'Wrong? What could be wrong, love? The Cause's made a fortune on commission?'
She looked at the dealers' waiting cars. 'They will go soon?'
'Aye.' I did my best sigh at the unrelenting dedication of all those antiques dealers. 'All except the chosen few.' I winked. 'They all want to be the last to leave, in case some rival dealer offers a discount. I'll take a few last orders. Don't worry.'
She placed a hand on my chest. The limo driver, a pimply St Osyth bloke, tried not to notice this. We stepped away.
'And the Stubbs will be sold?'
'Auctioned for a fortune. Payable to you only, dwoorlink. There'll be a dozen bidders only.'
'You'll stay, Lovejoy?' Her tongue touched her lips. 'It's been a revelation, you here. We share the same obverse, you and I.'
'So you're a Gemini with a . . . ?' A touch of what, Aquarius? I'd forgotten. Astrology's a woman's toy, not for blokes.
'Libra,' she corrected. 'I should have listened to Priscilla years ago, at school.'
'Eh?' Ashley came into view, three shawls. 'School?'
'We were all at school together, Prissy, Philly, and I.' She watched Ashley hurtle towards us. 'It doesn't entitle them to any licence, Lovejoy. You understand?'
'They're just helpers, love.'
'Be sure that's all, Lovejoy. By tonight, I shall have funds enough to declare myself. I need a dedicated advisor. I do not mean Ashley. You understand, darling?'
‘Er, no?' Declare what?
'Declare my position as the Pretender to the USA.'
My mind reached for a splitting headache, gave up. Where's a headache when you need one? 'You?' I gaped.
'Of course. I've been the subject of news items in the past, all unbearably flippant. From now, I shall be serious.'
She ignored Ashley, stepped into the motor. Ashley climbed in babbling how he'd hurried, so sorry to delay, the whole grovelling mess. I ascended the steps, after gaping at the skies for a while.
'School pals, eh, Priscilla?' I said accusingly. Her sister flushed. 'There was me thinking we'd all just met.'
'Oh, Lovejoy, that was years ago!'
'Who else?'
'Heavens!' Priscilla laughed, colour in her cheeks. 'Hilda was at the same school for a little while - her father was something in their Embassy! Goodness, we were practically strangers!'
'Oh, aye,' I said drily. But strangers who'd kept contact, visited, shared the same loony Cause, were willing to expend time, money, effort on its furtherance. Still, no threat. There's a society somewhere for everything, from Save Our Toadstools to Down With Richard III. And there's a society of collectors of anything and everything. And everybody's got to go to school somewhere, right? No need to change any plan, right?
'Listen, ladies. The auction's fixed, Chemise?'
'Yes, Lovejoy. Gavel, desk, notepads, ballpoints, two dummy handsets like you said. One mobile phone.'
'Mobile's you, Chemise. Miss Prissy, you take one wall phone, Miss Philly the other, okay? When I cross my feet- don't look, corner of your eye, okay? -you'll raise your hand as if listening to a phone-in bidder, then nod. Once. Got it?'
'Why, Lovejoy?'
'It's the old pretence again, Priscilla.'
She turned to her sister. 'We dissemble, Philadora. There won't actually be anybody telephoning.' Philadora registered this world-shatterer. 'Correct, Lovejoy?'
'Yes,' I said, near to collapse. 'Chemise. Got the stickies?'
'Yes, Lovejoy.' From a holdall she brought out a roll of white adhesive paper discs. 'Numbered to 831.'
'God Almighty. That many?' I drew breath to ask if she'd checked, but saw her steely glint and desisted. This was the lass who'd operated Tryer's mobile Sex Museum through countrywide opposition. She handed me a tabulated list. Valuable lass, Chemise.
'Ascending order, the way I went round the exhibits when it was opened, okay?' I didn't want to auction the wrong items. I'd seen that happen more than once.
'I know, Lovejoy.'
The sanads?' The Dewhursts drew breath together, but I got in first. They are chits, papers giving authority that bidders sign. Remember what I said about deposits, money or written cheque with each? Tinker's whifflers'll know, and bring each to you, Chemise, okay?'
'Do they get a copy of the auction list, Lovejoy?'
'Once the doors are closed, aye. Not until.’ I looked at my three helpers thinking, God. Not much of an army.
