Gold by Gemini

by Jonathan Gash

  About eight o’clock our vicar, Reverend Woking, came to ask if I’d sufficiently recovered from my mythical ’flu to sing in the choir for Dandy Jack. The service would be at ten in a couple of days. They would do the Nelson Mass, though he’s not supposed to have papist leanings. I said okay.

  ‘I don’t think Lovejoy will be well enough, Reverend,’ Janie said. ‘He’s had an, er, accident in his workshop.’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good, good!’ He hesitated, wondering whether to chance his arm and preach to us about Janie’s status, but wisely decided to cut his losses.

  ‘Before you start,’ I put in as Janie prepared to go for me, ‘you’ve never heard our tenors. Without me the Satictus is doomed.’ We bickered this way all evening.

  Chapter 12

  HALF THE CHURCH was crowded. Half was bone-bare. We were all there. Helen holy without a cigarette. Jimmo with his asbestos cough. Ted the barman from the White Hart. Jill Jenkins with her poodle and a bewildered young uniformed navigator she’d somehow got off a coaster new in harbour that day. Harry Bateman and Jenny lighting candles for all they were worth because their new place opened in the morning. Patrick sobbing into a nasturtium hankie, Lily trying to comfort him and weeping worse. Big Frank from Suffolk trying to look as if he wasn’t reading a Sotheby’s catalogue of seventeenth-century German and French jewellery. Tinker Dill giving everybody a nasty turn having no cloth cap on and shaming us all to death by stubbing out his fag in our church’s exquisite thirteenth-century baptismal font (‘Well, what’s the bleeding water in it for, then?’ he whispered in an indignant stage bellow when Lily glared). A miscellany of shuffling barkers unrecognizable with washed heads and clean fingernails – one had even pressed his trousers. Margaret; the only one of us all who knows when to kneel down and which book has the right hymns – we all followed her example. Gimbert’s auctioneers had sent a ghoul or two by way of unmitigated grief. And Dig Mason in a morning suit for God’s sake, gear so posh we all knew the Rolls outside was waiting for him and not the coffin. And Algernon falling over twice moving along the pew. He’d brought his uncle, Blind Squaddie from the houseboat, who felt the hand-embroidered kneelers a little too long. I’d have to count them after he’d gone. And a few villagers on a day trip from across the road to get a kick out of life.

  Oh, and Dandy Jack.

  We’d got some flowers in wreaths, one lot shaped like a cross. I’d sold Big Frank my single display Spode plate, cracked and just about in one piece, and bought a lot of flowers. I could tell Janie thought they were the wrong colours but they were bright. Dandy Jack liked bright colours. By then I’d spent up. I got three lengths of wire from a neighbour’s lad and threaded the flower stems in and out with green stuff I’d taken from my hedge. It’s hard to make a circle. Try it. You don’t realize how much skill goes into making things till you do it yourself. It looked just like a real wreath when it was finished. Making it didn’t do my hands any good, but I was proud of it. Janie went off somewhere and came back with one of those cards. We wrote ‘In Remembrance’ and our names on it and tied it on with black cotton.

  ‘It looks great, doesn’t it?’ I asked Janie.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, which was a relief because Janie can be very critical sometimes. The trouble is I knew she’d have said the same if it hadn’t been right. Still.

  The coffin was on a bier. I wasn’t to carry Dandy because of my hands. Patrick nobly volunteered, but broke down. Trust Patrick. A barker stood in at the last minute. Our church has this small orchestra, five players, counting the organ. Reverend Woking arranging the choir stuck me behind Mary Preston, our plump and attractive cellist. (‘You like being here, Lovejoy, don’t you?’ he said brightly while I avoided Janie’s eyes, large in the congregation.)

  We didn’t sing badly for Dandy Jack. Owd Henry’s probably our best bass. He’s an eccentric filthy old fanner whose legendary battles with the government over farm subsidies will be sung of by future generations of ecstatic minstrels. It’s better than Beowulf. He wears an outlandish stovepipe hat for posh, which is hard luck on our altos because as a result they haven’t seen a choirmaster’s baton beat time since before the war.

