EQMM, February 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Wow!"

  "A lot was exported—made for export, actually—and has ended up in American collections. Hugely expensive."

  "America, eh?” At last I had his interest. “And it's all this glorious mix of colours?"

  I shook my head, pointing to our second-best cabinet. “You see those little cups and saucers, so thin that they're ... they're...” I stopped. “You can almost see through them,” I concluded with a rush.

  "Translucent,” he supplied.

  I nodded. “I'm afraid I missed out on most of my schooling.” Although Griff had worked hard at improving my memory and my vocabulary, there were still great gaps in my knowledge.

  "Any particular reason?"

  Why did he look so alert? I gave a “whatever” shrug.

  "So you're not a great reader?"

  I waved my hands. “I earn my living with these.” But thanks to Griff, I now listened to all sorts of audio books while I worked. “Anyway, those turquoise cups: they're Ruskin, too."

  "And that blue dish? And are they as expensive?"

  "No!” I told him the price, which produced a smile, which might have been relief, though I wasn't sure. “You see, it was much harder to get the sang de boeuf glaze right. So, as I said, if they didn't like something, they destroyed it. Sinful, really—I'd give my hand for something a little faulty!” Actually, my right hand could render something a little faulty almost perfect, I was getting so nifty at restoration, but I didn't need to tell him that.

  "Could I look at that yellow thing?"

  I didn't like the way he'd said “thing.” But perhaps I was being picky. After all, however much I might cherish it, it was to most people no more than an inanimate object. “The ginger jar? Of course.” I keyed in the combination and the door swung open smoothly.

  "Not just a simple lock and key?” he queried.

  I didn't need to answer the question, so I merely smiled as I lifted the lid from the jar, placing it carefully on the green baize counter cover. The jar followed. I kept them separate, my hand lightly on the lid. He swung the pot in the air as if it was no more precious than the jar that held his morning marmalade, but inspected it very closely indeed.

  "This is the maker's mark? Ruskin, England?"

  "That's right."

  "What a guy that Ruskin must have been, his weird marriage apart, of course."

  "But—” I was just about to set him right when the shop door pinged, and in came another customer. Mrs. Allen. She might be overbearing to the point of rude, but she spent freely and never bothered to bargain over prices. So Simon would have to wait another day for the real history of Ruskinware, which was actually made by a concern started and run by the Taylor family up in the Black Country.

  He wanted the ginger jar immediately, dropping a pile of cash on the counter, and waiting with an impatience he hardly bothered to hide while I wrote out the receipt. He gave his name as Simon Langton, which sounded vaguely familiar, though I couldn't place it.

  I felt a real pang as I parted from the jar. Some dealers claim every sale is a simple matter of business, but to me it was saying goodbye to an old friend. I had to like an item enough to buy it, clean it, and, in some cases—but not this particular one—to restore it millimetre by tricky millimetre. Perhaps he sensed something of this. As I let him out of the shop, he took my hand and kissed it, as if he was grateful for a wonderful favour.

  Mrs. Allen was less effusive, but spent a lot more on the exquisite Tunbridgeware work box we'd run to earth for her.

  * * * *

  "I couldn't resist another piece,” Simon declared a week later to an entranced Griff, who was serving in the shop while I prepared lunch: I was watching his cholesterol as closely as his alcohol intake. Griff was a much better cook than I, but we reckoned there was little I could do wrong with a salad. I'd just popped into the shop to summon him, and almost gasped to see Simon again, especially when he showed all those wonderful teeth—he might have starred in an advert for whitening paste—in a smile of recognition. He took my hand and gave another of his extravagant kisses. Over his shoulder, I could see Griff registering my blush and raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  At last Simon pointed to a small Ruskin vase. This was a warm pink soufflé ware, and I'd toiled for a cool twenty-four hours to repair an ugly mend. His eyebrows shot up when Griff told him the price.

  "So little?"

  "It's been restored,” Griff explained. We prided ourselves on our honesty in such matters.

  "But it looks perfect."

