The Tartan Ringers

by Jonathan Gash

  I walked back to the fairground whistling.

  Chapter 7

  I’M ONE OF those whose mind is ablaze in the dawn. It fires again going on for midnight. In between, though, my intellect becomes a rubbishy zero. During the daytime I just walk among mankind for the sake of appearances. It is very necessary, because in our dark East Anglian villages they start sharpening up long oaken stakes if a neighbour seems too nocturnally inclined. This afternoon, however, I was a ball of fire.

  Betty ran me an errand, three dozen large sheets of yellow paper and a box of crayons. Between customers I made strikingly inept posters. There were six arguments with folk convinced their coins had rolled to victory; I gave in and paid up, to the derision of the entire fairground. By five o’clock I’d done thirty posters. Francie took over with Betty while I literally ran about the town stapling my posters to telegraph poles and bus shelters. I got so carried away I even paid a baker’s shop my last quid to put one in their window. It read:

  AT THE FAIRGROUND NOW!!!

  CHRISTYS AND SOTHEBIES

  JOINT OFFICIAL GENUINE

  ANTIQUE ROADSHOW!!!

  Expert Free Appraisal of Household Objects,

  Paintings, Pottery, Furniture, Jewellery,

  Other Items!

  All Valuations Free

  As Seen On TV.

  Then underneath, in the neatest painting I could manage:

  This Genuine Antique Roadshow is Guaranteed

  By The Trade Descriptions Act

  By Parliamentary Law.

  By six-thirty I was breathlessly noshing Francie’s fry-up in her caravan with Dan and Betty. They were curious and asking me what I was up to, which made me maddeningly evasive. Francie got quite irritated.

  The posters were quite legal, in that fraudulent way law permits. Near-skating, I’d carefully misspelled the names of the two great London auction houses. The correct name of the BBC’s so-called spontaneous antiques sweep uses the plural: ‘Antiques’. Copyright. Make it singular, and it becomes legal. The Trade Descriptions Act simply covers trade, and I’d do the valuations free. At least my own particular roadshow really would be spontaneous, not a put-up job like all the rest. It was basically the old saying about the mountain and Muhammad. I’d have to move on with the fair, so I wouldn’t have time to scout the area for junk. Now, the countryside would bring their junk to me.

  And they did.

  * * *

  Funny, but that first night I was really nervous. Francie pressed my trousers and jacket, and gave me one of Dan’s least gaudy shirts. A maroon silken scrap poking from my top pocket as an artistic touch. My hair got semi-straightened and painfully I scraped my nails with a borrowed emery. I was neat, an all-time first. Francie bought me some new modern sponge impregnated with shoe-polishing wax to do my shoes. I was delighted, because Cherry Blossom thought that ancient idea up long before the modern fairground was born. Nice to see old friends.

  Dan found me a corner in the peas-and-spuds tent, and Big Chas and Ern erected a section of green canvas. To the sound of roaring generators and in the fug of black peas I set up my borrowed rickety trestle and switched on Francie’s anglepoise lamp. Dan’s best cufflinks gleaming at my wrists, my frayed jacket cuffs inturned and my scrubbed face frowning with sincere honesty, I was ready for the world.

  Dross, when it comes in a deluge, isn’t really dross. It’s really something else, like snow. Look at snow one way and it’s a nuisance, blocking roads and flooding your socks. Look at it another, and it’s brilliant crystals spun into magical mini webs up there in the heavens. If nobody’s looking I always try to catch a snowflake on my tongue, outer space’s Holy Communion . . . Where was I?

  In this tent, waiting. A whole hour.

  Another hour. Eight o’clock.

  And a half. I was tormented by the aroma of black peas but determined not to spoil my grand image of the London expert.

  Nine-oh-five, and in she came, an old lady with the inevitable brooch. I drew breath. One thing I’ve learned in this mad game is that sinning with a smile somehow detoxifies the transgression enough to make people want to join in.

  ‘Come in, love,’ I said, with a smile. She was the first of the horde that came between then and the midnight closing.

