The Grace in Older Women

by Jonathan Gash

  The other bays were more mundane: iron chastity belts (two hundred quid, as this goes to press), whips, bondage instruments, cuckold's horns, the inevitable faked Japanese woodblock prints, and posters from exotic films. Tryer had introduced a small video stall, where folk could buy movies. This alcove was marked Tor Educational Instruction Only'. A section on love chairs, conversation chairs, and love positions was badly illustrated by modern pictures torn from magazines. On the whole it was pretty poor, and badly displayed. A kid could have done better.

  'Why not have some rope, an obsidian blade and a twist of bark, for a Maya ritual? Nick the pictures from books.'

  'Of what, Lovejoy?' Chemise asked.

  The Mayas. Central America, AD 250 to 900. Bloodthirsty lot who beheaded their losers at football. The King slit his, er, thing, passed a rope through, caught his blood on some bark that he burnt. His missus did the same rope trick through her tongue's frenulum. The smoke gave them visions-with a little help from hallucinogens.'

  That's simply beautiful,' Lovejoy!' Her eyes shone.

  But those boxes. Chemise was still dabbing me. I shoved her away, managed to stand.

  'Get off me, silly cow.'

  'Lovejoy! You just take your time! Do-you-hear?' Chemise gets self-righteous when a bloke's off colour.

  l Can I look? I think you've got something, love.'

  'What's up?' Tryer entered, the trailer tilting to a cant.

  One box was large, held a few old cards, nothing else except a small bronze. It was nineteenth century, French, showing Diana. Somewhat corroded, but nothing to worry about. She was seated, arms raised almost as if sleeping, yet with her knees flexed and her naked form all curves. Lovelier still, the name Denecheau was underneath. It was worth the Sex Museum and the trailer. She was good enough to eat.

  Another box held two corkscrews, both German about 1899, give or take. Don't laugh. One was the famous Folding Lady corkscrew-the torso was one 'arm', raised legs the other, and the business bit standing erect between. The second, its fulcrum rusted, was the well-known Amor, one ‘arm' being a soldier, the other a lass. Open them, they assume one position; close them with the screw between, they get up to no good. Collectors give about a fortnight's wage. Nothing in a couple of the other boxes except yellowed cuttings from newspapers needing sorting out.

  Then a Japanese print, folded (pity; reduces the value by half). Modern posters or comic-book glossies of starlets had these olden-day Japanese equivalent. Only, they made them by woodblock prints of Kabuki actors. This was on lovely fine paper; a rare surimono one done especially for an admiring patron. I think they're gruesome, those faces, but I was looking at a new trailer. It showed an actor depicting a made-up woman character. Another superb find. Tryer had made it, all in one go. But it was the last that was the true winner for Tryer's flying-tackle guess.

  It was jade. And I do mean real, honest and true jade. Everybody knows jade, but forgets there are two sorts. One is jadeite jade -comes in any colour you like, but only became the expensive front runner in the eighteenth century. The most valuable isn't the orange, white, bluish, red jades, but the 'imperial' emerald-green jade. It's still carved, of course. But there's a trick for jadeite jade. I took out the loupe I'm never without. And looked close at the little bell shape, moving to the light.

  Modern jadeite carvings tend to be polished with diamond powders, otherwise you can't get that lovely iridescent sheen jadeite gives. This looked matt, which I actually prefer because it's older, and felt almost greasy to the thumb. I had to keep my breathing going so I didn't keel over, for just visible were minute discontinuities, quite like crazy paving cracks. That's what stops it from taking a perfect polished gleam. It was ancient jade, predating the modern period where everybody wants 'perfection'. It was a bell, imperial emerald jadeite jade. Nephrite jade, however, is usually green or brownish-pale, less favoured, and only moderate value, even though it's often brilliantly carved.

  'Jadeite.' I was overcome from delight. I felt floating. 'This was carved by a bobby-dazzler so long ago it doesn't matter. Look!'

  I inverted the bell to show the carved interior. Two concubines, partly clothed, were depicted on the inside of the bell's lumen, arms spread, limbs amorously disposed. The clapper was free-swinging carved in the form of a bifid male organ. Each swing gave a musical tinging sound, the shafts piercing each of the concubines in turn. once each oscillation. A fortune, from any collector of erotica.