  "That's because I have a most wonderful restorer,” Griff explained, drawing me to him in a hug.

  "So she's not just beautiful but talented!"

  I kicked Griff gently—I didn't want him going off into one of his encomiums about me (see—he works very hard on my vocabulary).

  "Tell me, do you ever do private restoration? For a fee?"

  "I've done some occasional work for—” I stopped short. That was my clients’ business, not mine. “But there's plenty for me to do here."

  "And yet you always tell people that the piece isn't perfect?"

  "Of course. See, I had to remodel the hand of that little shepherdess."

  "But if I wanted to buy her—and she's almost as pretty as her restorer—you'd tell me before I bought?"

  "And put it on the receipt.” A couple of clients had tried it on with their insurance companies: I wanted no part of any scam.

  "So if I buy this little pot, you'll write it down?"

  Griff nodded. “And it'll go into our inventory, too. We've based our business, our reputation, on absolute honesty."

  "Suits me,” Simon said, so casually you could tell that for some reason it didn't. He produced a pile of fivers.

  I gave our automatic discount for cash, which he didn't seem even to register, and though he kissed my hand again, he left the shop as if he had a train to catch.

  * * * *

  "Boston,” Griff said emphatically. “That sort of clipped Amer-English."

  "Boston as in Loyd Grossman?” I objected.

  "Well, somewhere in New England,” he insisted. “I wonder what he's doing over here."

  "Living here,” I said. “As English as you or I. In fact, he said he was going back to his family in the Midlands."

  Simon had come into the shop three or four more times. On each occasion he'd bought Ruskin—restored or damaged, never perfect, and always lustreware. He'd avoided soufflé ware, even though I had found a lovely goblet with a hand-painted pattern of vine leaves I was happy to offer him considerable discount on as a regular customer. He'd even asked me out for a drink once, producing bottles of Beck's. I wasn't too keen, but sipped anyway, just to encourage him to—well, say whatever he wanted to say.

  "I met a great fan of yours the other day,” he said.

  "Did you?” I wasn't aware I had any fans except Griff and my disreputable father, but wasn't about to let on.

  "Seamus Byrne.” He pronounced it “See-muss."

  Having endured years of Griff's corrections—always kindly done and in private—I didn't say anything. Seamus was indeed an old mate of Griff's, but on the seamier side of the business, and never far from the breadline.

  "How is he?” I prompted.

  "Very well. Just bought himself a new car."

  "Seamus! A car!” The Beck's went down the wrong way.

  "Used,” he conceded. “Seems there's been a turn-up in his business."

  There'd have to be more than a turn-up for Seamus to afford anything more than a battered push-bike. “How did he manage that?"

  "You know Seamus—this and that.” He'd changed his pronunciation to mine. But he wasn't going to give any more information without my working hard to get it. And why work hard when Griff could get the low-down for free via the jungle drums?

  He brought the subject round to my restoration work, and I told him all about the informal apprenticeship I'd had with some of Griff's mates and the college course I was hoping to get
in to. I knew it was rude to rabbit on, and Griff's policy was never to say more than you had to about anything, so I shut up abruptly and asked him about himself.

  "I write,” he said vaguely. “Freelance. Magazines, that sort of thing."

  "It must be wonderful, seeing your name in print,” I said. “What do you write about?"

  He shrugged. “Anything I can interest an editor in. You never know, I might get asked to write about restoring china."

  So that was why he'd asked me out. To use me. To think I'd given him some complimentary tickets admitting him to the next antiques fair Griff and I had a stall at!

  Not that he did go to Ardingly, as far as I could see. But I spotted him at Detling. He did no more than flap a distant hand, as if embarrassed to come closer. Could he be hoping to sell at a profit items he'd bought from us? No, he wasn't carrying a bag.

  "What is his problem?” I demanded.

  Griff peered, ready to switch on his most come-hither smile. You couldn't see Simon for dust.

  "His behaviour is, I concede, discourteous,” he said at last.

  "To the point of weird,” I insisted.

