The Lies of Fair Ladies

by Jonathan Gash

  Koala's an Aussie artist who paints triangles. He swaps jobs with his cousin, our local milkman, six months in Sydney. Koala pulls my leg about the birds. I’m sure he whistles them down.

  “I’m going to have to do some night milking. Koala, prices you charge.''

  "Send your cat, like the witches did." He reached up and pulled the pear tree branch down to take the nut holder. He's lanky, and I'm not.

  "Ta."

  Koala hooked the string over a twig and let the branch go. It sprang up into place. He left, laughing. Like witches did? Anciently, villagers stole out to milk other folks' cows on the sly. A punishable theft in country areas. Herds whose milk failed were called bewitched. And culprits had to be sought, of course. Witches sent cats to do their thieving for them. All stupidity, folk fable nonsense.

  For a minute I stood in the cold morning air, watching dawn. I looked at the pear tree. Koala had reached up, held the branch with one hand, took the nut box with the other . . . Had Rye's hand slipped? I was going barmy. I went inside for my breakfast. Fried tomatoes in margarine again, fried bread, tea with one sugar. I'd have eggs and bacon except you have to handle them raw. Anyway, nowadays you've to starve yourself to live healthy.

  Odd, but even sillier thoughts kept coming back. I should have been thinking about money. Oliver had guardedly agreed to give half the wadge I needed. Once an accountant, always blinkered. He heard me out, said it seemed cast iron, then offered half. In vain I'd pointed out that his profit would be reduced. He'd smiled the glacial grin of accountants everywhere, and said, "Circumstances preclude totality." Beyond belief. It's a question of the scam being a biggie—"grandy" in the trade—or a titch.

  Tip: In antiques, major scams, the grandies, begin about ten times the average wage. Now, some scams have no material theft. Lincoln Cathedral's goings-on over its Magna Carta Exhibition would be an example—what was it, quarter of a million? Others depend on stolen reality. Say for the sake of instance you live in a country where twenty thousand dollars is your national annual income. Then ten times that is where grand antique scams begin. Nor need they be stolen stuff, like a fifth of all antiques sold these days. It could be one single precious painting stolen from the Prado in Madrid. On the other hand you can amass a hundred legit pieces of crummy old near-derelicts, and the whole lot might not qualify as a grand scam. Anything less, therefore, than $20,000 x 10 would be regarded as ordinary. Of course, among the lower orders of antique dealers—and there are plenty down there, here—even a few quid profit is cause for rejoicing.

  Then again, there's the sword of Simon Bolivar—or Simon Bolivar if you insist on accents. This hero of 1824 had a sword. In February of 1991, Colombian rebels returned it to a Bogota museum. This kind of fanfare gift is a godsend to the world's fakers, who instantly turn out a trillion fakes, sell them, whispering the fatal words, "This is the original, mate. You don't really believe anyone in his right mind'd give away the real one, do you?"

  Why am I telling you all this? Because I needed, vitally importantly urgently desperately needed, to move out of the titch class and into the grand, at speed. Sod Oliver. I found myself out looking at the pear tree for the millionth time. Koala had reached out with one hand—

  ''Aaaargh!"

  "Good morning, Lovejoy. Did I startle you?"

  "You silly old bitch!" I’d have clocked the stupid hag if I hadn't been in a state of collapse. "Why can't you knock first, frightening me out of my skin? First thing in the frigging morning. I'm hardly out of my pit, you ignorant old—"

  "Do forgive me, Lovejoy. But I can't knock if you're out in the garden, can I?" She smiled up at me. "We've rather reached a dilemma."

  "We have, have we?" Beware birds using plurals. It means they've elected you to do their next job. Plurals and confidentiality, my bane.

  She looked more dilapidated than ever. Reluctantly I reheated my tomatoes and shared them with the old biddie. I gave her my other chipped mug.

  "We've reached the end of our resources."

  Oh, aye. "Datewise? Geltwise? Genealogicalwise?"

  She examined the tomatoes doubtfully, cheeky old sod. Had the nerve to prod the fried bread. It was a beautiful breakfast. One day ITl cure myself of charity. Then scroungers had better watch out.

  "Eat it," I ordered. "I'm not going to have you fainting on me." Tomatoes are a Yank invention anyway.

  "Thank you, Lovejoy." She looked around, steeled herself, and noshed along. "The information you gave me was most helpful."

  "Giving you the address of the building you were in?" I was narked. I'd hoped she wouldn't eat, but she trenchered away like a guardsman.

  She reached over, eyes misty, touched my hand. "I’ve written to my friend in New York commending you.”

