dross on trestle tables when I glanced in. Ladies were diligently numbering the items. No bongs that rendered me senseless, so any genuine antiques must be ruined or restored - same thing - out of all recognition. The furniture was especially pathetic. I noticed on the wall one of Gussy’s grey-and-black line paintings. I was peering in at it, thinking, when a voice intruded.

‘Hello. Jonno Rant?’

‘Er... ?’ The rubicund face of Jimmy Ozanne beamed recognition. ‘Remember me? We met at the Victor Hugo Museum.’

‘Of course.’ We shook hands. I can’t do it convincingly, like Americans. In East Anglia we only ever shake hands once, and it does for life. ‘Are you running this auction, then?’ Maybe he was the quiet manager of Crucifex’s antique shop? I must clear that little side issue up, ask Martin Crucifex. As if he’d tell me.

‘Heavens, no. I came on the off chance of bumping into you, actually. Mrs Vidamour said you’d gone home.’ His voice became concerned. ‘Not giving up your show, are you, old sport? Only, I’ve already drafted the newspaper notices. Small service I offer, y’know. Off the cuff, what?’

‘You have?’ I felt delighted. Here was an ally after all, even if he did speak like a crusty old harrumphing major. ‘That’s terrific, Jimmy. Time for a drink?’

‘If you insist, old bean.’

Was Jimmy Ozanne real? I ordered grandly with money from the cresset. I’d not been called old bean since acting out some jingoistic nonsense in school.

‘Good of you to take the trouble, Jimmy,’ I said once we’d got going. I kept an eye on the time. ‘Unexpected help, that.’

‘Locals, old boy. Terribly proper, what? Sticklers for propriety. Worse than the mainland.’

Aye, I thought bitterly, remembering Rosa lying demurely above the quilt while I lay beneath, I’d already learnt how proper.

‘Maybe I’ll do the show here. My performers,’ I added recklessly, ‘arrive soon. Some are already here now, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Splendid, old fruit!’ Old
fruit}
‘How soon’s your show, Jonno?’

‘Third night from now. I sussed out the Roi de Normandie Hotel for it actually, but I’m having doubts.’

‘This is the place, Jonno. Splendid Sejour can cope.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I might wangle a special rate. ’Nuff said, what?’

‘Er, great, Jimmy. Ta.’

‘What’s the campaign plan? Mum’s the word.’ He tapped his nose.

I was full of admiration. I’d not seen that gesture since
Oliver.

‘The artists gather. My show director’s a lass called Maureen. She’s dynamite.’ God, I thought, lying away, can Maureen direct? And her pal, Patty. Hell fire. They
all
might be duds. I swallowed. Somebody announced the auction on the intercom.

‘I need a factotum, Jimmy, to organize details. Any ideas?’

He cleared his throat, rocked on his heels. A shoal of children passing on roller blades made a swift diversion between us.

‘Can I offer myself, Jonno? Local. Recce superfluous, what?’ He tapped his temple. ‘All systems, jump-off time.’

‘You’ll be the manager? Great!’ And I meant it. ‘Terms are eight per cent. Equity contract.’ Eight per cent of what? I was making it up. I’d known a girl once, aspiring actress. She was always on about getting an Equity card. Or was that immigrants to America? ‘Of the gross,’ I ended on a flourish.

‘Excellent!’ He beamed, ordered a gin sling. ‘Assembly what ack emma?’

What the hell was ack emma? Some sort of gun? ‘You decide, Jimmy.’ I raised my glass. ‘You’re in charge! Sign chits,’ I said grandly, ‘in the name of Jonno Rant Productions. Now, we do two things. One’s the show. They’re all splendid performers, so no worries there.’

‘Kwaiss jiddanP
He rubbed his hands. Approval, in Arabic? My scam was going to be harder than I thought.

‘At the peak of the music-hall floor show, Jimmy, the whole audience will be invited to gamble mightily on items I’ll display. It’s for charity. One person wins a genuine mega possession. Advertise it as an antique.’

