Gold by Gemini

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘Has his handwriting improved any?’

  Dandy Jack fell about at my merry quip. Once, Bill actually acquired a genuine love-letter from Horatio to his dearest Emma Hamilton. Nobody else dared believe Bill. I bought it for a song. That’s the danger of forging too much and not doing it well enough. A happy memory.

  ‘He’s got something right up your street.’

  It was probably that bone flute, cased, sold in Bury the previous week. I’d heard Bill had gone up. Potter, the great old London maker, if Tinker was right. Very desirable. I said nothing, nodding that I’d pop in.

  ‘I want a favour, Dandy. A certain sketch.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘Come back here.’ We withdrew into his inner sanctum. He offered to brew up but my stomach turned. That left him free to slosh out a gill of gin. Dandy was permanently kaylied. He perched on a stool opposite his crammed sink, shoddy and cheerful, a very rum mixture. Where I think in terms of mark-up, Dandy thinks booze. I’ve never seen him sober in n years, where n is a very large finite integer. He has a good eye, sadly wasted. For some reason he believes there’s no way of actually learning of the beautiful objects we handle, but then you don’t get libraries in pubs.

  ‘An old chap called Bexon. You got his stuff at Gimbert’s auction.’

  ‘Your young lady spoke to me yesterday. I gave her the box.’

  ‘That’s only rubbish, but he was an old friend and –’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said. ‘Never mind all that, Lovejoy.’

  I said, desperate now, ‘She said you had a sketch he did.’

  ‘That sketch’ll cost you.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Do me a scan and you can have it free.’

  ‘Get lost,’ I groaned. It always came down to this, from fellow dealers too useless to do their own work.

  ‘Go on, Lovejoy. You’re a divvie. Help me out.’

  I had enough trouble without feeling sympathy. ‘Commission?’ I tried hopelessly, but the wretch was grinning. He knew he had me and shook his head. ‘Scan my stuff or you don’t even get to see Bexon’s picture.’

  ‘All right,’ I gave in bitterly. ‘Anyhow, your commission wouldn’t keep me in pobs.’

  ‘My stuff’s in that crate. I’ll fetch it.’

  He dragged in a tea chest of miscellaneous porcelain, followed by Jenny Bateman protesting she’d not finished looking.

  ‘Hard luck,’ Dandy told her, pushing her out. All heart.

  ‘Is this it?’ I hate scanning junk.

  ‘A job lot. There’s a ton of valuable stuff in there, Lovejoy.’ The eternal cry of mankind since Adam dressed.

  I sat wearily, waiting for the mystic mood to come over my mind. A divvie always suffers. Having friends irritates me sometimes. I closed my eyes and stilled. Sounds receded. The world slipped into silence and all feeling fell gradually into the distance.

  Divvie? Maybe from the old word ‘diviner’, as in water, but who knows? It’s slang for anybody who can guess right about a thing without actually knowing. Some people have it for gems or paintings, others for race-horses, thoroughbred dogs or scenic design, a precious knack that goes separate from any learning. I’m an antiques divvie. And, incidentally, I’m the very best there is.

  I’ve tried asking other divvies how they know, what actually happens. Some say they are ‘told’, others say it’s a feeling. Water diviners say it’s a foot-tingle or a twisting stick. To me it’s a kind of bell, and it rings in my chest. My knowledge, on the other hand, only tells me what an antique is. But my bell just rings for truth. And look, folks – good news. Everybody alive has this knack for something. Maybe not for antiques or diamonds, but for something. Nobody’s been left out. It’s superb news really, because you’re included too. You. All you need to find is what your particular gift is for. You might actually be the most original and creative porcelain or furniture expert without knowing it. If you don’t already know you’re being dreadfully wasted.

  The way I do it’s to get close as possible, look and then maybe a light touch if that’s not damaging to the antique. Always remember to leave antiques alone. Never fondle, clean, wipe, polish or brush. And I don’t mean ‘hardly ever’, like in the song. Never is never. Leave antiques alone. Never scrape, improve, smooth, fill in or dissect. Remember that all antiques really are Goya, Chippendale, Sheraton or Michelangelo until proved otherwise. If you say that yours aren’t, I’d like to know what makes you so sure.

  Dandy Jack was very considerate as I worked, tiptoeing in like a steamhammer for another pint of White Horse and having a hell of a row with a customer over the price of a modem vase he swore was Ming. Honestly, my head was throbbing by the time I finished. I was finished.