  For a start, they brought jars of buttons and boxes of foreign coins. Every house has a jam jar full. God knows why. They fetched christening clothes and mysteriously ornate lenses. They wheeled in complex wooden garden structures. They carried in rusting machinery too heavy to stand on my table. They brought tiny pieces of jewellery, rings, bits of pendants that made my heart weep for the loneliness of it, opera glasses, stair-rod fittings, scent bottles, glass inkwells, old umbrellas . . . Dross is snowflakes. I was in paradise. Until, that is, Francie took a hand. Women have very decided views on paradise, thinking it bad for morale. In days when I was a terrified believer, women saints never seemed up to much. They didn’t deliver the goods.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Francie announced suddenly, appearing brightly. ‘Our resident antiques expert will be having his break now, for twenty minutes only. Until resumption, please avail yourself of the fairground’s refreshments at reasonable prices . . .’ The queue groaned.

  ‘Wait, Francie,’ I began, but she gripped my arm and said with that steel, ‘This way, sir.’ I was hauled out. ‘My caravan,’ she whispered as we left the tent for the light-starred fairground night.

  ‘Look, Francie,’ I said, peeved. ‘Can’t you wait? And hadn’t you better check Dan’s not around?’

  She tutted angrily. ‘Not that, Lovejoy.’

  Abducted by a desirable bird, yet not for rape? Could this be?

  There was quite a delegation in the caravan. Dan, Big Chas but for once not singing hymns, Sidoli, Calamity Sadie the black-rooted blonde from the Wild West Show, Big Jon the Eastern Slave Spectacular’s eunuch with the bad teeth, and silent sexy lone Joan the Devil Rider who crewed the Ghost Train. And Sidoli’s two unshaven henchmen.

  I entered, smiling and pleased they’d gone to all this trouble to express their thanks for my efforts. Dan rose, jabbed furiously at me with a finger like a rail.

  ‘What the frigging hell do you think you’re frigging playing at, Lovejoy?’

  My grin felt like biscuit ware. This was no congratulation party. I’d been summoned before the Supreme Soviet.

  ‘Lovejoy the crowdpuller,’ I said, narked.

  That made him worse. ‘Explain, Francie.’

  ‘Priced and advised on twenty-eight items,’ Francie said.

  ‘Grass,’ I accused, quite pleasant.

  ‘Sod the list, Dan,’ Sidoli said. He had one of those stiletto-and-alcove accents: Sowed dee leest Dane.

  ‘There was some very collectible stuff,’ I defended, narked. ‘One bird brought a near-undetectable Sisley copy. And a millefiori glass bowl, 1870. It’ll fetch—’

  ‘Fetch!’ Dan barked. He was having a hard time not clouting me. He was still in his spangled waistcoat from his death ride, all hair and brawn. ‘Fetch? Who for, Lovejoy?’

  ‘For . . .’ Ah. They were worried about the money. ‘For the punters,’ I admitted.

  ‘Any ideas on making it pay us?’ Big Chas asked, and sang a phrase, ‘Each other’s wants may we supply . . .’

  ‘Shut that row, Chas,’ from Sidoli, obviously first pecker.

  I said, ‘Is that what’s bothering you?’

  Sidoli’s face darkened. ‘Don’t bait me, Lovejoy.’

  Dan came between us, placating but clearly worried. I realized that to the fairground I was his and Francie’s responsibility.

  Francie spoke up. ‘Sid. Lovejoy’s quite serious. He doesn’t think much to money. It’s old things. Antiques.’

  They all stared at me as though I’d just dropped from Saturn. Joan’s eyes penetrated my anxiety. I’d never seen such grey eyes. Steady, still. Ethereal almost.

  ‘Not care for money?’ Sidoli said. ‘He crazy? He’s making it on the side.’ Own
eee say-ert, in his exotic syllables.

  ‘Let Lovejoy talk. Please,’ Francie pleaded.

  ‘I feel on trial, Francie. What’s the charge?’

  Francie said, ‘If some of the things you valued were so desirable, Lovejoy, say why you didn’t buy them.’

  There was silence. Then I said, ashamed, ‘Because I’m broke, love.’

  I’d gone red. Dan looked at Francie, who glared a typical female told-you-so. Sidoli drew breath for more threats, said nothing. Glances exchanged. Despairingly I decided to help.

  ‘There was a silver Tuareg ring I could have got for a couple of quid,’ I said. It’s hard to suppress enthusiasm. I found myself rattling on, smiling at the memory. ‘An original Waterman fountain pen, the very first sort – the bloke would have let us have it for a go on the rifles. A pair of silver-and-glass cosmetic powder cylinders, late Victorian. They come in pairs, one for powdering each glove, see? And . . .’

  Sidoli raised a hand. ‘Shtope, Luffyoy.’ Lovejoy stopped.

