Authors: Jonathan Gash
I had to skirt the scene of the pageant to reach the main Buresford road, so I stopped to see if Betty was still about. The field was emptying now. Bunting was being rolled. A few stray coloured papers were blowing across the grass in the early evening breeze. Some village children called ‘Hello, Lovejoy,’ chasing rubbish into plastic bags. I waved. All the trestle tables were gone. Most of the stalls were dismantled. Some blokes from our victorious tug-o’-war team were getting the marquee down, Betty’s husband with them. No sign of her. I’ve heard women take it out on their husbands
when they’re mad. I wonder if it’s true. He’d soon find out.
No sign of Mrs Cookson either, so there was nothing for it. Throttle down to get the right feeble spluttering sound, and kerzoom. Off. I’d worked it out by the time I reached the road. Open country, seven miles. Say an hour, with a following wind.
T
HE HOUSE WAS
enormous, snootishly set back from the River Stour just in case any riverborne peasants disturbed the affluent class by nocturnal carousings. Some democratically minded leveller had parked a derelict old barge right against the private river walk. Even warped it to the balustrade with short ropes, I saw with amusement. A great mooring hawser was twined clumsily round an otherwise graceful weeping willow. A drive curved among yews and beech. There was a stylish ornamental pond and a fountain. Thank heaven, she’d avoided plastic gnomes. The mansion itself was beautiful. Even the door furniture looked original. As I puttered up the gravel I examined the house. Definitely Queen Anne, though some maniac had mucked about with the gables. You always get some nutter wanting to gild the gingerbread. The Ruby made it up the slight slope, though it was touch and go.
‘Lovejoy!’ She was on the doorstep, smiling. ‘How good of you to come so soon.’
‘I’ll just point this downhill.’ I coaxed one last effort from the half-pint engine and turned the car round the fountain. It wheezed thankfully into silence.
‘So you got my message.’ She hesitated. ‘Hadn’t you
better cover your motor up? It looks like rain.’
‘I want air to get to it.’ I don’t like admitting it’s not got all its bits.
The hallway had its original panels, promising elegance and style right through the house. To realize how grim modern architecture is you have to visit a dwelling like this. Once you’re plonked down in a Sheraton chair gazing out through hand-leaded windows set in a balanced oak-panelled room you become aware what grotty hutches builders chuck up nowadays. Even the walls had feelings in this house. Beautiful.
She went ahead and we were welcomed by the drawing room. I’d have given my teeth for an engraved lead-glass cordial glass, its luscious baluster stem done in the form of a solid acorn. It stood, throbbing life, in a corner cabinet among some Silesian-stemmed glasses and managed to convey the appearance of having been there since it was made in 1700. The cabinet and its contents were three times as valuable as my cottage, with my tatty furniture chucked in. I dragged my eyes away and paid attention.
‘Do sit down.’
‘Er . . .’ There was only the Sheraton. It was like being told to sit on a kneeling bishop. I sank my bum reverently on to it, trying hard to contract my muscles and minimize the weight.
‘You were very definite about the sword,’ she began.
I hoped she wasn’t the sulky kind. Some of the honest old public – a right swarm of barracudas – become very funny when their dreams are shattered.
‘You obviously think it’s a forgery.’
‘A good one,’ I said, anxious to please. ‘Very good, in fact.’
‘But still a forgery?’ she said with careful insistence.
‘Er, well.’ There was no way out. ‘Yes. A good guess.’
‘I think not,’ she said. We sat in silence digesting this.
She sat opposite, definitely in possession. Bright, too. A really resilient character who’d seen a few unheavals in her time. I began to wonder where all her wealth had come from. We were both being quite pleasant but wary with it.
‘The point is, Lovejoy,’ she resumed, ‘the sword has deceived the most expert authorities in its time.’
‘That means you know the faker.’ I tried to turn it into a question at the last minute and didn’t manage it.
‘Yes.’ More pause, with me wondering how to ask straight out. ‘Your friend,’ she continued. ‘He told me you’re one of those special people who just . . . know.’
Friend? She must mean Tinker Dill. Good old blabbermouth. ‘He means well,’ I said lamely.
‘A . . . a divvie?’ The word was unused to her.
Silence.
‘Are you one, Lovejoy?’ She seemed fascinated, full of interest. ‘If there’s a fee for revealing this . . .’
I drew in that lovely luscious aroma of money.
‘All right. I’ll tell you. No.’ I stopped her reaching for her handbag. ‘I only charge for work done.’ I swallowed, nervous as a cat. ‘Yes, I’m a divvie.’