The great pantechnicons stood silent on the forecourt, now eight of them. The end one didn't look at all different, but had a thicker wall, according to old Jim Andrews, that possible Alzheimer. The huge van had a solid-looking wall, sure, but didn't they all? Well, no.
For a second it made me shiver, because there wasn't a single chime from the pantechnicon. I felt cold, looked to see where the chill was coming from, but not a leaf stirred.
'Chemise. Did Tomtom and his mate Cav give you a message?'
'Yes, Lovejoy. They're waiting for you, said to tell them when you want them to move something in.'
So the great Stubbs was still inside this van?
'Where's Tinker?' When weapons come out, find your mates.
'He's with them. He's drunk, Lovejoy.'
We went in, Chemise silent, the biddies chattering excitedly. Tinker was telling Tomtom some tale, cackling.
'And Lovejoy says he owns the frigging firm -'
'Sorry, Tinker.' I winked at Tomtom to show him I was only pretending, innocent ears abounding. 'Come with me. Tomtom, er, that large extra object you wish auctioned. Could you bring it in on my nod, please? You can stay out here if you like, have a drink.'
'No, Lovejoy.' Tomtom spoke his monotone straight at me. 'We'll be with you every second.'
'Oh.' Sweat ran down my arms. ‘Glad of that, Tomtom.' I couldn't lose for winning today. On a roll. Grinning scared, I told Chemise and the Dewhurst ladies to go ahead into the dining room where it would be held. I could hear the hum of voices even from the hallway, gusts of laughter. 'Just nip to the loo.'
My hands were almost a giveaway, shaking. Tomtom remained by the end of the corridor. His mate Cav went on by, to stand blocking the light from the fire escape. God, they were hulks.
Tinker. Listen. Can you drive a pantechnicon?' I had to mop my face with the towel, splashed a bit on my brow.
'Drive anyfink, Lovejoy.' He frowned. 'Why? Which?'
'Soon as I start the auction, Tinker, that end van. Drive it away. I've no keys or anything.' My frigging teeth chattered.
'Right.' He thought a bit. The mirror looked back at me with that sneer mirrors get when you're ridiculous. 'Where to?'
'Have I to think of everything, for Christ's sake?' I almost raised my hand to clout the drunken old soak, my anger shuddering to a halt just in time. 'Anywhere,' I said, tired out. 'Vanish the damned thing.'
'We in trouble, Lovejoy?' he gravelled out, watching me.
I looked into my horrible eyes. 'Not you, Tinker. Me.'
'Not on your own, son,' he said with a cackle. He made a fist. 'I'll marmalize the lot.'
'Ta, Tinker. Look after yourself.' I left, putting on fake jubilation. I didn't want compassion getting in my way at this stage.
The dining room was thronged. I should have been pleased, but wasn't. I waved cheerily, all those familiar faces. Many dealers were from outside East Anglia.
A sadness was on me, as I stepped to the dais. All these people. Maybe it was the occasion. The building was packed with phoney fame, re-created in forgeries by human skill. And I'd done it. Not by my own hands, but I couldn't escape blame. If it hadn't been for me there would be no auction, no forgeries. And every single item in the whole place would appear within days on the antiques stalls as 'genuine, original'. Don't misunderstand. I've done my share, God knows, hundreds. I stood there, gavel in my hand, wondering for a sour second what fakes do for an ancient genuis's reputation.
The trouble is that fame isn't. In the Middle Ages, the teeming mediaeval centres of learning were thr
onged with the savants -Rome, Bologna, Liege, Paris, Oxford. Even among these glitterati, one bloke's name was on everybody's lips, the toast of mediaeval Paris. His learning, brilliance, his carousing worse than any Macheath, this riotous English scholiast from humble Wilton was admired, copied, praised and envied from the Danube to the Atlantic. The world worshipped. And (fanfare) here comes his name: Serlon. Your mind goes, Who? Fame, like I say, isn't. Looking around at the sea of expectant avarice, I wondered sadly if we deliberately exterminate the reputations of the great. Is it that's what greed does to anyone honourable?
‘Lovejoy!' somebody said. 'Don't stand there like a prat.'
'Sorry. Just checking.'
Holly was at the corridor door, arguing with a whiffler. She was one problem I could do without. I passed my index finger along my chin, the sign of rejection. Whifflers bundled her out. Not a head turned. I saw the whifflers stand sentry by the closed doors, registered the Dewhurst sisters at the wall phones, gavelled once.