  Helen never looked up once. She seemed really upset. We listened gravely to Reverend Woking’s sermon on Dandy Jack’s virtues. It was fifty minutes long, practically par for the course. As far as I could make out it dealt mainly with problems of translating Greek non-deistic pronouns from the Aramaic in the synoptic gospels. Gripping. We’d just got going again when in the middle of it all your friend and mine Edward Rink pottered in, taking my breath away. It was lucky we weren’t at the risky bit in the Agnus Dei, which is nobody’s plaything. Nichole, pale and elegantly fragile, slipped along the pew after him. Algernon kindly passed Rink a hymnal, acknowledged by a curt nod. I’d. have to speak to Algernon. Politeness is all very well.

  During the service Rink’s eyes only met mine once. It was during the Dies Irae. That instant any doubts left me. He wouldn’t give up, not him. The swine was as cold as any reptile. It was as if I’d gazed into the eyes of the stone crusader on his plinth in our nave. Stone, solid stone, I was so calm I lost concentration for a moment and felt our blacksmith tenor Jim Large’s surprised glance along the row. There and then I made my first and last original De Profundis. Rink’s head was reverently bowed as I prayed, aiming at the middle of his balding spot. That tonsure would have to go. And the scalp as well. I know that a funeral isn’t exactly the place to pray for a successful execution, but matters were out of my hands now.

  I prayed: Dear Lord, Sorry about this, but Somebody’s got to finish Darlin’ Edward. And if Somebody doesn’t get a move on pretty sharpish, I suppose it’ll be up to me. Don’t say I didn’t warn Somebody in good time. Okay?

  The whole lot of us sang a beautiful Amen.

  Reverend Woking shook me by suddenly announcing that I would stand and utter a short homily on Dandy Jack. He’s a forgetful old sod. He should have said. I could have worked out what to say.

  I rose and gazed about. Silence hung. Everybody but Helen was looking.

  Dandy Jack’s known as Dandy because he’s so tatty. He was always cheerful. I remember once he passed over a job lot of two exquisite model railway pieces at an auction. One was a brass miniature of the famous Columbine made about 1850 (the one drive-wheel looks a bit big, but don’t be discouraged because it always tends to on models). The second was a lovely model of Queen Adelaide’s bed coach, No. 2. I’ve only ever seen their kind once before so they’re hardly penny a dozen. When I’d groaned and cursed Dandy for missing a real find, he looked rueful for a second and said, peeved, ‘I thought they were just bloody toys. What the hell did grown engineers want to make little things like that for?’ Then he’d laughed and laughed at his own idiocy, so much that I’d found myself grinning too. Finally, I gave up being mad and laughed as well. We were in Woody’s over egg and chips at the time. Lisa thought us barmy and Woody shouted from the back what the hell was going on in there and if people couldn’t behave in a restaurant they’d have to piss off. That only made us worse. The place finished in uproar. Finally, we’d gasped our way over to the Marquis of Granby and got paralytic drunk. It’s a right game, this.

  I looked about. Big Frank was reading his catalogue. Rink was piously bowed. I’m normally quite a good speaker, even with no notice, but it was a bit hard this time. I think I had a cold coming. I tried to start a couple of times but it didn’t work. Dandy was almost in arm’s reach. The coffin was covered beneath its heaps of flowers by a delicious purple embroidered pall, the precious and delicate Opus Anglicanum gold under-couching glittering against the rich colour. It’s murder trying to copy. You just try. I recognized it as the one I’d tried to buy off Helen a year before. She’d sent me off with a flea in my ear: ‘It’s for millionaires and the crowned heads of Europe only, Lovejoy.’ Dandy was neither.

  I found myself just looking at the floo
r in silence. Some woman coughed to fill in, helping out.

  ‘Dandy,’ I managed at last. ‘Whatever you find there, be a pal and save some for the rest of us.’ I paused, thinking of me and Dandy getting ourselves chucked out of Woody’s for laughing. It took another minute to get going. Bloody churches are full of draughts. ‘It’s not much help now, Dandy,’ I said, ‘but I’ll do for the bastard that killed you whoever he was, so help me.’ There was a lot of sudden shuffling. I heard Reverend Woking rise suddenly and then sit, aghast. ‘Good night, Dandy,’ I said. We all fidgeted a bit, coughed ourselves back into action.

