The Rich And The Profane

by Jonathan Gash

  A woman, pleasantly tubby and harassed, was packing handies - small antiques you can palm. I waited for my gong to go. Hardly a chime. I heard a creak behind a curtain. Grannie in a rocking chair?

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Can I look, please?’

  ‘Please do.’ She brushed a wisp of hair with her wrist. I like them doing that. It’s somehow touching. ‘I’m sorry, but we’re closing soon. The charity auction, you see. I’m due there.’

  ‘Got much?’ No more creaks. I smiled. Grannie was listening.

  The place was no bigger than a living room, a cumin dividing off the rear. Around the walls, furniture, paintings, poor-quality harbour scenes looking good from a distance but aged by tobacco smoke, one circular table that would have been worth restoring, except some loon forty years back had replaced the legs with modern dross and reveneered the surface. Dealers do that, and finish up with one ‘good’ antique they can sell to some unsuspecting buyer who thinks she’s getting a perfect eighteenth-century dining table. In the process, they’ve murdered maybe three honest old tables while doing their ‘antique creation’. It’s the in phrase. Plates hung from those modern hook-and-spring wires that have chipped (and therefore ruined) more valuable Georgian plates than any carelessness. I once wrote to our MP, tried to get them banned. He wrote back that I was insane. That, note, from a politician.

  ‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid.’ She had a nice smile. A door closed quietly. The curtain wafted up then settled. Grannie leaving, not interested after all? I tried to avoid sniffing the aroma. Oil of cloves? ‘We’re practically brand new.’

  ‘But you’re Guernsey, Rita?’ Her name was stuck on her lapel.

  ‘Yes.’ She was flustered, checking, forgetting where she’d put her list. ‘I have no experience. I mean, antiques are special, aren’t they?’

  ‘I like that brooch.’ Cardboard box, fewer than a dozen objects.

  She glanced at the time. ‘I see you know your antiques! That has to go for quite a lot!’ Her voice hushed, big secrets. ‘It’s Berlin jewellery.’

  Berlin work was made in, well, Berlin, at its Royal Berlin Factory, though it had started earlier somewhere in Silesia. I picked up the bracelet. Heavy, not very attractive. Its inside had the stamp GGIFE, meaning Gold gab ich filr Eisen, proving that some lady had patriotically handed in a precious golden bangle to fund Prussia’s efforts against Tyrant Napoleon. Such ladies received iron jewellery in exchange, a custom they repeated in every major war, though Napoleon nicked the moulds and started a French manufactory. There are even Wedgwood variants, valuable things if you can find them.

  This bracelet was decorated with a single garnet jewel. I love garnet, a much maligned stone beloved of the ancients, almost as much as I hate the term ‘semi-precious’. I mean, would we like to be called that, semi-human maybe? It’s an insult to a gemstone that has lived millions of years and will be here long after we’re gone. Sometimes Berlin iron jewellery was designed in parures, which are suites or sets, such as earrings, necklace, bracelet, brooch, plus an aigrette to adorn the lady’s hair or headdress. You only come across them split up nowadays, unless you’re rich enough to fund a search. It set me thinking. I looked closer.

  Somebody had had a go at enamelling the bracelet’s rim. It had blistered quite badly. I sighed. The antiques game is ruined by its players, who despoil in ignorance.

  ‘Well, don’t blame me!’

  ‘Eh? Oh, sorry.’ I must have spoken aloud. ‘I wouldn’t care, except this piece is genuine.’ I explained about parures, and incomplete sets dealers call ‘demis’, meaning demi-parures. I laid the iron bracelet down, mentally told it thanks for not minding. ‘You didn’t do this enamelling yourself, then?’

  ‘No. It was done somewhere on the mainland.’

  ‘Well, tell him not to use a drying oil for painting in the enamel colour. It always froths up. Temperature faults, probably. It’s a giveaway that somebody’s tried to make jewellery more valuable.’