  In the painful silence that ensued we were all thinking, some of us thoughts quite different from the rest. Everybody shuffled, eyes avoiding mine. Except for that level pair belonging to Joan.

  ‘How many items could you’ve made something on, Lovejoy?’ Dan said eventually. The assembled company leaned forward.

  ‘Sooner or later? Ten. Three if you mean at the next reasonable-sized town.’ I spend my life being ashamed of myself. It’s another of my unpaid full-time jobs.

  Sidoli gave a low moan. Calamity Sadie uttered one grievous sob. The rest exhaled despair and gin fumes.

  Francie spoke to the row of sombre faces. I swear three of them were in surgical shock. She said quietly, ‘I told you he was honest, even if he is stupid. You wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Here,’ I began indignantly, but Sidoli’s hand lifted to shtope me.

  Big Chas had cheered up. ‘So we must hymns of welcome sing, In strains of holy joy.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s right?’ I asked Chas. ‘Isn’t it: And we . . . ?’

  Big Chas frowned. ‘You sure, Lovejoy? It’s the Instantis adventum Deum, isn’t it, where—’

  ‘Ask Ern,’ I said helpfully. ‘It’s Hymns Ancient and Modern.’

  ‘He’s off his frigging head,’ Sidoli screamed. ‘Right! That does it! Francie, you pick a helper to put up the money and rig a punter system.’

  Francie examined the faces. ‘Big Chas,’ she decided.

  ‘No,’ Sidoli ruled. ‘Enough hymns in this fairground.’ Eeen eess foyergron.

  ‘I will,’ Joan said quietly. Her first words all that session. Maybe all year.

  ‘Right,’ Sidoli said brokenly. He had his face in his hands. ‘Now get him out.’ Dan jerked his head. I left.

  Within half an hour the new system was operating perfectly. By that is meant that the poor public were being robbed blind. Situation normal.

  In case you ever take your Sheraton cabinet to one, here are the hallmarks of the Great Antique Roadshow Con Trick:

  You are put into a queue and given a number (‘to make sure of your place . . .’). The ‘expert’ values your great-grandad’s Crimean War medals, and off you go. Maybe he’ll even scribble the valuation on your number. As you leave, you’ll be approached by somebody apparently from the public – in the queue, just arriving, just leaving – who will say that his uncle/brother/auntie/grandad just happens to collect medals. And he’ll offer you about a quarter of the valuation marked on your number. ‘Good heavens,’ you cry, recoiling. ‘Certainly not! They’re worth four times that!’ With great reluctance, the chap ups his offer, and finally in considerable distress offers you the sum named by the expert. You’d be a fool to refuse, right? Because the great London expert’s just valued them, right? So you sell your grandad’s medals and go on your way rejoicing, with the gelt.

  And the passer-by takes the medals, grinning all over his crooked face. Why the grin? Because he’s the so-called expert’s partner. The ‘expert’ of course grossly undervalued your medals. To make it worth their while, the average mark-down (i.e. underestimate) must be what crooks call ‘thirties’. That is, they’ll never pay more than 30 per cent of the current auctionable value, not for anything. Anything higher than that is going dangerously close to a fair market price, you see.

  Francie used Betty, in a little coloured stumper’s booth, to give out the numbered tickets. She herself scraped the punters, as the saying is, with two youngsters hastily borrowed from the electric generators. Joan, as she’d promised, put up the money, silently fetching the bundle of notes from her caravan in a grocery basket. She gave me her transfixing stare from those opal-grey eyes, and returned to her Devil Riding. I said thank-you, nodded to Betty on her perch and we were off.

  Some things ruin pride. I told myself this crookery was all in a good cause, the preservation of Lovejoy Antiques, Inc. That and safely heading north to meet Shona McGunn. But I didn’t feel pleased with myself and my progress any more. Like I said not long since, everybody lusts. I only wish we knew what for.

  Chapter 8

  I’M NOT THE only fraud in and around antiques. Look at names, for instance.