She examined me as one does a specimen, head tilted, eyes everywhere. I felt uncomfortable. My shirt cuffs are always a bit frayed. If I’d known I was visiting posh I’d have hurried back to the cottage and pressed my one good pair of trousers.
‘I’d heard there were such people but never expected to meet one. What actually happens?’
‘I don’t know. Honest.’ I’m always nervous talking
about myself. ‘Saying you’ve a gift sounds like bragging, because it’s so special. A divvie just . . . well, knows.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t understand it myself.’ I struggled to explain. ‘Think of a woman who just knows when the colours in a redecorated room are exactly right. That’s a sort of gift, too.’
‘It’s also common sense, Lovejoy.’ A reprimand.
‘No, it isn’t,’ I countered. ‘It’s a gift. Some have a gift for handling dogs, for designing clothes. Or take to the piano like – like Franz Liszt. Some have it for finding water with a bit of twisted stick –’
‘Water-diviner!’ she exclaimed. ‘Divvie. I see.’
‘Everybody’s a divvie,’ I added. ‘Nobody’s left absolutely without some special gift. For
knowing
the feel of a true diamond. For knowing straight away which horse will run fastest, which boat will balance right. There are divvies everywhere, for everything. For knowing next year’s weather. Which bushes will grow. What musical notes will hold the imagination of millions. Even for knowing what’ll happen.’ I didn’t mean to become so enthusiastic, but it’s true. Nobody’s left out. You as well, dear reader. You might be the world’s greatest living divvie for antique Sumerian gold. Find out quickly what your special gift is, for heaven’s sake, or you’re being thrown to waste.
‘And you’re an
antiques
divvie.’
‘Yes.’ I wondered how to explain. ‘It’s like a bell. In my chest.’
She pointed to a picture, a small watercolour. It hung over a Pembroke table. ‘Try that sketch.’
I crossed to look. A few dashes of the brush for a wash, a demented scar of Prussian blue, three fast smudges in Vandyke brown. All on a torn page. That
was all. But it screamed of Dedham’s church on a blustery autumnal evening, with the sea wind gusting up the Stour for all it was worth. Bells clamoured and rang. Beautiful, beautiful.
I could hardly manage the words. ‘Original. Constable?’
‘Good.’ She’d followed me to watch. ‘We have the provenance.’
Nowadays, with so many forgers about, provenance is vital. Innocent buyers should demand written proof of a painting’s progress, right from the artist’s lilywhites into your very own. That means evidence of the original sale, bills of purchase, auction dates and invoices. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you’re going to become a regular collector you should make a secret list of the painters of whom forgers are especially fond. Just for a bonus I’ll start you off with the first three: the brilliant David Cox, the elusive Samuel Palmer, the magic John Constable. Good luck.
‘Even,’ Mrs Cookson was saying, ‘even the frame’s original. Constable framed it himself.’
‘Balls,’ I said. ‘Er, I mean, impossible.’ I closed my eyes, touching the frame. No bell. No life. Phoney. I borrowed a tissue and rubbed gently. The frame gave up a light russet stain. ‘Look, love. It’ll stain a wet tissue for years yet. Modern crap.’
‘But . . . it can’t be.’
‘Somebody’s knocked it up recently.’ You have to be patient. Women can be very possessive, worse than any bloke. I showed her the bright glistening creases, always a dead giveaway. ‘Easily done. Fresh beechwood. Varnish. Then sandpaper a spare piece of beechwood over the dried stain and rub it in with your finger. It’ll age a hundred years in about ten minutes.’
‘How dare you!’ She rounded on me furiously.
I was halfway to the door in a flash. ‘I’ll not stay for tea, love.’ You get too many of these scenes in the antiques trade to waste time. Another end to a beautiful friendship. The trouble is that people love their illusions.
‘He’s right, Martha.’
I almost barged into the speaker. A thin wisp of a man blocked my way. Well, hardly blocked. A featherweight sixtyish. He looked as if he’d actually been born that tiny shape, slightly balding, in his waistcoat. And he hadn’t grown much. If I hadn’t spotted him in time I’d have stepped on him and driven him in like a tent peg.
‘Henry!’ Martha Cookson twisted anguished hands. ‘Not you again!’
Again?
‘I’m afraid so.’ He wore his cleric’s dog collar like a slipped halo.
‘Er, excuse me please, Reverend.’ I edged past. It was beginning to look like somebody’s big scene. Rather private, but undoubtedly big.