  Leaving Griff to hold the fort, I tailed him. I didn't think it'd be hard, since I had a good idea where he might be heading, having done the rounds myself before the show opened to punters. Three or four other dealers had had Ruskin on display, the sort of mid-price lustre he bought from us. Some items were damaged, and in colours difficult to like, let alone restore: Who'd want a black vase, for goodness’ sake? Some were so pug-ugly Griff wouldn't have given them shoproom—yes, William Howson Taylor might have been a master potter capable of winning prizes wherever he went but he was also a child of his time, with strange ideas about shapes, like a lot of the Art Deco people.

  To my surprise, Seamus had rented himself an inside stall. On a big agricultural showground like this, there were two options: pay handsomely for a spot in what is effectively a giant barn, or choose the cheaper but colder and wetter option of an outdoor slot. Seamus had always been an outsider before. Now he was in quite a prime position. As usual, he had a good collection of what he insisted was an Irish Art potter, Padraic O'Shaughnessy. We all suspected, given the state of Seamus's hands, that Seamus and Padraic were one and the same. There was also some general tat—sorry, collectibles. Seamus had put on weight, and remembered to shave. Simon was right: He really was looking good. Well, better. Like a pot that's been adequately but not perfectly restored after years of misuse.

  "How's tricks, Seamus?” I asked.

  "Fine. But if you'll excuse me, I have a customer."

  So he did. But only that sort of vague passerby who picks things up and puts them back again, as idly as if they were just scratching an itch.

  I'd completely lost Simon by now, but kept drifting along, eyes always open, until something told me to stop. Yes! A Ruskin ginger jar. Sang de boeuf. Very nice indeed, with the maker's mark clearly stamped underneath. There was something familiar about it, but I was sure I'd never seen it before. I might not be much good with words, you see, but I made up for it, Griff said, like a blind man with acute hearing, by my visual faculties. He didn't just mean I could see better, but that I could remember shapes and textures and colours.

  "Ruskin may not have had a huge production,” Griff said, when I reported back, “but I doubt if even you could know all of it, dear heart. You didn't buy it?"

  I shook my head. “At that price? But it's funny I didn't spot it earlier,” I said.

  "It is indeed—you don't miss much,” he said, patting my cheek.

  * * * *

  The same thing happened at the next fair we went to, Westpoint, in Devon. It's such a tedious journey from Kent we don't often bother, but Griff decided he fancied a break by the sea, especially when the fuel to get there was tax deductible and he could stay free in Dawlish, a village nearby, with an old drinking crony he'd once trodden the boards with and who now dealt in treen. What he didn't bargain for was Caleb having signed up with AA.

  "And now he rabbits on and on about the evils of the demon drink,” Griff moaned pettishly.

  "Get him on to trade gossip,” I suggested.

  "But without the booze to lubricate his tonsils, even that's going to be hard work."

  "Not with Caleb, it won't,” I said bracingly, and toddled off to feed the ducks on the stream running through the middle of the village. What I didn't expect to see was a lovely specimen of flambé ware, right in the middle of the window of the local junk shop.

  The colours were so fresh and clear they might just have emerged from the kiln. It was no good, tomorrow Griff must deal with the stall himself: I would have to be there the moment the shop opened.

  * * * *

  "It can't be your repair,” Griff insisted, back at Westpoint. “Can't be. You'd remember if you'd restored flambé ware."

  "I remember repairing a yellow vase identical to it. That's why I didn't buy it. Go on, take a look at it. You can take the van—you're sober enough to drive and there's a big car park just off the main road. I'll mind the stall.” And keep my eyes open very wide. Not to mention my ears. If there were any news about an influx of mid-to-high-price Ruskin I wanted to hear it. Sometimes a keen amateur collector would need to raise some cash, or one would leave a collection to some relative who didn't know the value and had let some unscrupulous dealer have a job lot. The only rumours I picked up concerned a little glut. Good stuff, mostly just below list price. I should keep my eye open for some, was the general advice.

  "Well, did you buy that piece?” I demanded, as Griff returned, carrying packets of sandwiches and two self-conscious-looking bottles of mineral water.

