The Lies of Fair Ladies

by Jonathan Gash

  It took me a good two hours to get going. I carried out some precious pieces I’d been harboring.

  Clearing up is one of those postponable jobs that, when they're done, make you feel surprisingly holy. I'd been saying I'd get the workshop ready for two months, but I hadn't. Now there it all was, pristine. Ready for action. Pleased, I went inside and brewed up.

  Plan: With a massive number of antiques, fuffed out by fakes, I would be in a good position to demand from Connie Hopkins, my partner, access to the dollop broker. Maybe even meet her. Ex-teacher, Miss R. Find out from her who owned the Cornish Place dollop she was guarding, and good night, nurse. Proof for all my suspicions.

  "Two lumps, Lovejoy."

  Joan Vervain, in the porch, smiling.

  "Still not reached Monte Carlo?" Gorgeous as ever.

  She strolled in, spread herself on the divan.

  "You're quite tidy." She gave me a firm stare I didn't like. The new sort. "Had any assistance in that line?"

  "Women find it difficult here, love."

  "The lady mayoress been busying her little self in your service, Lovejoy?"

  I wish I could do that, give words twice their meaning. I made tea, gave her some. She tasted it, grimaced.

  "She hasn't taught you any domestic skills, Lovejoy."

  "Don't drink it then."

  She smiled, lay back, kicked off her shoes. "Discontent, darling? You always were impatient." She was doing the woman's laugh that isn't a laugh at all. I was the butt.

  Something amiss in that smile. Still lovey-dovey, but with a secret joy. Del Vervain had shared it, when last seen.

  "I'm delighted, love." I came and embraced her, to get her over with. She embraced me back. We were so pally.

  "Did you hear him last night?'' She traced my features with a finger. "Del announced your coming . . . appearance."

  "Soon at this theater?" I quipped, but unhappy. I’ve no illusions about broadcasters. They march to a distant drum, out of sync. Del and she were planning something. To my detriment, if not destruction. Were the other producers, who came and read sheafs of documents at the Vervains' party, in on the giggle? "One of those producers asked me to give her a call—"

  "No, darling. Don't do that." Too quick. “I’ve been asked to take care of you. Those stinking girls bother one so."

  Answer: The producers weren't in on the giggle. And in Joan's phrases lurked a concealed joke. I felt it.

  "I'm a bit unhappy, love. I mean, me and microphones ..."

  "Darling." Her gentle hands were everywhere, urgent and moving. I felt my shirt come undone. When Luna might come thrilling in with wagonloads of antiques? "Darling. Trust me. This setback with Del is only temporary. We'll be away soon. I promise."

  "If you say so." There isn't anything a man can do when a woman comes on like this. Her breasts, her shape, physiology, take command and it's yippee and waves on the seashore and passion blinding you to the entire galaxy.

  So it happened. Mercifully, Luna was elsewhere, and occupied.

  As I came round and Joan's cigarette smoke curled to the ceiling, her satisfied smile revealed she'd ditched me. No Monte Carlo. No escape to happiness to violins. No stealth to wealth for Lovejoy. I was to be sacrificed in some noble cause, namely and to wit, Joan and Del Vervain. Lovejoy would be down in their lion-infested arena with a chocolate sword. I used to watch the faces of women at cockfights when a tiny lad. As the poor feathered creatures slaughtered each other, the women's faces wore identical uglinesses that I could not then name.

  Now I know it well. It's passion. There are other words. Rut. Ecstasy. Orgasm. But none does half as well as that word from the darkness of Man's uncharted past. Joan had been bought back by Del, by the promise of a passion she had never yet experienced. What woman could resist? I was glad. I'd started all this when deciding to ditch her.

  She went after an hour. We promised to meet tomorrow somewhere I forgot instantly. I spent a few troubled minutes on the telephone, and got through to an agency, pretending I was the Bolton Journal and Guardian. I was the arts and entertainment correspondent. I wanted the ratings for Del Vervain's talk show.

  "You've heard, eh?" the chap said, laughing. "Jesus! The north got pigeons listening to the wire services? It's down the chute, mate. Word is they're going to pull the plug. I mean, four million's good-bye country. Two months'll see it off."

  "Ta," I said gutturally, and Luna arrived.

  Babbling, she hurried in, showing me notes, chits from Wittwoode's, catalogue photographs, ticks on lists. Her face was almost delirious with delight.