‘Don’t go, Lovejoy.’ I dithered uneasily. ‘I apologize for having disbelieved you,’ she added to me, wrenching the words out before lashing back at her frail old pal. ‘But
why
, Henry?’
He shuffled like a caught child. ‘Those wretched Council rates, Martha.’ He tried to appeal to me but I wasn’t having any. Definitely neutral, I began examining the Pembroke table’s hinges. ‘So tiresome,’ he cried. ‘Always more taxes, more charges.’
‘You promised to ask me, Henry,’ she said sternly, ‘before making any more things.’ My ears pricked. I’d found the forger, the cunning old devil. ‘You
promised
.’
Hey-ho. The good old sexual stand-off. Woman
versus man again. They said their lines a few more times while I moved gently to one side. Pembroke tables are among the most copied items of furniture on earth. Both of the natty little folding flaps must have three hinges. Each flap lifts up and rests on fly runners or rails. This luscious Pembroke was serpentined, double fly rails both sides. Glancing at Henry and Martha to check they were still at it, I stood on tiptoe and peered downwards. The inner aspects of the slender legs tapered elegantly, so maybe 1790. Definitely eighteenth-century, anyhow.
I came to, smiling. Henry and Martha were watching me. Silence.
‘Oh, er . . .’ I cleared my throat and looked innocent. ‘You rang?’ Not a flicker of a smile from either. ‘Er, just looking.’
‘Henry. May I introduce Lovejoy.’ We bowed. That’s what a lovely old house like this does for you, puts back your manners a couple of hundred years. ‘Lovejoy, may I introduce the Reverend Henry Swan.’ We bowed again. No wonder people do nothing but slouch and yawn and scratch nowadays. There’s no point in bothering with things like manners if everything all around you’s plastic junk, is there? I even pulled out one of my cards and presented it with a flourish.
‘Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.,’ he read through lowered steel-rimmed specs. ‘Sotheby’s Authorized Expert, London.’
Christ! I’d given him the wrong card. A quick improvisation was called for. ‘Ah,’ I said casually, ‘I’m no longer with – er – Sotheby’s. Not right now.’ You can have too much elegance. It’d made me forget which pocket held my legitimate cards.
‘Were you ever, Lovejoy?’ Martha Cookson was smiling now.
‘Well, not really.’ I shrugged at her but women get me really narked, always guessing more than is good for them. No wonder they get under your skin.
‘Ahem.’ Swan’s eyes twinkled. ‘A . . . freelance,’ he brought out proudly.
‘Yes,’ I replied. And broke, but I didn’t say that.
‘Is this the young man of whom you have spoken, Martha?’
Of whom you have spoken, I thought. Dear God. I’d even have to get my tenses right. It was becoming one of those days.
‘Yes, Henry.’
‘Then why did he need to inspect the Pembroke?’ he asked. A shrewd old nut.
‘To find out
what
it was,’ I explained. ‘My bell only tells me
if
.’
They glanced at each other, signalling with looks. I watched with sudden interest. You can always tell when people are more than just good friends.
‘Very well, Lovejoy.’ Martha Cookson came to a decision. Henry nodded agreement as she spoke. ‘We wish to commission you, Lovejoy, if that’s the right expression.’
I sweated with relief. If things improved this quickly I’d be eating again soon.
‘Fine by me.’
We all waited, some more patiently than others.
‘Oh!’ Henry Swan came to, a dusty little beam lighting his countenance. ‘Oh. Quite, Lovejoy. We . . .
dig
, don’t we, Martha?’
‘Dig, dear?’ She was lost.
‘Yes,’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘You know, Martha.
To understand, comprehend, appreciate.’ He gave a crumpled grin, unexpectedly toothy. ‘We may live in deepest East Anglia, Lovejoy, but we do move with the times. The retainer, dear. Deposit.’
‘Oh, the fee.’ She did the handbag bit. I felt the blessed ecstasy of notes in my digits. After listening to Henry’s dated slang, I deserved every penny.
Suddenly, though, there was something wrong. They glanced at each other shiftily. We were waiting too long.
‘Good, good,’ Reverend Henry said, clearing his throat. ‘Ahem.’ He actually pronounced it A . . .
hem.
‘Good heavens! Is that the time?’
‘Are you free for lunch tomorrow?’ Martha Cookson asked affably.
‘I’ll be here.’ Another nasty wait. ‘Look,’ I said at last. ‘Sooner or later you’ll have to tell me what you’ve commissioned me
for
.’ I was beginning to lose patience. ‘Or do I have to guess?’
‘Goodness me,’ old Henry said. ‘How careless of us, Martha.’