  Jesus, she was importing more spongers. Time to get rid.

  "What now?"

  She smiled. I looked away. These crones get to you by having lovely old eyes. Well, I’m up to their game. I’d cut and run as soon as I was dressed. The social security could have a riot with this poverty-stricken New Yorker.

  '”It's 1837, Lovejoy." She accepted more tea, the mare. I had to brew up again. "And 1855, in Wales."

  She rambled on while I got my jam. IFs local, the usual half-pound jars you get at bring-and-buys in any village in the kingdom. Oddly, she was enraptured, asking how I’d made it. I said I’d write out the recipe. She said blueberry must be some sort of relative of our whinberry, because—

  "In Scotland," I told her firmly. I’d never get shut. She was whittling through a loaf. And reaching for my last bit of quince jelly, I saw with rage. I snatched it away with a second to spare, thieving old bitch. I ought to put a lock on my kitchen alcove. I will, when I get a minute from genealogy. "In Scotland, they've the Register of Sasines. Land's feudal, held ultimately of the Crown. A good system. Only one channel for ownership, see? Their Register of Sasines is from 1617. If your Scotch ancestors had land. Some's in Latin."

  She cried through a mouthful of my bramble jelly, "My great-great-great-grandfather had a croft in Fife!"

  I caught her reaching for my fried bread, got it back with a polite wrestle. "Deeds start about 1554—contracts, selling something important. If your ancestor died without heirs, search the Ultimus Haeres records, Scottish Record Office. The Crown, the final heir, took charge." I looked for the fortune hunter's gleam but saw only unbridled enthusiasm. So she was simply what she seemed, a loony coot hoping Grampa was Henry the Fifth.

  Wearily I sided up while she rabbited on and I rabbited back. Yes, for Wales go to Chancery Lane—hatchings, matchings and dispatchings in Non-Conformist registers from 1700 to 1858. "Court of Great Sessions in Cardiff," I told her, snatching her plate in case she wolfed crockery too. Christ, she'd scoffed more than me. I was astonished she could still move. "And Saint Cat's House, of course."

  "Wales, Lovejoy," she said patiently. Like I'd never heard of it.

  "Best combined records of all, has Wales. The one thing Wales lacks is surnames.” I paused, suddenly hopeful. ''Philips? Morgan? Evans?"

  "All those!" she cried, clapping her gnarled old hands. "How did you guess! And Jones!"

  I brightened. Once she started excavating that lot, she'd vanish into some dusty file and never be found. Genealogy searchers make a surcharge for Welsh ancestors. Not quite fair, because combine Public Record Office and GRO files and you're back to 1837 in an afternoon. I was so happy that I handed her a note as we finally left. I marched her up the lane.

  "Sorry, love. I'd have liked a longer chat. Don't forget about Regimental Registers of Births, for ancestors born into regiments from 1761—abroad from 1790. Okay? Your U.S.-born Britons are harder—the PRO's earliest are Texas, I think. They're only 1838."

  I made the top of the lane by the chapel, and heard the bus coming. Farewells are quite pleasant, sometimes. She was trying to scribble everything down.

  "I think the bloody government should let you see family wills free. I mean, whose wills were they, f
or God's sake? Your own grampa's. The Record Office charges, stingy swine."

  I would have gone on—it's one of my grouses—but the bus hove up and I had to run. Which meant cunning old Lovejoy escaped, old biddies being a mite slow.

  "No, Percy," I said. "She's only out for a walk."

  "Thought she was waving, Lovejoy," the driver said.

  An odd thing. As I'd paid, a bonny girl was alighting. She changed her mind, came round and got on again. Percy charged her another fare, mean sod. Maybe he'd worked for the PRO in some earlier incarnation. He pulled us away. We left Miss Turner wheezing.

  "Lovejoy?" The girl came and sat by me. She was brilliant with youth, loveliness. "Laura. My only name. All surnames are remnants of feudalistic paternalisms."

  Dilemma time. Should I have exchanged Miss Turner for this? "Lovejoy," I admitted. But it only takes ten minutes to town, then I'd be shut of her. "It's all I have."

  She toyed with the idea, found it gratifying. "You're against pseudo-religious degeneracies."

  Time to change my seat. I couldn't stand one minute of this, let alone ten. Is there any ism worth a thought? We were the only passengers on the lower deck. Plenty of space.

  "Excuse me, love, but I—"

  "Money, Lovejoy. To invest. No strings."

  She smiled. I froze. I’d admired her comeliness, her pure adorable style, of course. But now I looked deeper, I saw the mystic loveliness in her, the brilliantly dazzling glory of her nature. I’d been a fool.

