The Tartan Ringers

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Right,’ he croaked, anxious. ‘Here, Lovejoy. When do we come? Antioch keeps asking. There’s frigging trucks everywhere—’

  ‘Now,’ I said, throat dry. ‘Roll it, Tinker.’ I lowered the receiver on his relieved cackle.

  Chapter 24

  ECONOMY’S ALWAYS SCARED me. Or do I mean economics? Maybe both, if they’re not the same thing. I mean, when you hear that Brazil is a trillion zlotniks in the red the average bloke switches off. Mistakes which are beyond one man’s own redemption simply go off the scale, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe that was why I’d run from Sidoli’s rumble. Plus cowardice, of course.

  The books I’d got from Inverness, paperback re-runs, showed Duncan a few more possibilities. He was hard to persuade.

  ‘This pedestal sideboard from Loudon’s Encyclopaedia of 1833,’ I told his disbelief. ‘Plain as anything, simple. Never mind that architects call it cabinetmaker Gothic—’

  ‘Make it? Out of new wood?’

  ‘Out of that.’ A wardrobe, slanted and damp-warped, leant tiredly in the workshop. ‘By suppertime.’

  ‘What about those great pedestals?’

  ‘The design’s only like a strut across two bricks,’ I pointed out. ‘So cut those old stairs Robert’s trying to mend in the east wing. The wood’s good. The pieces are almost the right size, for God’s sake.’

  We settled that after argument. Two new lads had come to help Duncan, relatives of relatives. One was a motor mechanic, the other a school-leaver. That gave me the idea. Motors mean metal, which means brass rails, which with old stair wood means running sideboards.

  ‘Make a pair of running sideboards. They’re straight in period, Duncan. All it is, three shelves each with a brass rail surround, on a vertical support at each end. Put it on wooden feet instead of castors, French polish to show it’s original, and it’ll look straight 1830.’

  Grumbling, I did a quick sketch. Sometimes I think it’d be quicker to do every frigging thing myself. ‘Finish all three of these by sevenish, then I can age them sharpish.’

  ‘All this haste’s not my usual behaviour,’ Duncan said.

  ‘Times,’ I said irritably, ‘are changing at Tachnadray.’

  Honestly. You sweat blood trying to rescue people, and what thanks do you get?

  Michelle’s first lesson in the perils of auctioneering. Explaining an auction’s difficult enough. Explaining a crooked one to an unsullied soul like Michelle was nearly impossible. We were in the Great Hall.

  ‘Auctioneers speak distinctly, slowly, in this country, love. It’s in America they talk speedy gibberish.’

  For the purpose I was the auctioneer, she the tally girl with piles of paper. She listened so solemnly I started smiling. Older women are such good company.

  ‘There’s a word we use: stream. Always keep a catalogue in front of you clipped open, no matter what. The cards from which you compiled the catalogue are in your desk. Those two, the catalogue and cards are your stream. Right?’

  ‘Maybe I should have the cards on my desk,’ she mused.

  ‘You think so?’ Casually I leant my elbow over so one card pile fell to the floor. ‘See? A customer could accidentally do that, and steal a few cards while pretending to help as you picked them up. Then he’d know what we paid.’

  ‘But that’s unfair!’ she flamed.

  ‘Look, Michelle.’ I knelt to recover the scattered cards. ‘The people coming are all sorts. Some’ll be ordinary folk who’ve struggled to get a day off from the factory. Others will come in private planes. But they’ll all share one terrible, grim attribute: they will do anything for what we’ve got. They’ll beg, bribe, steal.’ God give me strength and protect me from innocence. I rose, dusted my knees. ‘Cards,’ I reminded her, ‘in the desk. Catalogue on top.’

  ‘Now I’m a customer.’ I swaggered up. She got herself settled, pencilled a note. ‘I ask, Where’ll the stream be at twelve-thirty, missus?’

  She thought. ‘You’re asking what lot number the auction will have reached by then?’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘But how do we actually sell things?’