'Lads and lasses. Please be aware that the management cannot claim that all these items are authentic antiques. Okay?' There was laughter, cynicism rampant.
'We've got to be out of here in lightning time. Let's go. Item one.'
Tinker was by the door that led into the kitchens, waiting on my signal. The hatchways were bolted.
'Tinker, check those corridor doors, okay?' And coursed on as he tottered out to comply. 'Item one: a mosaic said to be Roman, Balkerne Hill site, two yards square. Quick . . . T
The mosaic I recognized, one of three exhibits fetched by Sampan, a grave robber from Harwich. It was genuine, unlike his other two. He does them well. And it had begun.
Before I knew it I was into the low twenties, thirties, then the sixties, really motoring.
‘Item seventy-two,' I was rattling on, when I saw somebody slip in at the back, smiling apologetically. Now, you don't slip into a roup auction. But Mr. Geake was sure of himself. I saw Zem, one of the whifflers on loan from Podge Tater's place in Kings Lynn, look doubtfully at his mate but let him through. Well, so? He'd saved my life. This painting, manner of Seurat I'd say, start me off, a thousand . . . ?'
And crossed my feet. Instantly, not even a decent pause, Priscilla's hand shot up. She spoke into the phone.
The painting got knocked down to her for a fortune. She was pale but game, rising to join the queue at Chemise's table where the successful bidders were signing chits, flashing wads, arguing the toss but getting on with it, the old cinema writer's joke engraved on their minds: it's not the price, it's the money.
Lot 100 came and went, then 150. At 190 I knocked old Mrs. Boyson's writings of Thangliena down to a phoney bidder called Squire Malpassant, carefully avoiding the use of double-barrelled names that posh London houses go for when fraudulently knocking lots down to phoney bidders 'off the wall'.
Tinker was gone. I surged on, selling everything in the exhibition. Some things astonish you. I've seen seventy-year-old antique dealers rendered speechless by coming across some trick that they've never seen. You never stop learning. I mean, who'd have thought that a handful of poor quality sketches of old boxers, badly aged by simple dilute tea - a child's trick - would go for the price of a new semidetached house? I’d thought twice before admitting them. I myself had scrawled their illegible dates in pencil, in the interests of authenticity, because Manda, though beautiful, hasn't the brains of a rocking horse.
We were into Lot 434 before I noticed the room go quiet. I realized that Mr. Geake was bidding. Then I saw. Every time a slumped figure in the ninth row started to bid, Mr. Geake bid instead, cutting him out.
The slumped figure was Father Jay.
Now, there's nothing sets antennae quivering at an auction like rivalry. And this appeared a definite 'frog', as dealers say. Mr. Geake was definitely 'pulling a frog', and Father Jay, wearing a dowdy tweed trilby, was missing out. I don't know what made me do it, but I thought swiftly, decided to up the lot by taking imaginary bids off the chandelier, as the saying goes.
And the bids raised, raised, lifted off, soared.
I checked to see what the hell 434 was. A few so-say diaries, fake birth certificates, old photos. I'd only agreed to let this particular lot in because it showed how badly forgers can fake. Every auction had these family reminiscences. This was a real hotchpotch. Fakers usually form up job lots, and slip in a taster, a near-authentic bit of scribble, letter or some certificate, that might hoodwink the unwary. The taster is usually a faked up Christmas card from a queen, a printed card supposedly to some lady from King Edward VII, or a note 'evidently or said to be from the hand of some princess having it away with a bodyguard. The Kennedys are another favourite, especially in fake job lots of USA origin. I couldn't for the life of me remember what was in the damned box. Woodwork had knocked the lot together- not too crude a description. I'd find him after and see.
Everybody knew it was dross. I get fed up. To save Mr. Geake a fortune, I knocked Lot 434 to Father Jay, called out, 'Sold to that gent in the hat,' and cruised on.
The auction was going a bomb. I forgot the stupid 434, and gavelled, joked with ribaldry, rushed on, yelling, pretending anger, getting them all laughing.
The room thinned after the first hour. Cars began starting up outside as one by one the dealers left, having stumped up on the sanads and collected their items. The whole building was shaking as the whifflers helped the dealers load. The stairs thumped. People swore outside. Humpers cursed the loads aboard, rushed back for the next. Sanads were even bought and sold before the items were out of the door. It's usual.
The doors were ajar now, as the dealers left. The trouble is, the ones who've finished always think everything's over and leave bragging loudly. I had to keep calling for quiet.