‘Antique, hey?’ He brushed his moustache, doubt creeping in. ‘Is it worth interrupting a show to dish out some old pot? Not losing morale, but—’

‘It will make the winner a multi-millionaire, Jimmy.’

He stared, gaped, harrumphed. ‘By jingo, Jonno! You take the biscuit, old chap! Thinking big, hey? Tickety boo. What
is
the antique?’

‘Secret, Jimmy,’ I said, going furtive, because I didn’t know myself yet, though I had the glimmerings. ‘Insurance, Sotheby’s, Lloyd’s. Security, you understand.’

‘Say no more, old bean!’ Solemnly he raised his glass. ‘Chin chin.’

‘Chin, er, chin,’ I said. ‘Six-thirty, press conference.’

‘
Waaaw kyeb'.'

‘Waaaw,
er...’ I left him a happy man. His back was straighter, stalking danger on safari.

The little auction had started to fourscore people in a mild carnival atmosphere. I lurked. Nobody I recognized, and nobody bidding with a recognizable ‘signature’, the auction pattern that’s a dead giveaway. The way a regular bidder goes about his bids is as characteristic as handwriting.

There’s never an auction but what something’s worth buying, even in a small charity do. I bid a few coppers for five old posters in a cardboard roll. I tried to look indifferent, but was delighted to see that I’d bought the greatest of Victorian posters, practically mint. Advertising boomed recklessly in the nineteenth century - adverts even popped up on the Pyramids, on sacred national flags. People even had artillery literally firing wads of handbills for tooth powder all over the suburbs. Ignore ‘advertabilia’ if you like, but you’re throwing money away if you do.

Collectables make purists mad, but if they make you money, do they have to be a Rembrandt? Any auction has sporting memorabilia, forgettables, watercolours, porcelain, toys, jewellery. Scavenging’s not a nice side to human nature, but if looking round old junk shops was the worst we got up to, the world would be a pretty pleasant place. So I paid up and put the roll under my arm. Plenty of people make a living from new advertising, so what’s wrong with old? For once I’d scooped the pool.

Andrew Pears, soap maker, founded his company in 1789. For his time he was a dynamite salesman. His granddaughter’s husband, Tom Barratt, got the marketing bug. He’d do anything to sell Pears soap. It’s a famous Victorian story, how in 1887 Tom bought from the
Illustrated London News
the painting called ‘Bubbles’, by that marvel Sir John Millais. A little lad, actually the painter’s grandson, is admiring a soap bubble he’s just blown using a clay pipe. Barratt had a bar of his soap painted in — and there was his tasteful advert. He even got Lily Langtry - the Jersey Lily - to sign that she used Pears Soap exclusively. There was a row, as only Victorians could row, but eventually even Millais didn’t mind. The modem advertising lesson was learnt: publicity ruled. A perfect ‘Bubbles’ poster nowadays costs as much as the original painting did. And I’d just bought one for a quid.

Barratt’s the same bloke who imported tons of French ten-centime copper coins - then usable in the UK as legit ‘pennies’ - and stamped them with his advertising slogan, at fourteen to the shilling instead of twelve. The government went nuclear, melted them all down, and angrily amended the law. They showed Barratt the door when the cad offered to print the nation’s 1891 census forms free of charge - if the forms carried yet another soap advert. I like Barratt, a true manic Victorian. The government’s refusal made him indignant: wasn’t the national flag being flown inscribed with beer adverts? And hadn’t government allowed Barratt to print his adverts on the gummy side of the official 1881 lilac penny postage stamp? (In New Zealand, a rival’s legend in 1893 came off on your tongue when you licked the stamps: ‘Sunlight Soap for Washing Dogs ...’). I was content. I knew four collectors of advert-abilia. Is it my fault they’re off their trolley? I once sold a Victorian advert for magnetic foot warmers. The most expensive are those shaped metal painted adverts advertising posh American shops of the 1870s; one will buy you a new house. Keep looking. Meanwhile ... Eh?

‘Hello, Lovejoy.’

‘Hello, Walt.’ He looked uneasy. ‘Augusta’s painting’s the next lot?’