  'What's it for?' Tryer, ever the tactless genius.

  'It's for hanging on oneself or the lady, in certain . . .'I cleared my throat. 'Actually had a variety of uses.'

  Chemise smiled her beatific smile. 'What exquisiteness! Musical love! What elegance!'

  'What d'you mean?' Tryer asked, looking.

  'It means you can buy the frigging town, Tryer,' I said, but wry because this miracle never happens to me. I only make discoveries for somebody else.

  'Lovejoy,' Chemise said, moved. 'Thank you, darling. Is there anything I can do for you?'

  Right offer, wrong moment. 'Any chance of a coffee?'

  Ten gallons, for you,' she said.

  During nosh, I told them about the corkscrew, and the little bronze, but kept coming back to the jade piece.

  'Where'd you find it?' I asked. You never ask this of another dealer. It always leads to trouble.

  'Suffolk,' Tryer said. 'Fenstone. I was clearing a neighbour's tied cottage. A lady's farm's in Queer Street.'

  Fenstone was popular lately, for a village sinking slowly in the west. 'You lived at Fenstone?'

  'Used to. That was where I met Chemise.'

  'Yes!' She was glowing, as only women suddenly rich can. Tryer's holy well. Didn't you hear about it?'

  'Nobody heard about it,' Tryer said bitterly. That bloody parson cocked the whole scam up.'

  'Parson? You mean that Smith?'

  'Him.' Tryer looked venomous. 'I invented this holy well. Built a grotto, me and my sister's lad from Breakstone. Lovely. I put it about that the Virgin Mary appeared there. Wishing Well stuff, printed histories. I had touring agencies interested. They'd have flocked in.'

  'It got scuppered, eh?'

  'He got my lease cancelled. Said it was blasphemous.'

  'Oh, Tryer, don't keep on.' Chemise was exasperated. This was obviously old ground. 'Lovejoy's divvied the job lot. We've made it! Let's be thankful. Anyway, how d'you know it was Father Jay?'

  'Because his parish council had us evicted, that's how!'

  No good. I said I'd best get off because I had to go to an auction. Chemise rushed after me. She'd wrapped some slices of toast in kitchen foil, and gave me a kiss and three apples. I said so long. I couldn't help thinking what a lot of useful con tricks had died the death near tranquil little Fenstone. So tranquil, in fact, that it was being made comatose. Where had I seen that stout, limping, balding bloke before, the one lighting the candles? And who was the lady with the farm in decline?

  10

  Hoping I’d got the day right, I went along the Roman wall as far as the Balkerne gateway. Now fashioned into a tavern, it overlooks the river slope, where schools abound and cattle graze. I like it because you can see countryside without having to suffer its terrible terrain. It makes me smile with wicked glee, very like a kid looks at a tiger, secure enough to taunt the caged menace.

  The pub's called the Railway Vista now - you can see the station a mile off- and has a cellar that was part of the Roman wall. Cool, door a mile thick, safe from prying eyes. It's there that the tomorrow auction would be held, eleven o'clock. I hung about outside, judging the town hall clock. I saw Litterbin Bell go in, leaving his blonde dolly bird in his huge Lagonda. She sat there la-lalling to the radio, gorgeous and vacant as a balloon. Litterbin's made a fortune out of rubbish, having started rooting in dustbins. He wears capes now over hand-tailored suits, spats even, hand-lasted shoes, smokes cheroots, fawn kid gloves in his shoulder bar, movie-spiv tash.

  There are usually only six in a t
omorrow auction - you'll see why when I can get round to explaining. This is Big John Sheehan's decree. He's a quiet Ulsterman with power, has a Praetorian Guard, and rules the roost hereabouts in bent activities. Only occasionally does he launch into antiques, but when he does it's essential to know his wishes. In fact, it's vital to guess what his orders might become in the near future because if he gives a naff order he's likely to look for blame among those around him. He trusts me, knowing I'm too scared of him to do anything but obey to the letter. Usually, I mean.

