The Rich And The Profane (17 page)

‘We talkin’ failure here?’ Barnie erupted in an insane screech. He fell over backwards, the chair going with a crash, couldn’t get up. A dying fly.

‘Oke. Take the poke. See yous aroun’,’ I intoned, drifting. I sounded ridiculous.

‘We talkin’ cock-ups here, Sam fucking Costell?’ Barnie shrieked from his moribund position at his scratchy bird.

She raced after me, caught me up at the door. Barnie’s shrill tantrum echoed in the rafters.

‘Look, er ... ?’

‘I’m Miles,’ I said. ‘Jonno’s oppo, but don’t frig about, willco?’ It was as near as I could get. I’d heard them say willco on telly police procedurals.

‘Here’s the list, Miles.’ She’d have been really attractive if she stopped smoking, got proper clothes, had a bath, did her hair, cleaned her teeth. Or not. ‘I’m sorry about the cock-up, truly. Look.’ She whispered it, looking scared. ‘Is Jonno back? Please tell him it was all a terrible mistake, OK?’

‘Ten frigging more minutes, that’s all.’ I stuffed her list in my pocket.

‘Take my card, Miles. Please. Anything I can do for you or Jonno—’

‘Sure, sure,’ I said, like in American films.

At least I had a list of performers. The drill hall’s notice outside read,
auditions/cabaret/music hall/equity.
I left it untouched. 1 can be really forgiving.

Then I went to see a man about a painting, and got Irma.

Paula’s antique shop’s just round the comer from the Hippodrome. They have a bar there, though it’s no longer a great old-fashioned music hall. Symie Doakes drinks there, three hours in the day, six at night. He never moves, but sometimes is exactly the one you want. I perched on the next stool.

‘Wotcher, Symie.’

‘Hello, Lovejoy.’ He stares at himself in their ornate mirrors. I’d look at the barmaid if I were him. He wears a pork pie hat, a tweed overcoat and wellingtons, summer and winter. ‘What?’

‘How much, Symie? I’m broke, mind.’

‘What’s new?’ he said, sarcasm. He puts on this Jewish act, hands up, plaintive at penury and all that, but I don’t know. ‘Aren’t we all?’

‘What paintings have been sold lately? Modern, lookalike Expressionists or Neo-Thingies?’

‘Ov vey,’ he said, but it came out somehow wrong. ‘From round here? Only one. It went for a king’s ransom, through a London broker.’

‘From where?’

‘Gelt first, Lovejoy. My old saida used to say, God bless her, always get the dinars first, ma booy.’

See what I mean? Saida’s their word for a relative, I think, and they don’t use dinars. Like a bad act. The purpose escapes me.

‘I’ve got money, Symie.’ I feinted at my pocket. ‘Who sold what?’

‘A modern, they say, Lovejoy. Horrible. Squirts of colour. O’Conor, they’re saying, though I didn’t see it myself. Thank God it wasn’t Russian. I should praise a Cossack painter yet?’ He chuckled, inspected his empty glass. Gladys the barmaid shook her head, smiling, then looked harder, then nodded, pulled Symie a refill. I thanked her kindness. Maybe she’d seen something in my eyes I didn’t want to have there.

‘Woman or man, Symie?’

‘Holy man’s sister, bad cess to him. Frigging Jesuits. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ I went for gold. ‘Symie. I need names. Prior Metivier owes me a mint. Was it him?’

‘His sister Marie sold it to Benbrooks and Dellors.’ Maybe he’d seen something in my gaze too because his jokes ended, and his act with it. ‘He’s escaped Gellbridge the bookie’s honchos. She paid in full. They let him go.’

‘Go where?’ As if I couldn’t guess.

‘Guernsey, folk say, but who knows? His sort’s a bad penny, leave a trail of punters’ papers across the kingdom. A brother like him, I’d let him sink.’

‘Look,’ I said, in a hurry now I’d got it. ‘I’ll ring you the next couple or three days. Suss out any more antiques from the priory for me. I’ll see you gain, Symie.’

‘Right. You’ll phone here?’

‘Sure. Have my drink, Symie, and ta.’

‘Here, Lovejoy,’ he exclaimed. ‘You owe me for that. Twenty.’

‘Haven’t got it, Symie. Ta and oy, er, whatever you said.’ Gladys called so-long. I waved, and left him grumbling. Paula wasn’t in, so I told her shop minder - it’s her unpaid mother - to clear off, brewed up and found a vegan pie in her fridge. You have to make do.

Using Paula’s phone, I rang Desdemona. No news of Gesso. I said he’d turn up. Then I called Benbrooks and Dellors of London. Some plum-voiced article condescendingly answered. I asked what time I could call tomorrow for the painting, expressionist or something, that I’d paid a deposit on. I made myself sound a twit, not difficult. They became flustered. I became angry.

