The Sin Within Her Smile

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Morning.’ Sty came to welcome us. ‘The lady with you?’

  Dolly was steaming with fury in our wake. I closed the door on her. ‘Just somebody asking the way.’

  Sty is spherical, which is saying something for the ultimate health freak. His health’s different from Doc Lancaster’s in that Sty advises no exercise, constant gorging, unbridled sexual licence, and the stimulation of illegal enterprises. He weighs twenty-six stone - 364 pounds if you’re transatlantic; God only knows what if you’re a kilo- grammer - and looks every ounce. He wears enormous caftans woven by acolytes, of which he and his Temple have an abundance. He always surprises. This time, he was bald as a bladder of lard. He has quadruple chins. One ear lobe dangled under the weight of platinum links, which ended by being sewn (as in stitched) into his shoulder. He looks a right daffodil, but you daren’t say.

  ‘Wotch, Sty. Glad you’re over the anorexia.’

  He raised a hand like a second feature Navaho and intoned a babble of nonsense, eyes screwed into his rolls of fat. His upper arms flabbed obscenely.

  ‘You may now enter.’ A furious knocking sounded on the door. / ‘You sure that lady’s not with you?’

  ‘Positive. How many, Sty?’

  ‘Seven. One stranger, vouched for.’

  Tinker grimaced at me. Hard to spot, are Tinker’s grimaces, his face being what it is, but I signalled for silence. I don’t like strangers at meadow auctions either. The trouble is, these days money talks loud. Two of Sty’s Temple Vestals sauntered pneumatically by. I’ve known Sty some time, and still haven’t seen a single one tender any sacred flames. They always carry a Staff of Relevant Life -1 won’t say what it’s shaped like, if that’s all right. I lust after one called Momenta, but she stares through me. They live in small caravans and trailers dotted round the field. Sty flits from one to the next, as a bee pollinates wayside blooms. Tinker says it’s easy to guess which one he’s kipping in; it’s the one that rocks all night.

  Sty had the usual meadow arrangement, the antiques laid out on trestles, where applicable. The two pieces of furniture rested on plastic sheets.

  ‘It’s in the cloister,’ Sty explained, meaning a few upright poles with polythene overhead. Otherwise it was open to the elements. A nubile Temple Vestal stood by in white raiment - a sheet with gold crosses adorning the hems - with one breast exposed. Sty smiled at my interest. ‘You still admire Momenta? Greek ideals, Lovejoy. So many Earth rituals predate Hebrews, Persia, Christians.’

  ‘Hello, Lovejoy.’ Liz Sandwell is from Dragonsdale, a bonny lass unfortunately matched with a rugby giant. We’d made smiles when he was playing away. ‘I see you like Sty’s ... decor.’

  ‘I was only saying hello,’ I said, narked. ‘It’s polite.’

  Liz propelled me away from Momenta. ‘You’ve heard of the expert Simon Doussy? He’s here!’ Such breathy excitement is usually reserved for royalty, sex or wealth.

  The man was talking with Big Frank from Suffolk, about being best man, I shouldn’t wonder. He was smooth, tie just so, the sort you see in departmental stores as floor walkers, hired for their wavy hair. Florence Hughes was there, all sequins and black lace to prove that she would never grow old (a word forbidden within gunshot, for she was still being twenty-nine). Dunno what women have against age. Older women are preferable, all things being equal - and are usually preferable even if all things aren’t, if you follow.

  ‘Is there any Georgian in, Liz?’ Florence was a clue.

  Liz smiled sweetly. ‘Perhaps La Hughes can recognize some early Regency piece from her childhood!’

  ‘Here, Lovejoy,’ Tinker growled. ‘Them girls have nothing on. They’ll catch their deaths of cold.’

  ‘Leave off, Tinker.’ Kim Doyle and her live-in deficit, Tolly, no surname, were in. Rumour said that they were unsourced, meaning having unidentified backers. I left Liz and crossed to Kim and Tolly. ‘Wotch, pals.’

  Kim was all dimples, very fetching. She dresses like a cowgirl, fringed leather and buckskin leggings. Some days she seems all bottom, other days it’s bosom and legs. Today she wore a kidskin cloak with a Celtic clasp. She looked good enough to eat. ‘Lovejoy! You made it past Momenta!’

  ‘Got a drink, Lovejoy?’ Tolly said without much hope.