  ‘Say I’m the auctioneer. Tally girl’s on the left, always, except in Sotheby’s book sales, where they know no better. Not real gentlemen, see.’ I chuckled at the old trade slight. ‘I call out, Lot Fifty-One, Nailsea-type glass handbell—’

  ‘No. Fifty-One is a gentleman’s Wedgwood 1790 stock pin, blue-dip jasper with a George Stubbs horse in white relief—’

  ‘Michelle,’ I said, broken. ‘I’m pretending.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘The auctioneer calls out the catalogue number, Lot whatever, and then says, Who’ll start me off? or something. The bids commence, and finally Trembler calls, Going, going, gone! or Once, twice, gone! depending on how he feels. Once he bangs a hammer, that’s it. He’ll also say a name – Smith of Birmingham, say. It’s your job to instantly write out a call chit. It’s the bill, really. Lot Fifty-One, two hundred quid, Smith. So you get that chit across to Mr Smith quick as a flash. That entitles Smith to pay Mrs Moncreiffe. Her only job is to accept payment, stamp the call chit Paid In Full, and tick her list.’

  ‘Must I provide Mr Trembler with a hammer?’

  ‘No, love. Auctioneers always have their own. Trembler’s isn’t a real gavel. It’s only a decorated wooden reel his sister’s lad made him.’

  ‘How sweet.’ She smiled, scribbling like the clappers.

  Apologetically I cleared my throat for the difficult bit. ‘Er, now, Michelle, love. There’s a few rules.’

  ‘Never issue a call chit unless I’m sure?’ she offered knowingly.

  ‘Eh? Oh yes. Good, good.’ This was going to be more difficult than I’d supposed. ‘Ahem, sometimes, love, you might not actually hear some of the bids. If so, you mustn’t mention it. Trembler will see them, because . . .’ I tried to find concealing words. Because he’d be making them up, ‘taking bids off the wall’. ‘Because, he’s had special training, see? Bidders have secret signs arranged with Trembler beforehand. It’s silly, but that’s how they like doing it. They’re all rivals.’

  I ahemed again. ‘And there’s another thing. There’ll be two telephones against the windows. People will be telephoning bids in for particular lots. The, er, assistants bidding from the phones are treated as genuine —er, sorry, I meant as if bidders were genuinely here.’

  ‘Telephonists to receive call chits,’ Michelle mouthed, pencil flying.

  ‘I’ll draft call chits with you when Trembler arrives. One last thing, love. Never, never contradict Trembler. Never look doubtful. Never interrupt.’

  ‘What if I think he’s made a mistake?’

  I took her face in my hands. ‘Especially not then, love.’

  She moved back, looking. ‘All this is honest, isn’t it?’

  ‘Michelle,’ I said, offended. ‘Trembler’s a fellow of a royal institute. We’ve already certified that Sotheby’s and Christie’s rules govern every lot. We’ve certified compliance with Parliament’s published statutes.’ I gave a bitter laugh, almost overdoing it. ‘If our auction isn’t legal, it won’t be for want of trying.’

  Michelle stood to embrace me, misty. ‘I didn’t mean anything, really I didn’t.’

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ Shona, silhouetted in the door light.

  ‘Sealing a bargain.’ I thought I was so smooth.

  ‘A . . . gentleman’s just arrived in Dubneath, calling himself Cheviot Yale. He told Mary he’s for Tachnadray. He’s just waiting, saying nothing.’ She was still being accusing. ‘His name sounds made up. Is it?’

  ‘No.’ I’d not felt so happy for a long time. ‘That’s the name he was born with. People call him Trembler.’

  No way of stopping it now.

  The Caithness National Bank manager was delighted with us. A big-eared man with a harf-harf laugh he made political use of during Trembler’s curt exposition. Trembler was doing the con with his episcopalian voice, always a winner.


  ‘In requesting a separate account,’ he intoned, ‘I don’t wish to impute criticism of the Mistress of Tachnadray.’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’ On the desk lay Trembler’s personal card and personal bank account number at the august Glyn Mills of Whitehall, London. Even when starving Trembler keeps that precious account in credit. It doesn’t have much in it, but the reputation of an eight-year solvency in Whitehall is worth its weight in gold. Trembler gave a cadaverous smile straight out of midwinter.

  ‘In my profession,’ he said grimly, ‘it falls to me sadly to participate in the demise of reputations of many noble families. Normally, it would be regarded as natural to use the lady’s own account. But international collectors and dealers from London—’ Trembler tutted; the banker shook his head at the notion of wicked money-grabbers – ‘are of a certain disposition. They demand,’ Trembler chanted reproachfully, ‘financial immediacy. The young Mistress’s authority would carry little weight.’

  ‘Sad. Very sad.’ The banker’s portly frame swelled, exhaled a sigh of sympathy.