  But not ugly. I put my arm round her. She stopped talking, possibly an all-time first, and asked what was the matter.

  "Nothing," I said. I bussed her. She pulled away, breathless.

  "Lovejoy. This is no time for that. The vans are coming. The . . . whiffler said so."

  She noticed the divan. I hadn't straightened it.

  "Did you have a doze?" She rounded on me. "Lovejoy. You distinctly promised you'd tidy the workshop. Now we'll be hours behind. Get started this instant!”

  "I love you, Lune." I'd said it before, differently.

  She drew back. The words seemed outside her experience.

  "You . . . ?"

  No good asking me. I was as astonished as she. Hesitatingly she made to come towards me. But three whizzers from Wittwoode's were suddenly bawling and clattering in the garden, and the waves on the seashore would have to wait. Luna must have power beyond Man's knowing. They'd never been on time before.

  Twenty-seven

  “You didn't do so badly, Lune.” I scanned the stuff.

  She blushed with pleasure. "I had to pay highly for the carafe, but it helps your old soldier friend.''

  "My who?"

  "The elderly gentleman, moving to his daughter's in Bognor. The German enameled bottle—"

  "Ah. That old friend." I'd forgotten. "Bidding rough?"

  "No. That Acker Kirwin tried, but I outwitted him. I pretended to give up, then re-entered. He became discouraged."

  Well, well. I warmed to her. "Acted like a veteran."

  She was primly disapproving. "Some of the dealers' practices I find reprehensible." She swung on me because I wasn't taking notice. "Especially your friends, Lovejoy."

  "No!" I said, aghast. "Acting dishonestly?"

  "It's true, Lovejoy." She shook her lovely hair, deploring all crime. Here was me eager to turn this junk into priceless antiques, and she was giving me bleeding-heart morality. "I saw Sandy swop lot numbers' tickets."

  "Are you sure?" I asked weakly. I don't know anybody who doesn't do this elementary trick. I should have asked Luna if she was real, never mind sure.

  "And I saw that . . . that lady. She propositioned a Brighton gentleman." Her face was flaming. "Her husband made the arrangements! Exchanging sexual favors for a small oaken Canterbury."

  "Rhea Cousins?" Payment in kind's routine in the antiques trade. Like in every other, I might add, except not quite so obvious. Rhea's husband, Willis, keeps records on a home computer. Rhea's pretty, but worn out in the service of antiques. Luna must mean Lot 146, mid-Victorian but nice. Good old Rhea. "I told you." "Yes, Lovejoy. Arranged out loud! I mean." She was stunned, thrilled. Sweet Mary among trolls. "Listen, love. It's normal. It's life. It's antiques." "But the first auction wasn't like that, Lovejoy." "It's just that you were new. Now, you're learning." "But ..." She flapped her hand, sat on the divan beside me. "But even Mrs. Dainty, who's so . . . well, proper. I saw her move a battered old painted chair from one job lot to another. She was most put out when I explained her mistake."

  Margaret Dainty would be. I suppressed a grin. The trade calls it "waltzing." You examine some item, forgetfully put it back in the wrong lot. That way, you steal the item from whoever buys the first job lot, and give it free to whoever buys the second job lot (and that'll be you, of course). Waltzes are so prevalent that auctioneers started taking photographs, but gave up. The law says sale happens on t
he fall of the hammer—is it your fault if whifflers have misplaced the stuff, for heaven's sake . . . ?

  Luna was staggered. "Surely Mr. Wittwoode supplies lists—" "Come on, love. No chatter in work time." There's no telling the Lunas of this world. I pulled her up and we went to haul the furniture. "Mrs. Dainty pays the whifflers to turn Nelson's eye." Like the rest of us, I could have added, but didn't. "She actually paid!" Etc., etc.

  Luna had got twenty-one pieces. I got my trolley—pram wheels and a plank—to lug them round to the workshop. She had done very, very well. I told her so because women like approval. I don't know why. They're strange. I couldn't care less whether people approve or not.

  "One. This dumbwaiter." Small pieces first. "It's a small single-pillar table, right? It should have three circular mahogany trays with raised margins—dishtops, we call them. It's only got two, right?"

  "Yes." She was looking about, downcast.