  That was it. It doesn’t seem very much for a whole person.

  I’d tell you the rest of the service but there’s not much point. Afterwards we all went round saying we were sorry. Daft, really. It does no good. It’s just what people do, I suppose.

  Outside, the Reverend Woking was worried sick. He had the harrowed look of a vicar burdened by a debt in search of a debtor.

  ‘Er, Lovejoy –’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pay for the funeral and the service,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, fine, fine!’ He went back to beaming goodbyes. Isn’t religion a wonderful thing?

  The rest were already stampeding back to town. Nichole tried to speak to me but her eyes filled up and she turned aside, poor kid. Rink gave me a blank specky stare as they drove past. Yes, I thought, I mean you, you bastard.

  Janie stayed with me while they buried Dandy Jack. I told the vicar to get a posh stone for the grave. I’d pay, I said again. Not that it mattered. I’d no money for that either.

  ‘Lovejoy,’ Reverend Woking intoned in farewell. ‘Remember that God works in mysterious ways.’

  I nodded. I accept all that. It’s just that I wish the Almighty, had a better record in social reform.

  I walked home.

  Janie told me there was a man watching the cottage. I’d seen him on the wooden seat outside the chapel when I went to the village shop.

  ‘He comes sometimes and sits on the ruined gate by the copse,’ she reported.

  ‘Any special time?’

  ‘Morning and evening.’

  I went up the lane and accosted him late on the third day. He was rather, apologetic about it all, a pleasant bloke, about twenty-five.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, embarrassed.

  ‘Are you from Janie’s husband?’ I tried to snarl like I do at Algernon but couldn’t.

  ‘No. I’ve, tried to keep –’ he thought a moment, then brought out with pride – ‘a low profile.’ He smiled anxiously.

  ‘Are you supposed to be a . . . private eye?’ We were both using words nicked from those corny detective series on telly.

  ‘I am one,’ he said defiantly, actually believing it.

  I looked at him with interest. He was the first I’d ever seen.

  ‘We never get them hereabouts.’ We were as embarrassed as each other. ‘Who employs you?’

  ‘I can’t tell.’ He was going to die at the stake for his profession. What a pathetic mess.

  ‘Rink?’ I said, and he quickly looked away. ‘Thank you. That’s what I want to know. Don’t catch cold.’

  So it was Rink. That gave me time. I must have read both diaries a hundred times that week but I’d learned nothing. Rink must be in the same boat as I was. Reading them over and over would have been as dull as ditchwater if it hadn’t been for Dandy Jack and that other business in my garden.

  ‘He’s just an ordinary bloke,’ I reported to Janie. ‘I thought they were all hard as nails, as in Chandler.’

  ‘How horrid. What will he do?’

  ‘Oh, wait till I set off for the Isle of Man and phone Rink.’ I shrugged. ‘Then they’ll follow me, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you going after all?’ she asked.

  I gave her my very best and purest stare.

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ I said. ‘I only meant if.’

  Chapter 13

  THE THIRD DAY I burned the flight. I know how the Vikings felt. An end, a beginning. I used paraffin to get it going and stood back. My cherry tree got a branch singed, but then living’s just one risk after another, isn’t it? A neighbour came running down the lane to see if the sky was falling. He breeds those long flat dogs which bark on middle F. I reassured him. He left after giving my wrapped hands a prolonged stare.

  I waited for Janie. She arrived about teatime.

  ‘Can I . . . have some money, Janie?’ I watched her turn from hanging her coat up. I’ve only three pegs behind the hall door. I’d sold the mahogany stand that morning through Tinker Dill. That’s Janie’s best character point – never asks where things have suddenly gone. She may not care for my behaviour very much, but she accepts that it goes on. I think she tolerates me like a sort of personal bad weather, changeable and just having to be endured.

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘I’ll pay it back. Soon.’

  ‘How much?’ She fumbled in her handbag. ‘Will a cheque do?’

  ‘Yes, please. Just enough for a couple of weeks.’ I had to say sorry, after refusing all this time, but she said men were stupid sometimes and what were bits of paper. I’d have agreed if she meant compared with antiques.

  ‘Keep it,’ she said.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘A thousand times, no.’ You have to be patient. She called me silly and got all exasperated. I think women have very simple minds.