  ‘Dandy,’ I called. ‘Done.’ He dropped a pile of books with a crash and reeled in.

  ‘Prime stuff, eh, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  He grinned at the three objects on the table and nodded wisely.

  ‘Bloody rubbish,’ he agreed. ‘I knew it was all valuable except for them.’

  ‘They’re the good stuff, Dandy.’ I rose, stretching. ‘Chuck the rest.’

  ‘Eh?’ He glared into the heaped chest. ‘All this? Duff?’

  ‘Duff,’ I nodded. ‘Have you any grub?’

  ‘Margaret fetched these over for you. She’ll call back.’ He held out a brown paper bag towards me, two whist pies and an Eccles cake.

  I sat and ate, recovering, while I explained the three pieces to him. He listened quite mystified.

  ‘Candle snuffer, Worcester.’ I nodded at the smallest item, a tiny bust of a hooded Victorian woman. ‘It’s 1864, give or take a year.’ I hate them. Collectors don’t.

  ‘Pity it’s not earlier.’ He peered blearily in my direction. Good old Dandy. Always wrong, not even just usually.

  There was a shaving mug shaped like a white monkey, grotesque with an exquisite glaze. I honestly don’t know what the Victorians were thinking about, some of the things they made. The bowl was the precious item, though Dandy Jack could see nothing special about it. Like I say, some people can hear fish squeak. Others wouldn’t hear a train in a tunnel. He said it looked like Spode, when it was clear Daniel, early 1830s. I tried not to stare at the lovely thing, but the elevated tooled bird motifs in gold, with curves jesting on feet of bright blossoms, dragged my eyes. Blues screamed at pinks, greens and shimmering maroons in a cascade of colour. It sounds garish, but it really is class, and incredibly underpriced at today’s prices, though that only means for a second or two. Dandy was more than a little narked that the rest was mostly junk.

  ‘Bexon’s sketch, Dandy,’ I reminded him. Scanning stuff really takes it out of me, why I don’t know. After all, it’s only sitting and looking.

  ‘Here.’

  I took the drawing from Dandy’s grimy hands. Bong went my chest. Simple, stylish, very real, a tiny pencil caricature with some colour. It was her again. The artist had pencilled her name in, Lady Isabella. She was the same snooty lass, doubtless made to look starchier than in real life, riding in a high absurd one-wheeled carriage with idiotically long shafts and no horse. The wheel splashed water as it rolled through the streets. It was probably one of those crazy skits they got very worked up about before steam radio and television blunted pens and sense.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. Straight up, Lovejoy. What Is It?’

  ‘Looks like a caricature. Genuine Burne-Jones.’

  ‘Genuine?’ A long pause, during which Greed crept ominously in. ‘I’ll give you the rubbish for nothing, Lovejoy,’ . Dandy said. Oh-ho, I thought. Here we go.

  ‘You said –’

  He crouched into his whining position. ‘Look, Lovejoy –’

  ‘Bastard.’ I should have known he’d let me down, though Dandy Jack’s no worse than the rest of us.

  ‘No, honestly, Lovejoy. I didn’t mean I’d give you the drawing as well.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ I said bitterly. I was unable to resist on
e final glance at the Burne-Jones. He was a Victorian painter, a bit of a lad who did a few dozen caricatures to amuse Maria Zambaco, a gorgeous Greek bird he shacked up with for three years before 1870. Maybe Maria put him up to sketching one of her bosom friends.

  Dandy offered me a drink but I staggered out into the oxygen layer, as broke as when I’d arrived. That’s typical of some days in this trade.

  There was a blue Lagonda occupying two-thirds of the High Street.

  ‘At last, Loyejoy.’

  ‘Oh. Hello.’ I really was pleased to see her. It’s the way it gets.

  ‘Well?’ She nodded at Dandy Jack’s window. ‘Did you get the picture?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I said lamely. ‘He, er, he wanted to hang on to it –’

  ‘You mean he won’t give if to you?’ she fired back. She stepped out angrily. ‘You look drained. Have you scanned for him?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Right. Wait here.’ I caught hold of her.

  ‘No, love. I’m not up to a battle today –’

  ‘You’re a fool, Lovejoy,’ she stormed. ‘No wonder you’re penniless. You let everybody take advantage –’

  I turned away, meaning to walk off because people were beginning to stare. And this lovely blonde was standing beside me, breathless and pretty.