  Corinth arrived next, attractive, early forties, in a pastel green suit, matching everythings, expensive hairdo, amber bracelets. I love Corinth. Well, I would if. She took her name from some film years ago. She talked earnestly with a neatly dressed man her age. He's her secretary, Montgomery Mainwaring, who cohabits with Corinth in a splendid house at Aldeburgh beach. She deals in Regency furniture, paintings, English porcelain. I've never quite worked out their relationship. Speculation is rife. I saw her tick off her instructions, Montgomery nodding. Then she snapped a goodbye, and walked off towards Luciano's coffee bar on the theatre corner. Big John doesn't allow women in auctions, deals, murders. I was there when somebody once asked him why. Big John was astonished, said, 'What for?' Couldn't understand why anybody'd let a female decide the next crime. It's his upbringing, gentleman of the old school.

  Montgomery, Litterbin, me, Sheehan himself, making four. A Rolls was illegally parked asplay the cul-de-sac, so a fifth was already in. I stood among the trees by the theatre - on show nights patrons emerge with interval drinks, a pretty sight. It gave me protective colouring. I wanted to know who, because I'd a vital question about funny names. I saw Bog alight from a taxi, smiling as if at admiring crowds. Bog Frew's an ageing thespian given to declaiming Shakespeare speeches. He never was any good, but his dreams flirt with reality and they tend to merge. He has a terraced house near the bypass, one room crammed with stage memorabilia. He'll tell you barefaced falsehoods like, 'Oh, that poster? Me and Larry - I was very young, o' course - went a bomb at Strateford-on-Avon. We did the Bard's Scottish play, y'know. Macduff, me. The critics raved . . .' Not true, none of it, but where's the harm?

  Six, was that enough today? I went in at one minute to eleven, through the taproom bar, made it downstairs just as Tomtom, one of Big John's goons, was closing the door. He hesitated, let me through, and there was the tomorrow auction, ready for off.

  They stood around in an awkward circle, like the Privy Council. Big John was talking with a thin small coloured bloke wearing, would you believe, sunglasses, in a cellar? Sheehan has an Ulsterman's typically mobile alert face, with steady eyes for worrying you if you dare look in. I leant against the old Roman mortared walling. It warmed me like a cherub's smile.

  'Who asked Lovejoy?' Big John asked the air.

  Silence, so we could all freeze in terror in comfort.

  'Er, I came to, er, ask, John, please. . . ?' My voice broke like when I was a lad, yodelling in spite of trying to keep it steady. 'Er, if that's all right, er . . .'

  My speech was as grovelly as I could make it without actually kneeling to supplicate. Was it too late to fling myself down?

  'How did Lovejoy know it was now?' Sheehan's quiet words fell like a pall made visible. I saw even the stranger blanch. John's voice goes softer the more menace it contains.

  Er . . .'I heard my frantic yodel, cleared my throat, shoved it to a bass, started anew, i overheard somebody, dunno who, in the Drum and Dog, say about Sunday, eleven o'clock. I waited outside . . . Well, see, they're usually here, John. '

  Best I could do, and with enough truth to make it stand a rough test. A lie has to be either so far beyond credulity that its bizarre lunacy might just carry the day, or so close to truth that it seems probable right off. I'm good at lies, except when I'm scared, which is usually.

  'Shut it,' Big John told nobody. 'Fine the beater, both seven days.'

  "Right, John.' Tomtom, pale with relief, sloped out.

  We all relaxed, me almost screaming that I'd got away with it. Actually, Tinker had told me about this gathering. But I'd saved his hide, even though the poor old Drum and Dog would have to bolt its doors and lose a week's trade. The beater - the looker-out outside, who should have detected me lurking away by the old wall - would be one of Big John's own. He'd lose a week's everything - money, status, car, home, credit. A terrible punishment. But I was in the clear.

  C-c-c-can I stay, John, please?' I almost said sir.

  'Got a question?'

  'Yes, please.' I was sweating buckets from deliverance.

  'First is,' I heard Sheehan start up, 'stained-glass windows from the Black Moat House. Montgomery's bid.'

  'Thank you, Mr. Sheehan,' Corinth's assistant stepped forward, wisely addressing his remarks to Big John. 'The robbery I propose concerns moderate cost and minimal risk. The Black Moat House is an ancient pile in coastal Suffolk due west from Thorpeness. It has earned historians' attention these many years. Visitors are attracted by its windows' quality.'