  ‘No, Tolly. Tinker hasn’t, either,’ I added quickly, for Tolly is your actual New Age forager. He’s on the dole, cadges off buskers. Those I don’t mind. But I can’t forgive a dud thief. He once stole his own lawyer’s briefcase at court. He also stole some oxyacetylene equipment to do Dorrard’s Bank in the High Street - and was really narked when the peelers found him next morning, still trying. He’d stolen welding equipment instead. Yet he lands a glamorous bird like Kim Doyle. She concentrates on silver, porcelain, some paintings. Odd that Sty’d invited them. Had they friends here I didn’t know about?

  ‘Lend us a note, Lovejoy?’ Tolly asked, his one greeting. He dresses like a marauding Brigantean, rough leather tied with thongs, silvery studs. I couldn’t help wondering about his festering teeth and Kim’s succulent lips. Aren’t folk odd?

  ‘Time, worshippers!’ Sty called. He has a falsetto voice, but is no eunuch. ‘Deals on the nail!’

  Which was an insult. The one good thing about antique dealers is, they honour their bargains or die. ‘On the nail’ means to pay ready gelt, from the Bristol Exchange’s four ancient pillars, The Nails, whereon you plonked your money. Liverpool Exchange had a copper plate, The Nail. Limerick Exchange had a giant three-foot- diameter copper plate known as The Nail. There’s nowt new. I drifted, to soak up the antiques.

  Meadow? Maybe because it’s like a temporary fair in a real meadow. The important point about a meadow is that you can’t be sure the stuff’s not nicked. Which means that you have to assume it’s all stolen. So, buy in a meadow, then sell fast. After that, you’re in the clear. That’s why antiques are beautiful. This potpourri was a spread of about thirty antiques, lookalikes, fakes, distresseds and relics, plus ...

  Florence said, ‘It’s a load of tat, Lovejoy, isn’t it?’

  But an antique had spoken, as clearly as if it had sung out. It was a silver bowl, but not simply that. I wiped the silly grin off my face and tried to look bored though my soul chimed like a berserk campanile. I could hardly look at the superb silver. No lion mask, no ring handles, certainly not massive - only weighed about thirty ounces. But it was worth Sty, his entire Temple of Whatnot, his Vestals - even Momenta - put together.

  Tinker 'was complaining to Sty, ‘Them girls should get dressed. This weather goes to your chest...’ Florence was asking me about some fake George II kneehole desk: ‘Are those handles right, Lovejoy ... ?’ And Big Frank was coming over to look at the silver bowl. It was among cutlery, a chamber candlestick - that’s a squat upright candlestick in a small flat pan, all silver.

  ‘Genuine, Lovejoy?’ You’ve to crane up to talk to Big Frank. He’s silver mad, wouldn’t cross the road for a Sheraton. Despite his obsession, he knows less about silver than he does about women, marrying as he does with cavalier disregard. ‘Shouldn’t it have a cross on the stick?’

  ‘Sometimes. That’d be late Restoration, if genuine.’

  He nodded, not downhearted. He’d make it genuine 1680 in a trice. He is the illegal owner of many ancient silversmiths’ dies, wherewith to hallmark any fake crap. He makes three thousand per cent profit. ‘Somebody’s gone over the top with the punchbowl, eh?’ ‘Mmmmh.’ I mentally apologized to the beautiful antique monteith. ‘The base was original, but just look at the top.’

  ‘Usual balls-up, some nerk putting too many makers’ marks on,’

  Big Frank grumbled. Fakers always have more trouble getting marks off than putting new ones on. Removing a mark can take three weeks of solid fettling. ‘See the marks on the rim and base are different? Idiots.’

  ‘Mmmmh,’ I said, looking bored. ‘Not much here, is there?’

  ‘No. Disappointing. You met Mr. Doussy, the Impressionist collector?’

>   Now, this was from our silver expert, a man who’s made it his life study. Yet he strolls away from the one piece of silver that could buy the neighbourhood. Which proves that your average antique dealer’s knowledge lies south of the comic strip. For the monteith is rare, rare.

  They say the name comes from an eccentric Scotsman whose cloak was deeply notched. The monteith has nothing to do with him, being simply a silver bowl whose notched rim allows you to hang drinking glasses inside the water-filled bowl. It’s a simple glass cooler, nothing more. But they are unbelievably rare. The whereabouts of most are recorded. The commonest mistake is to sell them as punchbowls. If you see one, sell your granny and go for it. They emerged about the 1680s. Some - I’ve never seen one - have a detachable rim like a collar. The Victorians tended to fix the collars permanently to the base, a friendly silversmith naturally imposing his own marks. Antique dealers like Big Frank naturally assume that some cunning faker’s enthusiasm ran away with him. My hopes rose. Florence was looking in a mirror on an Edwardian washstand, junk (the washstand, not Flo).