‘Now look here,’ I yelled. ‘This is Colonel Haffton Morley, Grenadiers. I have the receipt signed by Miss Marie Metivier, and I want my picture!’

‘Colonel, Miss Metivier’s painting has already been sold on.’

‘Sold on?’ I thundered. I began to enjoy myself. Being apoplectic’s quite invigorating. ‘Describe the painting! If you’ve sold mine, my lawyers ...’ et cetera.

The man described. It really did sound like my O’Conor. He had the nerve to say that it had been badly overpainted with a badly faked Paul Klee, which really got my goat. I rang off spluttering, turned to see Paula standing there, massively miniskirted.

‘What on earth, Lovejoy?’

‘Paula. Didn’t you used to go out with a stonemason?’

‘From birth, Lovejoy.’ She checked that I’d not nicked anything. Such trust. ‘He’s my elder brother, Horace.’

‘Ah. I knew.’ I put my wheedle on. ‘Would he do me a job?’

‘Look about, Lovejoy, while you’re here. Earn your keep.’

Sighing, I started towards the only piece of furniture in the place that looked anything like. I was actually glad to help, because I badly needed to nick some small antique to sell. I urgently needed the fare to the bonny isle of Guernsey.

We made our way among her antiques in the cramped shop, me helpfully moving chairs, display cabinets and trinkets out of her way.

A genuine sideboard, the piece had been heavily punished in its time. There’s more daftness told about inspecting drawers than anything, but I showed Paula the motions. We took out a drawer. Drawers were - should still be - made short of the full run, otherwise they bang on the inside back panel. That last bit of the supporting bar -the ‘runner’ - and the dividing panel have to be darkened (by grime, air) for the thickness of your thumb nail, while the adjacent area stays pale. Also, the last bit of the runner’s length should stand proud, because it never becomes worn, the drawer not sliding that far in.

‘Always look at the dovetails, love. Machine dovetailing was really motoring by 1890. It tends to be even - the “female” and “male” wedges are all of a size. Look at the drawer from the side. See? These are narrower against the drawer’s facing. So it’s before that date.’

‘Is that it?’ Paula looked amazed.

‘Not all, but it’ll do. This piece is old.’ I felt the old piece’s heart warm.

‘But it’s got turned legs, Lovejoy.’

‘So? Treasure it, love. It saw Trafalgar out. And it’s not been ...’ I hesitated, sickened by the word ‘... improved.’ ‘Cheek, Lovejoy.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘I’ll sell it to a Continental buyer!’

My spirits sank. That meant she’d have it glammed up by some faker like Glosser Ackroyd, whose sole job in life is to ‘restore’ antique furniture so it looks glamorously new. It’s all the fashion in Germany, France, Switzerland and elsewhere. Glosser laughs about my distress. He calls Europe ‘Pure rope’, thinks it’s a hilarious pun.

‘Don’t, love. It’s been made by a craftsman.’

‘Who?’ she breathed, wanting me to say Hepplewhite. ‘Dunno, love. Keep it, to lend lustre to your junk.’ Money, as profit, excites. She asked, ‘Lovejoy, is my mother still in?’

‘No, I sent her packing.’

‘While you did that pongo on the phone?’ Pongo is a fraudulent chat intended to deceive and elicit information, antiques or both. ‘Silly cow, that Marie, paying off her brother’s debts.’

‘Did you see the painting?’

‘O’Conor, I heard. Ten ton of paint daubed on canvas!’ Paula hooted with laughter. ‘Cheaper to buy the farm, don’t you think?’ This was proof beyond doubt. No way I could evade the responsibility now.

‘O’Conor, who was influenced by Van Gogh?’

‘Want to stay, Lovejoy?’ She fluttered her eyes roguishly. ‘I owe you.’

‘Get your brother to carve me a headstone.’ I came to earth. I hadn’t got long. ‘Carve it “Gesso, RIP”. Put the date of a couple of days back. Tell him to stand it above the hot pool at Albansham Priory.’

She drew back to inspect me, sober. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Never more, love.’ I bussed her and left - no mean feat, those two together.

She stood in the doorway looking after me as I crossed the road.

The small silvers I’d nicked as we’d talked were a George V enamelled silver mounted cut-glass scent bottle with its matching box. Five inches. I couldn’t check, but I was sure the river landscape engraving was by the brilliant Daniels of Birmingham. No older than 1934 or so, but collectable and easily sold. Harry Bateman for once had some ready gelt, and I kindly lowered the price for a quick sale. I’m a fool to myself sometimes. I could have got twice the price if I’d hung on.