  He patted his pockets, quite the forgetful major wanting map references. Military bearing, with a smart tash and a brisk manner, he'd been used to authority, which raised interesting thoughts about why he was subservient to the beautiful Corinth.

  'The windows were designed by Lalique's assistants. French design. glamorous rather than overtly exotic - '

  'Hush now,’ Big John said as if calming a babe. Montgomery clammed as if gagged. 'There any doubt they're French?'

  'No, Mr. Sheehan. I can bring evidence, if you wish.’ Montgomery Mainwaring was desperate to expound, but Big John knows only money. His convictions are absolute, though. Montgomery had better

  "Right. How much 0 '

  'I am authorized to bid nine." Montgomery said, looking round. 'That is for a clean removal, all windows intact.'

  'How many windows are there?" Bog Frew asked, trying to sound bored, but excited at the value of leaded windows.

  'Four large, three small.'

  Bog winced. The price was steep. Litterbin chipped in. He could never resist scraps, however the word's defined.

  'They worth it, though, eh? ' he said. 'Continental stuffs going a bomb down the chute.' The chute is the Channel Tunnel. 'Go on, then. Ill bid ten. I'll suffer, you dance.' He said it as if we'd forced him to make the offer.

  'Any advance on ten?' from Big John.

  'Eleven,’ Montgomery said. He was calm, give him that.

  It was me invented the system of numbers. Some years back, money got ridiculous from politicians doing secret things that eroded the world's money. Revaluation, inflation, devaluations, worrying the life out of everybody. It got stupid. So I started quoting everything in the average wage. Government statistics include the average annual wage, meaning enough for a family to live on for a year. Money has to be translated into time, or it means nowt. Within a twelvemonth antique dealers even, where were quoting in multiples of the average annual wage. It's the only sensible means of measuring the importance of the paper stuff we distinguish by the name of gelt.

  'All done?’

  Litterbin looked restless, but conceded. Big John knocked down the seven stained-glass windows of the Black Moat House to Montgomery. Now. this was a tomorrow auction, note. The windows were still in place. And the House's owner had no part in these proceedings except to wake up one morning to find their beautiful windows stolen, evaporated with the foggy foggy dew. The money Montgomery'd bid would be paid up front, the day before the theft was due - hence the term 'tomorrow' for this arrangement. The money is always cash, paid on demand to Sheehan's goons, whereupon the next day the lovely windows would magically appear in Corinth's 'cran' - the place where she usually stored illicit antiques.

  That's the tomorrow auction: thieves (I exclude honest blokes like me) bid for a theft of certain objects. Always antiques these days, because of their unlimited - meaning unchangeable - value to one and all. Now it was up to the successful bidder to hire crooks good enough
to nick the windows, after which BJS would refund Montgomery's cash deposit less a tenth. There are scores of variations, but you get the idea.

  'Next is a dressing table, made in Copenhagen. F’rook?’

  'Thank you, Mr.. Sheehan,' the little sunglasses chap said. "How do you do, those I have not met hitherto. This table is dear to me. It stands in the abode of one Dame Millicent Hallsworthy. It has palisander veneer, most unusual, dated approximately 1790. B J Pengel, Danish. One might almost believe it to be English manufacture, but its superior Greek fret and its brass swag over the front of the lower drawer . . .'

  He faltered. Big John was glowering. I cringed.

  'Superior what?' Quiet voice, far too quiet.

  Farouk looked bewildered, scared out of his wits. 'Superior Greek style fret

  'Superior. To what? '

  'Er, please, John,' I put in, timid, but not wanting blood on the carpet before I'd said my piece, I think Mr., er, Farouk means the fret is placed superiorly, meaning on top of, not meaning of quality superior to the old London makers.'

  'Superior?' The word gnawed.

  'Yes, John. It's in the Oxford English Dictionary. Honest.' Oh, right.' He glowered round to make sure of whatever he wanted. The shaken visitor continued at his nod.

  Ah, Dame Millicent is a daughter of a Polish refugee, self-titled. She turned to an agricultural life. She purchased the Cockcroft lands outright when that family . . .'He ahemed in gentlemanly fashion so we all knew he was being nice about a clone of sinners '. . . relinquished their property. I saw this piece of furniture on a visit. Cockcroft Manor's security is moderate.'