  ‘Dresden china’ is really a descriptive term. The truth is there never was a porcelain factory at Dresden. The famed Royal Saxony porcelain factory started in 1709 was a distance away, at Meissen. The patron was King Augustus the Strong, whose domain took in Poland and Saxony, which is why the so-called ‘Dresden’ mark is actually his AR Augustus Rex monogram. There’s a further truth, too: they weren’t up to much at the beginning, mostly copying styles and adopting colours from the more sophisticated Chinese. This is why the early stuff looks eastern – robes on the figures, stiff-looking mandarins and clumsy attendants. Artistically they’re dud, not a patch on the later stuff. But it goes big among collectors and dealers because it’s rare. The modern dementia for rarity’s a pathetic revelation of how little we know. I mean, this pen’s rare because I made it myself from hawthorn, not another like it in the world, but it’s still not worth a bent groat. Cynics say ‘Dresden china firstly copied Chinese, secondly Venetian, and after that anybody,’ but it’s harsh criticism because once Joachim Kändler arrived about 1730 they really took off. His figures are lively original objects you never tire of: pretty ladies in farthingales and yellow-lined cloaks, hussars, dancers.

  The night we left Penrith I sat mesmerized long after the fairground closed and the folk had all gone. I’d bought a broken porcelain figure of a Harlequin. He was seated on a white stump in his chequered costume and grinning mask. Black cap in one hand, the other to hold what had once been a jug, now broken off and lost. A junk bloke had lugged in a great wooden box of assorted porcelains and slammed it on the table.

  ‘Fifty quid the lot, mister,’ he said. ‘Good and bad.’

  ‘For a flyer, yes.’

  Without looking, I’d humped the box to the floor, got Francie to pay him. My chest was clamouring like Easter Sunday. Something pure and thrillingly antique lurked down among the clag. It was the Harlequin, when I looked. Harlequins are the most vigorous of Kändler’s porcelains, these and dancing ladies and waistcoated gentlemen. They were often in pairs, but one swallow does make a summer.

  ‘The show’s pulling up, Lovejoy.’ Carol and Mike ran the peas-and-mash booth, a noisy homely couple with their six spherical children. Carol had an idea it might advertise her grub if the antiques expert was seen dining off her elegant edibles. ‘There’s a bowl and a brew-up for you.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Ta.’

  As the crews fell on the fairground and began dismantling it, I had the pasty and peas while evaluating the haul. A piteously worn slender wedding ring with the thick broad gold band that Victorians called the Keeper Ring, to be worn distal to the wedding ring and prevent its loss. There was an old love letter some young woman had told me was her granny’s, and that she needed money for her baby . . . Her boyfriend, a flashy nerk with gold teeth and a giant motorbike, had waited outside. I
’d paid up without a second thought.

  ‘Lovejoy.’ Francie was there, with Joan. And Sidoli, and his two stalwart lads off the electric generators. They still hadn’t shaved. ‘Sid wants to know what the take is.’

  ‘Take?’ I said blankly. ‘You mean gelt? Nowt.’

  ‘No money?’ Sidoli’s lads seethed, leaned in.

  ‘Let him tell you, Sid,’ Francie said. ‘I’ve seen Lovejoy work before.’

  ‘What you pay for this?’ Sidoli pointed to the letter.

  I shrugged. ‘Fiver. Can’t remember.’

  Sidoli paled. ‘Can’t even remember?’

  ‘He’s been had,’ the slinkiest lad said. He held a length of metal rod. ‘It was a bird, crying poverty. She was dressed to the nines. With a bike bloke in leather. Stank of booze, both of them. She told Lovejoy the tale. He paid her, not a word. They went off laughing.’

  ‘You’re a trusting sod, Mr Sidoli.’ I’m not keen on sarcasm, but it has its uses. This time it stopped him signalling his two nephews to annihilate me. ‘No need to read the letter. Just glance. It’s in two alphabets. Called “messenger writing” – a letter within a letter. Sort of secret code. The young couple who brought it had made the story up, granny’s love letter and all that. Messenger writing of that style was popular during the Great Civil War – sieges, politics, family conflicts, elopements, heaven-knows-what. The subject will determine the price. But 1642, or I’m not me.’

  ‘How much about?’ Sidoli asked.

  ‘Twenty quid, maybe more.’

  ‘The percentage’ll reduce the loss, Sid,’ Francie encouraged.

  ‘Sooner or later,’ Sidoli moaned. ‘That’s what this idiot said. His very words.’ His voice rose to a scream. ‘The loss is tonight! It rains two days people stay home and don’t come to the fair! And he’s got a box of old pots.’

  ‘Francie told me about your loss rate,’ I said, rising and stretching. ‘You can forget it this pitch.’ That stilled the galaxy. ‘One of those “old pots” will cover you this stop.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Sidoli gasped. ‘Is true?’ Eeass threw?