Then I went to the travel agents in Red Lion Walk. By seven I was on the train to the airport. Hand on my heart, I’d no intention of killing Prior George Metivier for killing Gesso, honest. Vengeance just isn’t my thing, and I mean that most sincerely.

IN airports you
either spot your destination everywhere on those consoles, so it seems unlikely that anyone is going anywhere else, or you can’t find it. I imagined a Biggies goggles-and-helmet job, with some Tiger Moth to cough and blip her way over the English Channel. Not a bit of it. The world and his wife were heading to Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, wherever, and all on my plane. Hopefully I tried to see if anyone wanted Paris, Madrid, Moscow perhaps, but no. Stanstead Airport was thronged by wicked hordes aiming for my seat.

A lady sat near me in the airport lounge, talking about routes. I listened desperately, because I’m scared of flying. I said I was Jonno Rant, impressario. She, Enid, said not to worry, air was the safest.

‘Of course, I could have flown from London City Airport - do you think they’re as good? - though BA Newcastle’s excellent, don’t you find, Mr Rant?’

I drew breath to answer. Some hopes. She rattled on. ‘Do you usually come this way? A lady I bumped into last week - the De Garis family? She has such a clever girl, but troublesome - said flying from Birmingham is simply a must, though I positively
swear
by those Condor multi-hulls from Weymouth—’

You get the idea. Planet Earth’s population was emptying into Guernsey. One airline advertised ten flights a day. Nervously I watched the clock, thinking of us crowds shoaling from the skies to perch on a gaunt rock that surely couldn’t have enough flat bits to land a kite, let alone a zillion squadrons. The flight was called.

On board, everybody except me seemed to know everybody else, except me. The air lady greeted passengers by name. (‘Did Jess get his music examination? Marvellous! Tell Olive that Harry’ll be delighted ...’ all that.) She assured me that the aircraft was wonderfully safe, that it wasn’t all that small, that, yes, there was a life jacket under my seat. The possibility of our crashing into the cold waters of the Channel was remote. She said.

The man next to me was going to do some Roman and pre-Roman archeology on Guernsey. He had cameras, and wanted to talk zoom lenses and f-stops. Enid waved, announced loudly that I was the famous impressario Jonno Rant, bringing in a big Guernsey summer show. I smiled weakly. Two aircrew checked that I’d not fainted when the engines started up. This was a bloody nerve, because the one thing I never am is scared. Six passengers passed me tablets, drinks, pillows, an inhalant, meanwhile loudly recollecting their worst-ever flights, a particularly bad form of psychotherapy. A lady advised me on how to breathe, another said thinking of rhododendrons in sunshine cured flight fright. One thing was sure, Radio Guernsey must be superfluous. Already my fame had soared through the stratosphere.

My first inkling of real problems, however, came after we’d taken off. I was trying to waft air at my damp forehead. The lady on my left, hitherto broodingly silent, suddenly exploded to me, ‘Mr Rant?
Don't
take your show to Jersey, whatever
they
say. You
mustn’t
believe
their
travel brochures. Our mean summer highs are less than two degrees below theirs, so there!’

‘Eh? Oh, good,’ I said weakly.

Which prompted the photographer and a cluster of others to lecture me about how much better Guernsey was than Jersey.

‘Jersey’s
slightly
increased warmth is caused by their north-to-south incline. Guernsey slopes up southwards.’ He drew me a helpful map of the island’s geography. I said ta, pretended to fall asleep, didn’t make it.

By the time we landed I was worn out. Friendship’s all right, but it’s not the sort of thing you should get too fond of. We disembarked into fresh air. Guernsey’s done what every place in the kingdom’s done, planted its airport a million leagues from its capital.

‘Excuse me,’ a lady said. By then I could hardly focus. ‘The capital isn’t St Peter’s Port. It drops the possessive. St
Peter
Port, please. I hope you don’t mind my drawing your attention...’

By skilled feints I narrowly avoided a lift, and got a taxi. The driver knew of a decent place to stay. I’d thought I’d escaped Guernsey’s instant palliness until he said a merry ‘Have a good stay, Mr Rant’ as he dropped me off. I sighed, hefted up my shoulder bag and knocked. Well, I would have, only the door opened before my knuckles made it.

‘Mr Rant!’ the lady exclaimed. ‘Wasn’t it a nice flight!’

‘Er, aye,’ I said, wondering vaguely what was wrong with that sentence, but she’d got some grub on the go so I surrendered while she told me what I wanted to see during my stay and how eager I’d be to see this and that. Drawing breath, she added, ‘You won’t want to go to Jersey, thank goodness!’ I began to wonder if the two islands were at war. She said she was especially sorry I’d been so airsick, especially ‘as Bill himself was at the controls!’