  He patted my cheek. “I wish I could say you've inherited it from me, by a line direct. But you've got some divvy in you from somewhere. I don't know what's wrong with the Dawlish vase either, dear heart: I know it's a wrong ‘un, that's all. You were right to leave it where it was. And,” he added, producing half a bottle of Champagne from his back pocket, “I was right to buy this.” Then he placed a six-inch high wooden box in my hand. “A tenner. And it's Kate M. Eadie or I'm very much mistaken."

  I scrutinised it, too. “Yes, you're right. However did I miss that?"

  "Because you were too busy looking for something else, my love. My bunion tells me that we'll get nearer five hundred than four for this—and in any case, shampoo isn't really alcoholic, is it?"

  * * * *

  Back at our shop, we watched the spring bulbs flourish in the Kent sunshine and die in a vicious northeasterly wind. And, just as the weather turned mild and wet, who should return to the shop, kissing my hand with what Griff said was aplomb, but Simon. This time he came with a lawyer's document case, one of those big rectangular jobs. He placed it carefully on our counter.

  "I'm in a bit of a spot,” he said, shamefaced. “The thing is, I had a chance of buying quite a bit of Ruskin when I was back home in the Midlands."

  "How wonderful!"

  "But I find myself a little short of cash. I was wondering—could you buy it from me? Or sell it on, at a percentage of the sale?"

  If someone had rung the fire bell in my ear, I couldn't have felt more alarm. “I'm afraid buying is Griff's area,” I stuttered.

  "But he values your judgement? If he likes it, I could leave it here and come back in a couple of days’ time?"

  I swallowed. “That's an offer I can't refuse,” I smiled. “Maybe I could just take a peep?"

  He'd been thorough with his packing, there was no doubt about that. Each piece was small, nothing like our treasure, still in its showcase, but perfect. There was no trace of twitches in my nose or aches in Griff's bunion by the time Simon returned, and we agreed to sell them on for him. We did the same the following week, so successfully that Griff invited him into our cottage.

  "We must celebrate our mutually profitable partnership,” he insisted, opening a full-size bottle of Champagne.

  Simon looked around him open-eyed and open-mouthed. �
��This is an Aladdin's cave!"

  "All damaged or restored or with personal associations,” Griff said quickly. And mostly truthfully. “Family, you know. Do you see much of yours?” When Simon hesitated, Griff continued, “Are they collectors, too?"

  Simon downed the contents of his glass, far too quickly to appreciate the nineteenth-century flute. “Sure. Seems this aunt of mine has got friendly with some of the people working at the Ruskin family firm. Their descendants, I should say. So I'm hoping to get hold of some more specimens."

  Griff said, “Anything with a personal association will edge up prices even further. So much so, if you have anything from the maker's family, I'd strongly advise you not to bring it to us, but go direct to a top auction house."

  But Simon insisted that he'd become hooked on Ruskin the moment he'd looked at the vase in our shop, so it was only right and proper he continue with our deal. The moment he'd locked the door behind him, setting the state-of-the-art alarms, Griff turned to me. “Well?"

  "Why did he say ‘vayce’ instead of ‘varse?’”

  "Because, my love, he is no more a Brummie than you or I. I told you, he's from the U.S. And it's taken half a bottle of Piper Heidseick for me to get evidence. Now, what's his game, I wonder?"

  "Something he doesn't know all that much about, if he thinks that John Ruskin was even alive when the Taylors started their factory,” I said.

  "Now, take that grim expression from your face, sweetest, lest you end up with wrinkles. You may be able to restore priceless china invisibly, but I've never met anyone who's had half as good a job done on her wrinkles and frown lines."

  "So what happens next?"

  "He's softened us up with perfectly good items. My bunion tells me the next consignment will have something wrong with it. If only I knew what.” He sighed, suddenly looking every one of his seventy-three years.

  "It'll be something to do with Seamus Byrne,” I said. “Won't it?"

  "Not that horrid, smelly little man and his loathsome pseudo-Irish trash!"