  My voice wouldn't get going for a second. "How wise, er, Laura. And I agree about, er, names. They really are degeneracy things."

  She told me the sum she had in mind. It was enough to lift a small country firm called Lovejoy Antiques, Inc. from a titch to a biggie. I listened admiringly to her lecture on totalitarianisms all the way into town. I agreed totally, every word.

  We went to a bank. I wrote out a receipt, specifying how the spoils would be divided. Laura fell about at this. I grinned amiably along. I quite like mirth at these moments—not that I’ve had many such. Signed, sealed, and, most important, delivered. The manager wrung my hand. He gave me a checkbook, pen, briefcase and a set of stationery. He'd have blessed me, if he'd known how.

  "One point, Lovejoy." She waited by the bank door, looking into the busy thoroughfare.

  My heart sank. "Yes?" Too good to be true?

  "I insist on absolute confidentiality. Understand?"

  Only ethics. Phew. "Confidentiality's my other name!"

  I was so jolly with this delectable angel. "What if I run short, Laura?"

  Then she really took my breath away.

  "I'll give you more, Lovejoy."

  She swung off into Head Street, leaving me standing. I wondered if she was unmarried, and would take a bloke like me. I’d get my hair cut, maybe even buy a new jacket. Yet I'd done all right with Lovely Laura just as I was. Never change a winning team. A faint superstition nudged my mind: maybe my heartfelt charity to old Miss Turner brought me luck. You know, the leprechaun gambit? I was rich. Bulging. Loaded. Word would get around. And I would fly into a heaven of antiques, antiques.

  For the first time I felt I was winning. I tore round by the post office in search of Luna. I was exhilarated. The checkbook felt the size of a ledger.

  I was going to spend, spend, as in splurge. My heart was filled almost to bursting, with true happiness, that only money can buy.

  Twenty-Five

  We drifted into Woody's caff like thistledown, me and Luna. Tip: If you’ve money—I mean serious gelt, not your piggy bank raped by a nail file—don't advertise. Not in antiques. Because antiques are different. Luna didn't understand.

  "It stands to reason, Lovejoy." She grimaced delicately, swiftly controlled, and put aside her chipped mug. Woody's tea was in fine fettle, a slimy sea of liquid grot. "With money—"

  "Shhhhh!"

  She bent to whisper. The dealers leaned in, ears on the wag.

  "Why not simply tell everybody? Then they will come to us. Think of the petrol we’ll save!"

  I managed not to groan. Women are better money managers than us. Where they fall down's on little things. I once knew a lovely middle-aged bird, Doris, who missed buying that Rembrandt nicked from Dulwich because she paused to have a row with a shop girl about the price of envelopes. Honest to God.

  "They’ll up their prices, love."

  Her expression changed. "They would do that, Lovejoy?" She glared round Woody's caff through the blue fog of fat fumes. The lads looked away. "But they're your friends! It's scandalous!" There was more of this. I pinched her tea, sucking through the film of scummy leaves, waited for her storm to blow over.

  ''Lovejoy.” Eyes downcast now. Still, a little guilt does a woman good. "I tried with Oliver. He's had second thoughts. I’m so sorry."

  My heart dived. "He's backing out?" It really had been too good to be true.

  "No. But he's cut his offer."

  "It was already inadequate." I thought I’d explained all that. "A seam's titch or grand, love. To go up-market—"

  "I'll make up the difference, Lovejoy." She misinterpreted my gape, and said quickly, "His quarter, I mean. So we only need the other half."

  Oliver a quarter, Luna a quarter. And Laura half! I didn't tell Luna about Laura. She'd get the wrong idea. I just had enough money. The point being that only one great dollop of antiques would lead to the dollop broker. Logic.

  "Here, Woody. A couple of pasties."

  Woody's rotund belly shook with mirth. The cholesterol king is the only spherical bloke I know. His clothes gave up years ago, and now split majestically. Modesty was satisfied by an apron stiff with decades of solid grease.

  "Come into money, Lovejoy?"

  The world stilled in reverence at the mention of the great god M, the way congregations stop coughing at the consecration.

  "Aye. I've found Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn manuscript." There was a general laugh of relief-regret. Another version of this find had lately hit the antiquarian scene. It happens in America once a year, give or take. "On the slate. Woody. Hang the expense."

  The world relaxed, Lovejoy still the indigent quirk.

  "Can you afford it, Luna?"