  Enamelling is beset with these problems. The worst thing is to try some short cut. I’ve even known blokes who’ll try to exclude cobalt oxide when doing a first enamel on sheet iron. Barmy. It can be done, but at prodigious risk.

  She went to the curtain. ‘Oh. Sorry. He’s just gone. I’ll tell him. Can you write it down? I know he’ll be very pleased.’

  So I did, like a burk. Sometimes I can’t believe my stupidity. ‘Got any Golden Syrup? Tell him to use gum mastic, syrup, glycerin, in equal amounts, with a little distilled water. Add a drop or two of wetting agent. Never mind those expensive mediums. They only carry the vitrified colours to the heat.’

  She watched me scribble. ‘Do you really mean household—?’

  ‘Certainly. Golden Syrup’s very underrated stuff. A spoonful in butter cleans grime, makes your hands like a baby’s bum.’ We forget these old remedies. Like, Cleopatra’s ladies used natron - sodium carbonate - in honey as a contraceptive douche. They said it worked. Mind you, they said the same about crocodile dung.

  ‘He’s ordering a small kiln.’

  ‘Tell your faker not to be so blinking impatient when he’s forging antiques. Impatience is worst on precious metals. You have to do layer after layer, brief firings one after another. Save him a fortune, tell him it’s hopeless firing enamels straight on to gold. Do it on silver first, then layer it in.’

  ‘Thank you. Mister ... ?’

  Robbing this innocent lady would be like strangling a butterfly.

  ‘Hang about, Rita. I’ll have a look round your antiques.’ It took about half a minute. What was bad was horrid. What had been good was ruined.

  ‘He restored this painting himself, did he?’ I stopped before a Victorian seascape. With enormous restraint, I managed not to sob.

  ‘I think his partner.’

  ‘He’s ruined a perfectly good painting.’

  ‘Oh, no. You’re wrong. He’s very proud of having restored it himself. It was mouldy. He even scraped the surface! Restoring is an art.’

  Indeed. If you really want to learn the Great Antiques Trade, learn by heart my nine truest calamity stories. They’re all terrible, and carry bitter lessons bitterly learnt. I’ll not give all nine. Here’s just one - if you haven’t a nervous disposition.

  Two Canadian blokes one day wandered through a local auction. ‘Hey,’ says one. ‘Look at that moth-eaten mouldy oil painting! Vaguely like Turner, eh?’ They had a laugh, bought the begrimed canvas for a groat, took it home. The more they looked, the more they thought of the immortal Turner, greatest painter the world has ever known. And the more they looked, the more it felt Turner. Finally they thought, Fingerprints!

  Cut to the police in West Yorkshire, Merrie England. Whose fingerprint department checked, rechecked and issued a few mild words. ‘Yes, those fingerprints are Turner’s.’ They’d got his originals off the Chichester Canal painting in the Tate. Ecstasy! Paradise indeed! Oh, and money. Mustn’t forget money, because if you, me or Joe Soap paints a daub as best we can we’d be lucky to get sixty zlotniks. But if a crumbling decaying canvas is by Turner, you’re in zillionnaire land and no mistake. It was jubilation time in the old homestead that evening, to be sure.

  (I know what you’re thinking. A moment ago I said it was a calamity. So how come it’s suddenly angel choirs and violins? Read sadly on.)

  At Phillips, posh London auction rooms, in the gloomy rain of dark December, there was one shining beacon of light. It was gelt. For the newly found Landscape With Rainbow, proven handiwork of the immortal artist, was up for auction. Then (here comes our calamity) the light guttered and died. Buyers and Old Master experts came, saw and wept. For the painting had been ‘restored’ almost to extinction. Dirty, it had been worth millions. Now, it had been scrubbed free of all its artistic brilliance. The auctioneer knocked it down for peanuts, amid a stony silence broken only by the sounds of the sobbing newshounds in that Oxford Street pub and the loud ping of perforating duodenal ulcers. The owners had scrubbed off a king’s ran
som. Tip: if you don’t know what to do to an antique, don't do it.