  ‘Mr McGunn here tried to persuade me to agree for the auction sale to be administered via the Tachnadray account in Dubneath.’ Trembler paused for the manager to shoot me a glance of hatred. I smiled weakly. ‘I insisted on coming here. Tomorrow morning, first thing, a number of small sums will be paid into the new account.’

  ‘Very praiseworthy,’ the banker smirked.

  ‘One cheque will then be soon drawn on it. A small credit balance will remain. I will require a late-night teller on auction day to accept much larger sums.’

  ‘Certainly, sir!’ The man was positively beaming.

  ‘I will require a special deposit rate of interest.’

  The beam faded. ‘Sir?’

  ‘It will be a relatively vast sum.’ Trembler didn’t so much as get up as ascend, pulling on his gloves. ‘Possibly the largest your . . . branch has ever handled. I would be throwing money away not to demand the interest. Have the chequebook ready within the hour, please.’

  We left, Trembler striding and using his walking cane so vigorously I had to trot beside the lanky nerk. You have to hand it to crooks like Trembler; always put on a great show.

  ‘Here, Trembler,’ I said. ‘Notice that geezer’s name? Only, I heard they were all assassins once.’

  ‘Ruthven? Garn.’

  ‘No, honest. Local vicar told me. Incidentally, Trembler. What do you think of openly cataloguing a couple of fakes in the sale? Reinforce confidence in the rest of the stuff . . .’

  We went to celebrate. I promised Trembler his advance money and asked if he could manage until tomorrow. He said all right, which only shows how good friends help out. He really can’t do without exotic women and drink. Same as the rest of us; he’s just more honest. He orders the birds from a series of private Soho addresses. They’re very discreet, but not cheap.

  As we drank, me a lager, him a bathful of scotch, I stared out over Thurso harbour.

  Antique dealers would now be booking the night-rider trains from King’s Cross. The London boyos would have their cars serviced tomorrow for the long run north. Phones would be humming between paired antique businesses. Syndicates would be hunched over pub tables, testing the water. Auction rings would be forming, dissolving, reforming, illegal to a man.

  And the convoy this very minute’d be rumbling on the great North Road, coming steady, a long line of weather-stained wagons carrying the beauty and greed of mankind. Soon they would swing left over the Pennines, then haul northwards for the motorway to Carlisle. Then they’d come Glasgow, Inverness . . . My mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Have another,’ I offered. ‘Against the cold.’

  Chapter 25

  NOTHING AN ANTIQUE dealer hates worse than fog and rain. Me and Michelle were for once agreed.

  At three o’clock in the morning in a foggy rainy lay-by, it seemed to me that the wheel had come full circle. We were in the giant Mawdslay on the main A9 which runs northwards from Bonar Bridge. Forty miles to Tachnadray. Not long since, it’d been Ellen and me in old Tom’s hut, while a man had died bloodily outside. Then the disaster over Three-Wheel Archie, my escape with the travelling fair, my panicked flight from the fight between the rival fairground gangs . . . I’ve spent half my windswept life recently on night roads. I shivered. These old motors sieve the air. Michelle’s breathing had evened. I nudged her awake.

  ‘Watch for the lights.’

  ‘Will they come? Only, Mr Tinker doesn’t seem very reliable.’

  I wiped the windscreen. Not a light out there. Nothing moved. ‘He’s the best barker in the business. Anyway, Antioch’s running it.’

  ‘Tell me about Antioch.’

  ‘Eh?’ I said suspiciously, but she was only trying to make up. ‘Antioch and me’s old mates. He was a Gurkha officer.’

  ‘You know so many different sorts of people.’

  ‘Everybody’s into antiques, love.’

  ‘Can’t be.’ She was smiling in the darkness. ‘I’m not, for instance.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I said evenly, which shut her up.

  There came first a faint row of dot lights. Ten minutes later the convoy approached, a slow switching queue of lorries revving on the incline, the ground shaking as they came. Even in the night it was impressive. I heard Michelle gasp. I stood out, collar up against the drizzle, and held up the krypton lamp. Characteristically, the lead wagon merely flashed, slowed to a crawl. I smiled, recognizing Antioch’s trademark. The double blink went down the whole convoy. The last lorry pulled out, overtook at a roar into the lay-by.

  ‘There are so many!’ Michelle was beside me, shoulder up to ward weather away.

  ‘Love, if I could have done it by correspondence . . .’ I said, going forward to greet Antioch in the din of the passing lorries. He saw me, waved at the column. It churned on past.

  ‘Lovejoy.’ We both had our backs against the roar.