  "Pay heed. That tips you off that the tripod feet and the top tray have been taken away, married up, and sold as a tripod table. Remember the one I was working on?"

  "Is it no good? I shall take it straight back— "

  ''No, love.” Luna was serious effort, for all that she looked lovely in her smart suit and high heels. Dressy. I like that. "We'll make it look antique and original, see? All we'll need is some flat matched mahogany to replace its third tray. The previous faker couldn't be bothered. Well, we can."

  "Is that honest, Lovejoy?"

  Untruth called. I looked her straight in the eye. "Of course. We'll describe it accurately." I did my injured expression. I wasn't going to stomach her woebegone dolor every blinking time I faked a veneer. Best fight the battle now, and have done. "Lune," I said quietly. "If you doubt my moral standards—"

  "No, Lovejoy! Of course I don't!"

  "Please let me finish, Lune." I closed my eyes, opened them, clearly seeking strength to go on. "You harbor suspicions. It's too . . . too distressing to even think of."

  "I know, Lovejoy. I'm sorry I even spoke —"

  God, the emotional turmoil. "I won't conceal the truth, Lune. I've developed an ... an attachment for you that's deeper than, well, I . . ."I'd almost reached the shaky lip. "I want you to feel sure."

  "I do, Lovejoy! I was wrong to even think —"

  I looked into her eyes. "We stay within the law. Every item."

  Her eyes were brimming. "I'm for you every inch of the way."

  "Very well," I said quietly, smiling nobly through anguish. "Then I forgive you. Load that dumbwaiter. Shove it round to the workshop."

  She was looking down at her lovely stylish clothes. "I can't. I mean, are we actually going to . . . well, work?"

  "Of course, you silly bitch," I yelled. "Get frigging started!"

  "My suit will be ruined."

  She was worried about her high heels. Can you believe women?

  "In the cottage you'll find trousers, Wellingtons. There's an old shirt." I bawled after her, "And wear your own knickers. Them underpants are my even-dates pair, d'you hear?"

  She trotted in. I started on the furniture. My spirits rose.

  Three Victorian worktables she'd bought were pedestal supported. I upended them. Easiest and commonest job in the world, to remove the pedestal (carefully keeping it to make another fake) and plug the four (sometimes six) screwholes underneath. Add four lovely tapered legs. That would add a good seventy to eighty years to each table.

  "Beg pardon, Lovejoy?" from Luna. I'd been muttering.

  "Remind me to order three sets of legs from Channie in Long Melford. I’ve got some veneer to cover the traces of the screw-holes.” I straightened, beamed. "We'll have created three new fake antiques—er, restorations, I mean—by six this evening. Channie fakes . . . that is," I corrected carefully, "he's a master woodworker specializing in supplies to the antiques restoration trade . . . Hellfire, Lune!"

  Luna was blushing, shifting from foot to foot. Where was the elegant, edible woman? She was shapeless. She rattled about in enormous Wellington boots that seemed to reach into her. My old trousers hung on her like twin sacks. A T-shirt—surely mine could never be that gross? I’m dead average—was draped over her. A marquee after a storm.

  "Am I all right?" she asked anxiously. "For helping?"

  "Yes, love," I said gravely. "You look really, er . . . Wheel the tables in. We've a lot to do."

  We found a table with four round legs. Only a crude Victorian wash table, and battered almost to dereliction.

  "We'll make this eighteenth century," I explained. "You simply take off each leg and lathe it down to about three fifths of its diameter. I’ll show you how. Thick veneer from Herman the Gerbil at Eccles, and taper each leg on its inner face. Hey presto! It'll look eighteenth-century London!" And be as phony as St. Peter's bones in the Vatican.

  "Me? The lathe?" Luna was really into it. "Properly?"

  "Of course, Lune. I trust you."

  "Oh, you." But she was pleased, and set to willingly.

  "The problem is that the legs will finish different, as they say. From a distance they'll seem a strange color. So we'll dress the top to match. Then distress it a little, knock it about a bit." I smiled at her sudden consternation. "Customers expect it."

  "If you're sure, Lovejoy." Her brow swept itself free of doubt, as always when a bird has a man in her pocket. Women are a great invention. No wonder sex caught on.

  We set to.