  ‘That’s terrible!’ Rita was saying.

  ‘Eh? Oh, well, old artists sometimes tried new media, different effects on colours, see? Turner was always at it.’ I smile when I think of him. I can’t help it. ‘He’d used megilp, a stuff made of mastic varnish and linseed oil crammed full of poisonous white lead. It’s brilliant to do forgeries - er, I’ve heard. But it starts wrinkling almost as soon as you walk away from the canvas.’ Forgers use it, though, with ochres as a yellowing agent, to deceive people into thinking they’re buying something truly old.

  ‘Isn’t that fantastic!’ Rita looked from me to the box of dross. ‘Why did you say thanks to the bracelet?’

  Thinking aloud was getting out of hand. ‘Sorry. I used to do it, er, as a lad.’

  She was smiling. ‘Would you help me out to the car, please? My dealer has gone ahead.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  So I carried her crummy box out through the back room. Where a peal of thunder stopped me.

  ‘Can you manage, Mister ... ?’

  ‘Aye, ta. Just noticed that lamp.’

  ‘Yes.’ She spoke with distaste. ‘I told Mr Crucifex it ought to be removed. We should have this room renovated.’ Above the back door hung a cresset. Scotch folk call it a crusie, Shetlanders a collie. In Lancashire it’s a Betty. Basically a Roman design, it’s just an iron stand with a hook to hang a glim. You fill it with oil, stick a wick in it, and there’s your lamp. The Channel Islanders had this variant. Their word cresset is Norman, not English. This was an old, old version. One form is the basket and spike you see in Hollywood sword-and-sandal epics, burning torches on castle walls. This looked like it had been corroding there a couple of centuries.

  ‘Rusty old thing. It’s dangerous.’ I was thinking, Did she say Crucifex? But Walt Jethou had said the proprietor wasn’t local. ‘Shall I get rid of it?’

  ‘Have we time?’

  ‘Only take a second, love,’ I said, piously hurrying out and stowing her box in the boot. ‘What if it fell on some little child, or a customer?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  She went back to get her handbag. I followed and lifted the cresset down. It had a metal loop that had discoloured the wall plaster over the years. It felt exquisite, that crooked old piece of bent iron and its flattish metal bowl. There was even a charred wick in the bottom under thick dust. Only a couple of hundred, but that’s more than nowt. A year for each zlotnik? Cheap at the price.

  ‘There!’ I showed revulsion, acting away. ‘Have you a dustbin?’

  ‘In the yard. Collection’s Mondays.’

  ‘Right.’ I placed it with reverence behind the bin, dusted off my hands. She got into her car. ‘Did you remember to lock up, Rita. Front door and back?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes. And I put the “closed” notice in the window.’ She gunned the engine. ‘You’re nice, Mister ... ?’ ‘I think you’re beautiful,’ I said. ‘But I don’t go on about it, do I? Was that Mr Crucifex who’d left as I arrived?’ ‘No. Mr Slevin’s not a Guemesiais. He’s new, rents the shop from Mr Crucifex.’

  ‘I’d like to met him.’ Maybe black his eye, for damaging antiques by mucking about like that bad enamel.

  ‘Thank you for your assistance. Are you a collector?’ ‘No. My cousin runs this orphanage in Manchester. I try and help her out...’ I smiled nobly. Stick to a good lie.

  ‘An orphanage? Look, please let me ...’ She fumbled in her handbag.

  To my horror I heard myself say, ‘Certainly not! I wouldn’t dream of it. How could you be sure I’d send it to her?’

  She pressed a note into my hand. ‘I know people,’ she said, all misty.

  ‘Get to St Peter’s,’ I choked back my welling piety.

  ‘It’s not there. The charity auction’s at Splendid Sejour.’ She started the engine, a manoeuvre taking the best part of the day, and said shyly, ‘Will you call in again?’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll follow you to the auction.’

  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.

  21

  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—’