  ‘Like your frock, love.’ When fawning, praise their looks.

  ‘Lovejoy! You noticed it’s an original!’ She gushed perfumed delight. I strained for air. Nothing stays ungushed around Florence. But older women have an inner wisdom, however barmy, that younger birds don’t even begin to understand. And they bring a little mercy, the essence of the successful woman. Where was I? The monteith.

  ‘Look, love,’ I said, making sure we were remote from the rest. ‘That punch bowl. I think ... ’ I dwelt on the word ‘ ... it’s a friend’s.’

  ‘Rotten luck.’ She tutted sympathy. ‘Trying to buy it back?’

  I did my forlorn look. ‘Big Frank’s in. My friend’d pay good money for it.’ I filled up at the thought of my mythical old mate. ‘He’s in a nursing home. His family aren’t good. His son’s a swine ... ’ I choked back a sob, believing my own tale.

  ‘Poor man! He’ll need his little treasures, in a home!’

  ‘I knew you’d understand.’ I smiled with utmost sincerity.

  ‘Oh, I do, Lovejoy! It was the same with my Great Aunt Faith! My cousin Jane was so cruel - ’

  The Florences of this world rabbit on. You have to be firm. ‘Would you bid, love?’ I told her an amount that widened her eyes. Suspicion glimmed within. ‘It’s my one chance, love,’ I wheedled.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Liz Sandwell?’ she demanded quietly. ‘You’re always around that bitch.’

  ‘Florence.’ I went all frosty. ‘Don’t speak of ladies like that. If you won’t help an old gentleman - ’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lovejoy. You’ve got the cash, though?’

  Lancashire Law, they say in the north; no stake, no draw. The consequences of default can, I assure you, be dire. I was frightened, bidding on a meadow without the money.

  ‘Certainly,’ I lied, throat dry. ‘I won’t forget it.’

  ‘You won’t forget it because you and I will have supper tonight.’ She waited for my synapses to clang.

  ‘Love, my pleasure,’ I said, pure honesty shining from my eyes. She let me go. Tinker shuffled over. ‘Tell Dolly to wait. Matter of life or death, keep her here.’

  ‘Stop sniffing around posh bints, Lovejoy,’ he said, censorious. ‘It’ll end in tears.’

  ‘Get gone.’ I went towards Big Frank and the suave gent. ‘This is your friend, Frank? Lovejoy. How do?’

  We made polite mutters. Simon Doussy sussed me. I didn’t need to suss him. He could only be the ‘expert’ who’d lately accompanied Mrs. Arden. He looked cool, in place.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Lovejoy. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  So why I haven’t heard a thing about you? my mind went, but I grinned and nodded, the country oaf. I could see he was disappointed. ‘All bad I hope?’ The goon’s response.

  ‘Seen anything you like, Lovejoy?’ Mr. Urbanity.

  ‘I like everything. You?’

  ‘A bit here and there.’ The sparring done, he swooped. ‘You’re the divvy. For what?’

  ‘My divvying comes and goes,’ I said, woebegone. ‘Wish it worked all the blinking time.’

  He didn’t believe a word. I could tell. He asked my opinion about an Argand oil wall-lamp, double chimney and a cunning central oil reservoir. They were a major advance before gas lighting. The valuable ones have Wedgwood jasperware mounts, Matthew Boulton doing the originals for the Swiss inventor. I said it might be original, and deliberately got the date wrong. I said it was before Aime Argand’s patent got revoked in 1780.1 should have said 1784.

  He didn’t correct me, didn’t even inhale as if about to, but he knew, he knew. I went to stand with Liz. Sty started the auction with an incantation while we stood like lemons in various attitudes of school-prayer reverence. Then Sty called out, ‘This thing?’ while a Vestal indicated the antique, and we were off.

  There were few competitive bids. Liz Sandwell got a tin tobacco jar with a domed lid, quite good. Kim bought the furniture, mostly dross. Florence competed without real hope. The prices were reasonable, as always at a meadow auction. There’s no sense messing about with low bids. It’s a selected audience, so the starter bids are very near the eventual knock-down price. Everybody just puts on a quizzical expression as if to say, That it, then? and somebody nods and it’s on to the next.