One piece was a laugh. Old Doothie makes me chuckle sometimes. He'd faked a series of Intelligence Quotient studies from that old codger – Dr. Cyril Burt, was it? - who faked the racial purity studies on IQ. Doothie'd forged this so-say research from University College, signed by the defunct doctor, on improvements in IQ caused by people listening to Mozart's sonatas. This 'sonata effect' was only proved in the autumn of 1993, and at a blow negated all the IQ studies done everywhere before that date. Doothie's a sly old devil. I got a decent price for it, not a giggle among the dealers even when I pointed the joke out.
The hard core was still there, though, waiting for the one true antique, the nicked Stubbs. As I hurtled on through the 500s and 600s, and reached the 760s, I found my eyes drawn to them. They weren't sitting as one group, like I wanted. I could see French Saunders from Hartlepool, looking a neat youth, but actually a killer aged forty plus. Barnet, not from Barnet but because he has a wig
(Barnet Fair, hair), was reading: he reads until he decides to bid, then he ahems, looks up, nods, and it's back to poetics. He's got two art galleries in Ponder End. And, bad news, Ammster from Amsterdam, Indonesian knifer with, they say, poison-tipped blowpipe arrows secreted about his person for swift use and swifter escape.
And Corinth and Montgomery Mainwaring. Bidders for a sum with noughts all round the pelmets? Looking confident, Corinth causing all the males to breathe harder. Costigan from Spain's Costa del Crime, bank robber and, now, TV magnate on the proceeds. With his lass, Ack Emma, supposed to carry a gun in foreign parts, so to speak, willing to do Costigan's bidding (sorry) any time. And Patch Halliwell, he of the corporate spying triumphs in Russia. Survival seemed a problem.
The Misses Dewhurst caught my eye. I saw Miss Priscilla's benign gaze on me before she glanced away. I raced through a series of new bids. I'd told Chemise to leave the rubbish to the last, was pleased the dealers drifted quicker. Penultimate was a set of dornick vestments, superbly done by two strange embroideresses in Galashiels, worth a mint. I got very little for them, considering the work involved.
The last item was a set of old golf clubs, feather balls included. Everybody's faking them nowadays. You can hardly give them away. I sold them to Harry Bateman, who gave a yel
p of glee and paid Chemise after getting her to stamp his sanad.
Until only the main group, the money core, was left. Tired, I signalled to the two remaining whifflers to close the doors and push off. I gave Tomtom and his oppo the nod.
'Now, ladies and gentlemen,' I announced, voice shaky, 'you all know why we're here. We expect a large sum. There is a high reserve price. This work of art is world famous. Bring it in, Tomtom. Back the pantechnicon up to the side door. See the corridor's closed off, eh?'
They went. Chemise and the Misses Dewhurst were totting up, comparing notes, who'd bought what. My heart was where it had been for hours, in my mouth. There was the sound of feet pounding up to the door. Cav burst in, aghast.
'It's gone, Lovejoy!'
'Eh?' I rose, at least as aghast as Cav. Tinker, thank God, had nicked the pantechnicon. 'It can't have!' I yelled.
'The fucking pantechnicon's gone, Lovejoy! It's been halfed!' Half-inched, pinched in Cockney slang.
'With all these people around?' I thundered, well, bleated.
Tomtom appeared, talking with quiet malevolence into a mobile phone. My knees actually quivered. He was on to Big John Sheehan. The world was for it, especially the bit with me in it.
At times like these I have to consider my future. A friend would defend his mate, deny all knowledge of the theft, postulate thieving strangers. But I knew I'd be for it, because I always am. But I had to stand by Tinker, even if it meant sacrificing myself. I gagged. Sacrifice me? Had I gone mad? My voice opted for survival.
'It can only have been Tinker,’ I bawled in rage. 'The bastard. He said he'd check the van .
The room emptied of Tomtom and Cav, following by the money bloc. Mayhem they knew well, but when it was about to be sprayed around by BJS, who dealt out punishment in a wanton manner irrespective of blame, they didn't want to know. Corinth gave me a backward look, speculative and suspicious.
They melted, leaving me with Chemise and the Dewhursts.
'Pals,' I said, voice shaking. Time you got going. Take the money, the chits, lists, the lot. I'll see you . . .' I passed a hand in front of my eyes '. . . at the Welcome Sailor.'
The Grace in Older Women Page 28