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ she said. A picture, her lovely face anxious and her deep eyes troubled. ‘Are you Lovejoy? Can I have a word, please?’ There she stood, nice, worried, determined. Her smile was brilliant, full of allure. Women really have it. I decided I needn’t walk off after all.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ Janie cooed. She drummed her fingers on her elbows, smiling.

  Now, women don’t like each other. Ever noticed that? If two meet, you can see them both instantly thinking: (a) What’s this bitch really up to?; (b) Thank God her clothes are a mess; and, following on pretty smartly, (c) Isn’t it time this ghastly female was leaving?

  ‘I heard you’re trying to find an old picture, sold at Gimbert’s auction, belonging to a Mr Bexon?’

  I gaped. You just don’t ask that sort of thing in this trade. It’s like asking a Great Power which other nations it really hates at a peace conference. I suddenly caught sight of Beck stepping inside Dandy Jack’s. I instantly realized why Dandy hadn’t kept his promise about the sketch. Beck had heard me talking to Tinker Dill and was now arriving to buy the worthwhile stuff.

  ‘Eh?’ I responded cautiously.

  ‘I want it,’ she explained. I’m Nichole Bexon.’ She took hold of my arm confidingly, better and better. ‘I’m trying to find my uncle’s things. A sketch, mainly. And two diaries. I was . . . away, you see, when his things were . . . taken to a sale. My sister cleared the house. It’s so unfortunate. I heard you were trying to find them as well. A neighbour.’

  Good old Mary. That’s the trouble. In these remote little East Anglian villages rumour does a faster job than the new electric telegraph.

  ‘Ah, sorry, love,’ I said, smiling. ‘You’ll have to try Dandy Jack.’ I nodded at his emporium. And, innocently thinking to get one back on poor old Dandy for changing our agreed deal in mid-scratch, I added malevolently, ‘He has the things you want. He won’t let them go, I’m afraid. I’ve offered him the earth.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ She looked almost in tears.

  ‘Is there no way at all?’ this chap asked. He’d been listening. I dragged my eyes from the lovely Nichole and noticed him.

  Nichole seemed to have brought her tame male along, a real weed in Savile Row gear. The fool wore a city titfer. Honestly, some people. A hat in the Arcade’s like wearing a coronet at football. You know how some couples are just, not suited? Well, here was the archetypal mismatch. Her; lovely, cool, gleaming, luscious, a pure swinger. And him: neat, precise, waist-coat complete with gold watch-chain (not antique, the pathetic slob), rimless specs, glittering black shoes, and a Rolls the size of a tram. A worrier, accountant if ever I saw one. How a pill like him ever got her . . .

  ‘No,’ I said. Luckily, Janie had reached (c) by now.

  ‘Mr Lovejoy is a well-known art expert,’ she cut in crisply, ‘and even he hasn’t been successful. Sorry we can’t help.’

  She slipped into the Lagonda. It was sneering at the Rolls, nose to nose. The Rolls wasn’t really up to noticing riffraff for the moment and gazed into the distance. She gunned the engine. They got the message.

  ‘Then what shall I do?’ the beautiful Nichole said. ‘I must have Uncle’s things back. They’re nothing much. But he’d have wanted me to have them.’ She actually twiddled a button, one of the remaining few, on my coat.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Er, well . . .’

  ‘Please?’ Flutter, flutter.

  Women intrigue me. No, they really do. Say a woman wants ten yards of lovely Thai silk. She’d expect to have to pay for it, right? Same as a bloke wanting tobacco. Everybody knows it – you have to pay. But mention antiques and suddenly everyone wants something for nothing. Or, at the very least, a Constable or Rembrandt for a quid or two. And make no mistake, women are the worst. A man will laugh ruefully, say no hard feelings. But a woman won’t. You get the whole bit, the smoulder, the come-on, derision, the wheedle, and finally everything they’ve got thrown into the fray. Born dealers, women. You have to be careful.

  ‘Can you not help, please?’ Her chap tried to smile ingratiatingly. ‘You’ve been highly recommended to us, Lovejoy, as an antiques dealer. I would make it particularly worth your while. If it’s a question of money . . .’ he said.

  The town stilled. The universe hesitated. The High Street froze. Nobody in the known world breathed for a few lifetimes as that delightful scent of money hung in the air.

