'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 lov
ely 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.
Daimler's 1885 motorbike was there, with an exploded diagram of the Otto four-stroke engine artistically done, going round on a circular dais, just like in the Motor Show. Really elegant. The lad had two mates along, with remakes of old model steam engines, two working. They'd been set up outside the conservatory, looked really good against all that greenery and glass.
The schoolteacher's cupboard house was brilliant, in a genuine Ince cupboard just as I'd hoped. I'd have to tell the Dewhurts to watch the price on that one.
Doper Tone, the non-curator not from Bermondsey, his photo with the pope highlighted, had brought his stuff not from St John Lateran. All brewing well.
Oddly, the real attraction was Brig. His mugs-and-droppings stall was crowded out as soon as people started coming through. I was ahead, but by the time I reached his display - by the steps leading down into the conservatory's tasteful jungle of plants and white ironwork - a press of spectators was already at his commemorative mugs, plates, plaques. I forced through. He was harassed but pleased. Several people were questioning him about the prehistoric artefacts - read dung - on his other stall on the verandah, the Weird and Wonderful section. He was issuing cards, saying price, telling the tale. I left smiling, shaking my head ruefully. Why do people buy some things?
Tesco had fought hard for space for his Mediterranean history show. I suspected the swine of having hidden the massive free-stander legend panels somewhere until I'd gone by, but hadn't time to fight. It looked all right. Mrs. Boyson, with a new hairdo, was showing her clever forgery of the Thangliena diaries in Tinker's display case. I gave her a buss. Terrible to think her whole life's work would be in the hands of some undeserving buyer very soon.
My headache came on then because Ashley stormed up. We sidled into an alcove where he went ape.
'Lovejoy! I demand an explanation . . .' et Ashley cetera. He'd heard from the Misses Dewhurst about the auction.
'Ashley,' I said, 'don't you want the money?'
'Shhhh! Of course! But the residents dine at six!'
Then they'll have to wait. Tell you what,' I placated him. Tell the Misses Dewhurst to give them supper with the exhibitors! And staff! My expense.' I smiled with the lie, being kind.
He hesitated. Treat?'
'Yes. Miss Priscilla's arranging it now. Be an outing for the old dears.'
That cooled, I said hello to Chess, my old printing pal from Tooting Bee. Jemima's cousin Gabbie had done mmmh, well, nearly a good job on the London watercolours, meaning pretty neffie really but then Jemima's been a close friend once or twice and emotion argues when common sense has no voice.
One other stand that pleased me was Fred A'Court's, neophyte gold modeller. His daughter Lana was with him. They looked nervy, polished as if going to a function. I talked as long as I could, with max psychotherapy. He'd managed to scrape together seven items for his launch into the flocking trade. I winked, said today was the first day of the rest of his life, call at my cottage Monday to decide his career plan.
But time was pressing, because the Ashleys of this world are never pacified long. I found Roberta. She was reclining, feebly managing to scoff a trolley load of cakes, biscuits, tarts, trifles, savouries, to restore her from all the work she hadn't to do. Life is one long slog.
The votive light was burning, the curtains drawn before the duff painting. I approached her chaise longue on tiptoe.
'Roberta?' I sank to my knees, offered her the soft centres. She selected three, blind. Her eyes fluttered open.
'Lovejoy?' she managed to whisper.
'Yes. Look, er, darling.' I had only a couple of minutes pre-Ashley. 'I'm committed to your cause. I've fallen for you, Roberta. That night was the most wondrous. I can't live without you. Get rid of Ashley . . .T did about four minutes of pure soul, really naff. I tried edging a cake near where I could nick it but she was too slick and ate it with a weak sigh just as I thought I was close to a calorie. 'Darling. I want to pay you the money tonight, not Ashley. Your name, your bank account, darling, you alone.' Saccharine to the gills. I reached for her. If I couldn't grab grub, I'd grab solace.
'I knew it, Lovejoy.' Smug with self-satisfaction, having conquered all. ‘I, too, was slightly carried away. You do have a certain passion. We need that . . .’
Her cool breast was just about to leap free when Priscilla entered with Ashley, carrying a pile of photocopy sheets. Presumably the roup-call lists for scattering.
'I apologize, Roberta,' Priscilla said, firmly not noticing my swift spring away. 'But we have a problem.'
‘Ah, the payment for the Welcome Sailor?' I gave them a sincere beam. 'Chemise has already seen to it.'
Ashley glared from me to Roberta. 'Is this true, Lovejoy? Nothing you've said so far has been!'
See? No trust these days, reliability a dirty word.
'Roberta.' When in doubt appeal to authority. 'Nothing can stop us now, except doubt -' I glared at Ashley - among loyal friends!'
'Ashley,' Roberta whispered faintly. 'Do as Lovejoy says. For me . . .' He voice trailed off. She reached for a trifle, whimpered when she couldn't find a spoon. I passed one. I hate to see hunger suffer.
'Thank you, Roberta.' Ignoring Miss Priscilla's gaze, I went quietly out, lost myself in the thickening crowds.
33
Chemise was worried, but worries come t
oo late to be any use. So I put my brave face on, with the Misses Dewhurst on the steps, ready to wave everybody off.
'Is this all right, Lovejoy?' Chemise asked. The Americans got aboard, Mahleen squeezing my arm with a 24-carat clang of undisguised lust, making me go red.
'See you later, honey!' she breathed. 'I've got what you want.'
‘I’ve got you a ladyship title, Mahleen. The call just came through. It'll cost about eighteen thousand quid. But genuine, In East Anglia. The titles mean little nowadays, but they're legally transferable.'
'You've . . .' She stared. 'Like Jox's titles?'
'No, love. Honest and true. You've been good to me.'
'Lovejoy -' She was swept away by a late rush.
Exhibitors shook my hand. They'd had good orders.
'Our American visitors will share the celebrations!' I said, grinning. 'See they get a good nosh, eh? Look after Mr. and Mrs. Battishall.' I walked to the charabancs. Grinning's hard. If I'd been a candidate I'd have got elected there and then. 'They will follow in the limo, all right?' Roberta was glorious in amber chiffon with white silk mandarin sleeves. I could have eaten her, would with average luck.
She smiled back, shivering, delicate as a flower. I bussed her as the first chara revved up and moved off, the exhibitors all waving, chatting of the successful day.
'See you, doowerlink,' I told her. I patted Ashley on the back, wishing I'd palmed a knife. 'The Welcome Sailor'll do you proud.'
‘I shall try to eat,' Roberta promised bravely. All little girl, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me. She drew away, looking at me properly. It was not altogether pleasant, that eagle-eyed search. 'Lovejoy?' she asked.
'By nine you'll be home. Everything'll be sorted, love.'
'Ashley,' she said, 'I'm cold. My shawl . . .' He belted away. 'Nothing's wrong, Lovejoy, is it?'
The other charabancs revved, pulled out, everybody waving. I looked to see Lily, my favourite, smiling down. No sign of old Jim the irascible. He was probably ballocking the driver for fuel impurities or something barmy. The old guests pulled out immediately after, black smoke fuming the countryside.
The Grace in Older Women Page 27