  Worried, I gazed at the lovely woman opposite. Luna had been more on my mind this past couple of days than she had a right. I mean, what did my old Gran say about women? "A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair." Affection doesn't come alone. It brings obligations. And who has time for those? But a bonny bird bringing money is a goddess of unsurpassing beauty. I ought really to tell her the risks. I mean, if you own a favorite Royal Doulton piece, then you're at risk from roaming dolts, burglars, dealers on the knock, plumbers coming to mend your bathtaps, visiting priests. Aunt Jessie. But that's simply opportunistic theft, done on the spur. Titch antique, titchy risk.

  But there's something else. Something far more serious. Big league. It's the ominous death-dealing malevolence that lurks in the world of the grand scam. It's dollop broker country. There's only a dozen genuine dollop brokers in the entire kingdom—I mean those operating well outside the law. All honest, God-fearing hoods and crooks in the known universe keep shtum about them. For the dollop broker is sacrosanct, the Machiavellian figure behind the biggest of the grand scams. Local, national, and international.

  There are a million stories, mostly true. Of the English noble who did a humble Italian to doom for failing to deliver his promised tomb-robbings in Tuscany. And to whom is attributed the appalling statement, "A promise paid for, is marriage; infidelity justifies fatality.'' Needless to say, the antiques trade thinks this the height of logic, and praises the nobleman's propriety. And of the Yorkshire blokes, dealers all, who sank their three friends' boat in the North Sea by simply cutting it in half with a larger vessel one dark and stormy night, having transferred the smuggled antiques. (It saved having to pay, a tiresome chore.) Word is that a Dutchman survived, and broods vengeance. He's expected in Newcastle later this year. I'll let you know what happen
s, if I hear. And of the Turkish lady whose very special girlfriend took this Egyptian antique dealer under her wing. She caught them in flagrante, but was very good about it, and said never mind these things happen don't they. And then framed them for the attempted robbery of a French museum and murder of a Levantine security bloke doing a job for that Munich-Swiss combine—

  "Lovejoy." Luna took my hand. I withdrew it sharply. The dealers were sniggering, nudging. "Please accept."

  "Eh?" Who'd refuse an offer like this? The pasties were gone. I hoped I'd had hers as well. "If you insist, Lune."

  She went misty, smiled. "Thank you, Lovejoy."

  The favors I was doing! Laura's thanks, Luna's gratitude. I felt peeved about Oliver. I was trying to do the selfish pillock a favor, and not a bleep of gratitude.

  "Think nothing of it, Lune," I said magnanimously.

  We left then, after a sordid verbal skirmish with Woody over when I'd settle his wretched slate. Luna had a fit of conscience on the pavement, wanting to discuss the problem of world debt. I simply walked on, round to the auction rooms by the Beehive tavern. I mean. Woody had a thriving business, right? So why continually try to exploit poor travelers like me? It's just not fair.

  "That's the wrong way of looking at it, Lovejoy," Luna countered, trotting alongside. "We should pay. It was the same with that registration. The girl proved most impertinent. I had to speak very firmly to the manager, I can tell you."

  "Love," I said wearily, halting. She bumped into me. "I'm crazy about you. Making love was the peak of ecstasy. But for Christ's sake button your frigging mouth. We're bidding this afternoon. Sod ethics."

  "You're . . . ?" She searched my eyes. A woman's gaze is never still, is it? Switches side to side, thousand times a minute. Even baby girls do it. Boy babes simply look, steady and level. Sometimes I wonder why.

  But not for long. Priorities established, we zoomed to Wittwoode's Auction Temple. Viewing ten to one o'clock, auction at two precisely.

  A viewing is such a wonderful experience it's no good trying to describe the sensation. You must see for yourself. And I promise. You'll fall in love with antiques. Oh, I know every viewing day's disappointing when you glimpse the load of tat, crud, dross. But your job is to go in knowing that bliss awaits. The bliss is antiques. And every antique is worth any amount of money. Why? Because money's machine-spun paper. And antiques are legacies from the hand of Man, the gifts of angels. Never mind that money is the modern religion. Only idiots preach that money counts. Business barons know that they're duckeggs. Sooner or later, they come to their senses. They frantically start buying like maniacs—and they buy antiques. They are trying to capture Time, encapsulate it as if Time is theirs to re-use. Is there a mighty dictator who fails to stuff his presidential palace with antiques? Trade tycoons raise unedifying edifices—museum, art gallery, foundation—to their self-glory, and thereby prove themselves prats. The megalomaniacs who carry on this way expect knighthoods for caressing their own egos. Quite barmy. When you're that far gone, remorse should be silent grief. Building bizarre cathedrals simply embarrasses the rest of us. (Of course, we're green with envy, which is why we scorn their "achievements." Like I'm doing, I suppose. It must be great to be well-adjusted.)