  He really seemed quite pleasant after all. Charming in fact. Then Janie hauled me, literally yanking me off balance so I tumbled back into the Lagonda.

  ‘So sorry,’ she called out brightly, swinging me round and slamming the door. I grappled to lower the window.

  ‘My card,’ the chap said. ‘Phone me. Edward Rink.’ We were off like a Brands Hatch start. I sulked most of the way home holding his engraved card.

  It’d soon be time for Algernon’s test. What a bloody day. Diddled by Dandy Jack,’ frogged by Beck and no nearer understanding the Bexon business, and now Algernon.

  I’d reluctantly cleared away by the time Algernon arrived. In he came, cheerful and gormless. In his own way he’s an entire miracle. A trainee dealer for six long months and still thinks Fabergé eggs are crusty chocolate.

  ‘Good evening, Lovejoy!’

  ‘How do.’ I stared morosely into his beaming face. Why was somebody who gets me so mad so bloody pleased to see me every time?

  ‘Let us anticipate that my efforts will meet with your approval this evening!’ the nerk said. He reached out and actually wrung my hand. He stripped a layer of motor-cycle leathers and left them heaped in the hallway. ‘I am all keyed up!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Did you read Wills?’

  ‘Certainly, Lovejoy! And the brass instrument book. And –’ he blushed – ‘the jokey book all over again. I appear to have been quite taken in!’

  He laughed merrily as I led the way into the main room without a word. You can see why Algernon gets me down. He’s always like this.

  ‘On the table, Algernon,’ I cut in sourly, ‘are several objects.’

  ‘Right! Right!’ He sprang at them, oily fingers at the ready. I caught him in mid-air and put him back.

  ‘I shall cover all but one with a dark cloth, Algernon. You have to identify and price whichever’s exposed. Okay?’

  ‘Ah!’ He raised a finger delightedly. ‘Your identification game!’

  I fetched the carriage clock across.

  ‘You’re allowed one minute. Remember?’

  ‘Of course, Lovejoy! How absolutely right to be so precise –’

  I lifted him out of his chair by the throat, struggling for iron control.

  ‘Algernon,’ I hissed. ‘Silence. Clam. Shut up.
’

  ‘Very well! I follow exactly!’ He frowned and glared intently. Then he closed his eyes to concentrate, heaven knows what with. Your modern intellectual at bay. I watched this performance wearily. I suppose it’s meant to be like I do when I’m scanning, the idiot. He opened his eyes, thrilled. ‘Right! Ready, Lovejoy!’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He concentrated hard. ‘Ah! The Sights!’

  ‘Good, good, Algernon.’

  We lit two candles and the oil lantern before switching the electric off. I suppose there’s no point in rubbing these details in too much or you’ll not read on but I have to say it. You’ll all have made this mistake. What’s the point in looking at Old Master paintings by neon or tungsten-filament glare? Dolphins don’t do well in pasture land. Stick them in an ocean and you’ll never see any living thing so full of beautiful motion. Give antiques the kind of light they’re used to and you’re halfway there. And for heaven’s sake space the flames about the room. Never cluster natural flamelight. It’s no wonder people get antiques wrong.

  I sat myself down and took the time. I uncovered one small silver object. He prowled about, peering at and over it, for all the world like an amateur sleuth, I observed this weird performance with heartbreak.

  ‘Time’s up.’ I covered it. This is the nightmarish bit.

  We sat in silence broken only by my drumming fingers, the tick of the clock and the squeaks Algernon’s pores made as sweat started on his fevered brow.

  ‘Go on, Algernon,’ I encouraged. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Erm.’ He glanced to judge the distance to the door. ‘Erm. It looks . . . sort of . . . well, a spoon, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Precious metal? Plastic? Wood? Gilt?’

  ‘Erm . . . silver?’ he guessed desperately. ‘Caddy spoon?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He beamed with relief. Examine antique silver in the correct light and even Algernon can spot it. ‘Yes.’ I even smiled. ‘By . . .?’ He didn’t know. ‘Three giant steps back, Algernon.’ His face fell a mile while I rose and uncovered all the little silvers.

  He missed Hester Bateman, whizz-kid of 1785. He missed the stylish Sam Massey, 1790, and the appealing work of Charles Haugham, 1781. He had omitted to learn a table of hallmarks, and thought that a superb artistic piece of brilliant silverwork from Matthew Linwood’s gnarled hands was plastic.