‘People only laugh, Lovejoy. She won’t come to these auctions.’ He coughed. ‘Sorry not to have been around.’

‘Don’t worry, Walt.’ I can be quite kind when I’m lying. ‘I leave Guernsey today, so I’m glad I caught you.’

He was relieved. ‘Rosa told me. Glad there’ll be no more trouble. Gussy’s disappointed, after your promise, but she’ll get over it.’

So much for loyalty to principle. ‘Remember me to her.’ If I’d had a watch I’d have glanced at it. ‘Better get down to the ferry. Cheers, Walt.’

Off I walked. I posted the cardboard roll of posters to my cottage, and got a taxi to drop me off a few hundred yards short of Gussy’s antiques place, clever old Tracker Dan that I am. I walked in. She was at her easel, yet another masterpiece. I guessed what it would be. I stood there a few minutes, saw her do the preliminary underpainting. Christ, but she poured on «l*e turpentine. It was awash, stank the place out.

‘Same, love?’

She painted wildly on, hair any old how. ‘Thought you’d gone back to the mainland, Lovejoy,’ she said bitterly. ‘Come to buy one of Mad Gussy’s crazies?’

‘No.’ I went closer. ‘I want fourteen.’

She rounded so fiercely I recoiled. Then she saw my face.

‘Lovejoy. You’re one person, then you’re not. You’re leaving, then still here. You say my paintings are balderdash. Now you want fourteen?’

‘Yes. I can pay a deposit now, the rest later. How much are they?’

She started to laugh, tears streaming down. I grew uncomfortable. I don’t like that noise between laughter and tears. Women laughing crying like that make me think something’s wrong. Joy and pain ought to keep separate.

‘What the hell for, Lovejoy?’ she got out finally. ‘You buy fourteen,
then
ask the price?’ She sobered. ‘I knew you were trouble, first time I saw you.’

‘Not interfering, love, but is so much turpentine wise?’

Artists kill critics (and vice versa; fair’s fair), so I was dicing with death. ‘Play your cards right, a spoonful will do for a whole canvas. Think of the original. He never splashed it about like that.’

‘You see?’ Tears fell, plop, plop, on to her skirt. ‘It’s the same feeling.’

‘Eh?’

‘I knew a man once. We were close. He’d been in prison for manslaughter. I was young.’ I don’t know what a sardonic laugh is, but it sounded close. ‘We were the scandal of Guernsey. He left because of the police.’

‘Here,’ I said, narked. ‘I’m not a criminal. As for manslaughter—’

‘It’s the same feeling, Lovejoy. Doing wrong, the speed, not knowing why.’ She looked at me. ‘And not caring any longer if I’m doing wrong. Tell me, Lovejoy. What are my paintings to do with you?’

‘When it’s all over, I’ll keep one. For my cottage. For now, I need a place to hide, and your gungey old motor. And paintings.’

We spoke for an hour, me and Gussy, mostly about her childhood. I listened while she talked. And the oddest thing happened. She became animated. The years fell from her. Her lunacy dwindled and vanished. We were suddenly the friendliest of friends. Augusta Quenard was the best thing that had happened to me since I’d arrived.

Later, laughing, she sought out the last of her grey paintings and we got them covered up in her car boot. Solemnly I paid her a note for deposit.

‘Sale or return, Lovejoy?’ she asked mischievously. ‘And can I come?’

‘No, love.’ I got her keys and coaxed the engine.
‘Waaaw kyehV

‘What does that mean?’

‘Dunno. I think it’s optimism. Cheers, love.’

I badly wanted to see Prior Metivier and his delectable sister, but things were more pressing. The crook, Gesso’s killer, would have to wait. I drove to the airport to meet Florida.

omen make me
hungry. Sometimes, just a glimpse makes my mouth water. Don’t misunderstand.

Florida was no bimbo. She came into Guernsey’s miniature air terminal like a goddess. Bright, alert, demanding. Powder-blue suit, pillbox hat, skirt trim and everything matching. In comparison the arriving crowd looked utter tat.