  Big Frank got the silver chamber candlestick for not quite a song. Simon Doussy got a teapot made without a lid all in one. He’d hardly glanced at it, a sharp-eyes. Liz had recognized it as a Cadogan teapot, called after the Honourable Mistress Cadogan, who sent an Indian greenware piece for Thomas Bingley at Swinton to copy. Nobody took much notice of these funny teapots until the Prince Regent was tickled pink when, out visiting, somebody served him a rum toddy from one. (You fill them upside down through a hole underneath, set them upright. The tea can’t run out even though the hole’s left open. A tube is wound round inside, allowing the tea out of the spout when you pour.) It wasn’t daft, for the tea stays hot longer. Try one. Collectors go for those decorated in relief with peach flowers, fruit and foliage. Lately the prices of Cadogans in pearl with a green ground have gone ape. I don’t understand demand. It is hell trying to outguess public whim. I like things to stay constant without sudden crazes. Like sex.

  The monteith came up. I could hardly breathe. Big Frank bid a token fortune, Florence chipped in with my maximum amount - me with my heart pounding - then just before consensus the swine Doussy gave a casual, ‘Oh, I think maybe a hundred higher, what say... ?’

  Florence darted a glance at me, a clear giveaway, the stupid cow. The auction went on, me staring dully, my disappointment so profound I was almost suicidal.

  We all drifted, chatting or pretending to. Florence said to meet her at the war memorial about sevenish.

  She whispered, ‘I'm looking forward to our evening, Lovejoy. I simply love a good meal.’ She lives on double meanings. I responded with a merry jest.

  Dolly had gone, a stroke of luck. It would have been a stroke of bad, had Florence got the monteith, for I’d have been lynched on the spot. See what I mean about women being thoughtless? They ought to get organized instead of flying off the handle for nothing. I spent a few seconds talking to Momenta until other Vestals prised me loose.

  Big Frank gave me a lift. Tinker went with Kim and Tolly. All the way to town Big Frank complained because I wouldn’t be best man. He made me feel a right worm, so I agreed. I extracted a promise, though.

  ‘I want to see your divorce papers before church, Frank. None of that it’s-in-my-other-jacket like last time.’

  ‘Right, Lovejoy. I promise.’

  ‘And if there’s more than eight sets of relatives and three objections when the priest asks about impediments, I’m out of it.’

  ‘Right, Lovejoy.’

  One thing, I thought bitterly. I can still bargain.

  Getting downhearted isn’t fair. Oh, I’m not one of these folk who’s forever depressed at the economy,
youth’s mad values, oil slicks. I’m as concerned as anyone about the razor-billed guillemot or whatever, sure. But I don’t wake screaming because Peking has a traffic problem. I’m a soul of bright outlook. Women help. Antiques help. That’s only another way of saying that life helps.

  So why my dispirit? I trudged into Woody’s caff to take stock. Something was rotten.

  ‘Here’s Lovejoy, booys!’ Harry Bateman called, joyful to be handing it out for once instead of catching it from his wife, Lily, mistress of Patrick the Strange. He started up on an imaginary trumpet, ‘Pa-paaaa, papapa-paaa-papapa ..to wholesale laughter. The place rocked in its welter of fag smoke and fumes of saturated fat. It did little to lift me as I asked the waitress, all six feet of her, for a pile of toast.

  ‘You’ve the money, Lovejoy?’ Lisa adopted that provocative pose, one foot advanced, hip out of line. I swear she only does it to get me going.

  ‘Course!’ One thing I didn’t need today was another failure before breakfast. ‘Look, Lisa, just because you archeologists can’t get to the treasures first ...’ She’s a digger, always despoiling the graves of our ancient ancestors. It’s known as vandalism, if you’re not posh. If you go tribe-handed and have a letterhead in Albertus Bold, you’re immune. I asked, quiet, ‘What’re they singing?’

  She coloured. ‘ “The Slave Chorus”, from Aida.'

  ‘Ta, love.’ Opera’d be nice, if it wasn’t for those burdensome chunks between songs. No wonder I felt soulsore, off course on my own pond. I was now scared worse.

  The place suddenly fell quiet. Denny was in, offering bargains. ‘Deals on wheels!’ he kept calling. His expertise is rumoured to be

  transport - trains, bikes, motors, scooters. His wife left him last August, to bring him to his senses, but he was thrilled and stuffed her space with yet more tat on spokes. She lives now with a fertile boatman in Rowhedge.