  ‘Wotcher, Antioch. Any trouble?’

  He grinned. He enjoys all this, driving about in all weathers. He loves nothing better than a catastrophe, a breakdown, a flash flood washing a road bridge. You feel you want to arrange an avalanche for the frigging lunatic.

  ‘Police query near Carlisle, but I’d the consignment notes. A caff dust-up with some yobbos. Peaceful.’

  ‘Antioch. About your drivers.’

  ‘We’ll unload, then can you feed them? I’ve compo rations but they’ll need more before daylight.’

  ‘Yes.’ I’d already warned Mrs Buchan, who’d been delighted at my threat of dozens of voracious appetites. ‘Then?’

  ‘We’ll run to Aberdeen, the oil terminals.’

  ‘Your destination’s a place called Tachnadray.’ He likes directions military style, eastings and westings and that. I’d forgotten how, so I chucked in my own map with Tachnadray ringed. He shone his light, grinned and shook his head. His lorry’s cabin door was open. Michelle was looking in.

  ‘There’s a tramp inside,’ she said reprovingly to Antioch.

  The ragged figure coughed, a long gravelly howl which silenced the roars of the last lorries passing us. Michelle clutched my arm. Recognition had struck.

  It opened one bleary eye. ‘Gawd, Lovejoy. Where the bleedin’ ’ell?’

  ‘Hiyer, Tinker. Go back to sleep. We’re nearly there.’

  Antioch climbed into the cabin, revved and joined the convoy’s tail. I stood, smiling, watching the red lights wind into the fog.

  Michelle got her voice back. ‘He’s . . . he’s horrible!’

  ‘Please don’t criticize Tinker.’ We made for the Mawdslay. ‘He’s the only bloke who trusts me. A lot depends on him. Me. Tachnadray. Joseph. And,’ I added, ‘maybe you.’

  Ten o’clock on a cold wet morning. At eight we’d waved off the empty convoy, and I was just back from depositing a mixed bag of cheques, money orders and notes into the National Caithness. Me and Trembler had drawn Antioch’s draft. He’d set off following the convoy. There’d been eno
ugh to give Antioch’s drivers a bonus. Michelle had opposed this, exclaiming that it left hardly any. I didn’t listen. You have to pay cash on the nail sometimes, and this was one of them. She was still at it when we found Tinker happily trying out Mrs Buchan’s home-brewed hooch in the long kitchen.

  ‘Giving away all that money!’ Michelle was grumbling.

  ‘Listen, love,’ I said. Trembler strode past, discarding his gloves ready for his third breakfast. ‘How many men would you say Antioch brought?’

  ‘Forty-six,’ Mrs Buchan called, in her element. The tubby lady had two crones and no fewer than four youngsters all milling obediently to her orders. ‘Like the old days! You poor English, starving to death.’ She wagged a spoon to threaten me. ‘This poor auldie’s never tasted a drop of home-brew in his life. The crime of it.’

  Tinker raised suffering eyes long enough to wink.

  ‘Forty-six,’ I repeated. ‘Look around.’ The kitchen was like a battlefield. ‘They aren’t choirboys, love. What would have happened if they hadn’t been paid? After loading, driving the convoy the length of the country? They’d have torn the place apart.’

  Michelle shivered. ‘It’s all so violent. I mean . . .’ She was bemused at the scale of things. ‘Suddenly it seems, well, out of our hands.’

  ‘It is, love. We’re half way down the ski slope. No way of strolling back to the start, not now.’ I patted her shoulder kindly. ‘Have some nosh, love. We’ve a lot to do.’

  She stared. ‘But we haven’t slept a wink. And everything is here. Isn’t that the end of it?’

  Tinker guffawed, his mouth open to show partly-noshed toast and beans. Trembler tutted and asked for more eggs, bacon, and perhaps just six more slices of fried liver, please. The women rushed, pleased.

  A lass laid a place and poured tea as I said, ‘It’s the start, love.’

  Michelle sank in the chair, pale.

  ‘ ’Ere, Lovejoy,’ Tinker said. ‘Notice yon Belfast geezer, tenth truck, fetched them frigging Brummy gasoliers?’ The gaslight chandeliers had delighted me, genuine Ratcliffe and Tyler sets of three-lighters, 1874, with sundry wall brackets for the extra singles. They are valuable collectibles now, especially pre-Victorian versions. Tinker was falling about, cackling. ‘He got done at the sessions. Selling tourists parking tickets! Magistrate went berserk.’