  I looked at the cheque. Funny that a small strip of marked paper can mean so many antiques. When you think.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ That must have been me speaking. I took it reverently off the table. ‘What are you laughing for?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Lovejoy.’ She turned away. It didn’t sound like laughing.

  ‘I love you,’ I said to her.

  She laughed and faced me, wobbling. Her cheeks were a bit wet.

  ‘Lovejoy, you’re preposterous!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You get everything wrong,’ she said, subsiding somewhat and smiling out of character. ‘It’s the other way round. I love you.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ I was puzzled. Just when things seemed on the mend between us. Women surprise me sometimes.

  ‘Come here to me,’ she said, smiling properly now.

  ‘Just a minute.’ I found a pen and paper to make a list, but Janie took the paper away. My hands were too clumsy to argue.

  ‘Shut up, Lovejoy,’ she said, ‘for heaven’s sake.’ So I did.

  *

  An hour later I woke from the post-loving doze. My mind instantly thought of what I should do.

  Friend Rink had money. He could afford a watcher. All he had to do was wait. And if I ever made a dash for the Isle of Man he could either fly ahead or send his watcher to keep track. But nobody can move without money, and my income from Squaddie barely kept me alive. Janie’s money was only for starters. I’d need more. I didn’t know how long the search would take. Suddenly Janie was watching me, worried. She cheered up when I said I needed her help.

  ‘With some antiques?’

  ‘Yes. Cleaning and improving them.’

  ‘For selling?’

  ‘You’re learning.’

  A mischievous smile lit her face.

  ‘Lovejoy. You . . . really need my help? Not Algernon’s?’

  ‘Especially not Algernon’s.’

  ‘Nor Margaret’s?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ I wanted no dealers.

  ‘But I know nothing about antiques.’

  Careless old Lovejoy almost said that was the point, but I covered up quickly by telling her I trusted her.

  ‘More than your friends?’ she pressed. ‘More even than Helen?’ Typical.

  ‘Much more,’ I said. Honesty was everywhere. I felt quite moved myself.

  ‘Then I will. On one condition.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That you pay me, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Pay?’ I yelped, starting upright in the bed. ‘What the hell with?�
�

  ‘Give me one day – of your time.’ She was adamant. I’d have to go carefully. What a dirty trick.

  ‘One day?’ I countered uneasily. ‘You can have tomorrow. That do?’

  She shook her head prettily. She’s always especially attractive when she’s up to no good. Sometimes I think Women play on our feelings.

  ‘No. When I say. For me to decide what we do for a change.’

  ‘But what if –’

  ‘No deal if you’re going to make excuses, Lovejoy. Get somebody else.’ I thought hard and with cunning but there seemed no way out.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit unfair,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Will you give me some notice?’

  She hugged me, delighted.

  ‘Possibly, Lovejoy,’ she said. ‘And possibly not.’ I tried wheedling but got no further. She told me, smiling sweetly, ‘All we have is time.’ She fluttered her eyelashes exaggeratedly. I thought of the forthcoming death of Edward Rink, Esq., and smiled, in control.

  Now here comes the bit I said you wouldn’t like. Same as your grandma’s beef tea it won’t be pleasant but it will do you good. If you’re poor it will save you a few quid. If you’re one of the struggling rich it may save you millions.

  All I’ve said so far about antiques is right for antiques. But think a second. What exactly is ‘an antique’? Look about at the articles round you. We can agree on many items, for a start. Your teacup made last week in good old Stoke-on-Trent isn’t antique, for example. And that ballpoint pen made last year isn’t either. Right. But those three decorative Coronation mugs on your mantelpiece, how about them? Well, Liz II hardly qualifies. And that George VI cup? Not really. That George V mug, then? Sorry, no. Notice how difficult it’s getting. None of these is ‘an antique’, not truly. Some people define ‘antique’ as being one hundred years from today. Others claim twenty-five years is plenty. And there’s some logic in that, I suppose. After all, jubilees begin at twenty-five years, and a century’s the magic hundred, isn’t it? But the actual honest truth’s sadly different. Anything from now to twenty-five years ago is modern. Going back from then to a century ago’s bygone. Then there’s a bit of a twilight zone. Then come antiques.