  It was bliss. Don't knock what we were doing, incidentally. I mean, if you knew how to change your old (or even new) chair into something antique and highly valuable, wouldn't you give it a go? And emulating the great masters of Georgian London, unexcelled for artistry before or since, gives a thrill of utter delight.

  We had a tallboy—a stack of drawers, the bottom three wider than the top set. Hepplewhite was the tallboy king; though this was a feeble Edwardian copy, nicely aged. You separate the two sets. The top set consists of three single drawers plus the top level of two matching smaller drawers. We had a table top spare—the Wittwoode vannies had used it to off-load the smaller items Luna had bought. We would cut it, then use it as a top for the lower stack of drawers, making a luscious early Victorian chest of drawers. The surface finish would be a problem, but that's always so with the faker. We'd get round that somehow.

  Showing her how to use the spindle lathe, I was astonished at her proficiency. In half an hour she'd learned to keep the foot treadle going while balancing herself to keep the pressure even on the chuck.

  "Do you know prices have gone up two hundred percent this year?" I groused, measuring a derelict piece to see if it could be turned into a bachelor chest. It was nice walnut, the right wood, but the bachelor is usually shallow—not more than ten inches, back to front, and only two feet nine inches wide. So a crumbling old bureau has to be savagely reduced. There's a giveaway: When you pull out a bachelor chest drawer, it's "tit-heavy," meaning tending to fall forwards—

  "Luna!" The voice made me jump. "What on earth?"

  Oliver, marching in and nearly falling over the peg bath I'd set up yonks ago.

  "Hello, Oliver." Luna was being thrilled on the lathe. Not bad, either, turning her wood slowly, tongue out (Luna, not the spindle). Tousled but accurate. I liked her. "Lovejoy's taught me! I'm thinning it, so—"

  "Look at you!" Mayoress, he almost said.

  "I hadn't time to come home. Lovejoy said I'm doing superbly."

  "Lovejoy." Oliver's whiplash command was one I'd have instinctively disobeyed, but Luna was there so I followed him out. "Lovejoy. I will not have my wife consorting with the district roguery! And where did she change? Dressed as a scruff!"

  "Oliver." I'm noted for my patience, but this was too much.

  "No, Lovejoy. I've had a call from Del Vervain. Urging me to attend a rehearsal, with the council, in our Moot Hall, of his radio show. How do you think this will make me look? I demand—"

  "In, Oliver." I pushed him into the workshop. This was an Oliver vs. Luna conflict,
nowt to do with me. "Sort it out."

  Which made me think. I searched for pieces of cock-beading round drawers among the pile. This is molding, semicircular in section, that sticks out round the edges of drawers. Classically pre-1800, mahogany or walnut. Too much to hope for original post-1720 cock-beading, but plenty of early Victorian lookalikes would do. The mistake fakers make nowadays is to fix them with minute pin nails. The originals were glued. So to a criminal faker (I mean an honest restorer, like me) an authentic length of cock-beading is worth its weight in gold. I kid not.

  "Look at you, Lovejoy.'' Oliver was out, lip curled in scorn. "Junk. To think I sent my wife to work with you."

  Oliver was a wart, but I heard him out. I’ve been slagged off by champs. I needed Luna. I’d no other loyalty. And, I thought indignantly, I was paying her, wasn't I? Well, nearly. I had that girl Laura's gelt, and Luna's. And possibly still Oliver's. Maybe I should pay her? A check had come this morning from the Employment Office. To me, not her. Transferring it seemed an unnecessary labor. I needed to cut down my administrative costs. Also, Luna was rich.

  "I'm withdrawing my finance, Lovejoy. Completely."

  "Maybe I'll withdraw from Vervain's show in the Moot Hall."

  "You can't." He was smiling. What else did he know?

  "I can do anything I want, Ollie."

  "Don't call me Ollie," he fumed. "Attend. Or you'll suffer harassment every hour, on the hour."

  "Threats, eh?"

  "Yes." He said it simply enough for me to believe. "See that Mrs. Carstairs is home never later than five."

  "Yes, bwana."

  But I'd found two small lengths of glued cock-beading, not a nail mark on them. I went inside happily, but wondering what deal Oliver had struck with Del Vervain.

  "All right, Lovejoy?" Luna asked, worriedly watching me.

  "Don't stop," I told her. “It's difficult enough to get you women started." She tutted, smiling, returning to her task. I added laconically, "The circus is coming to town."