Read Online Gold by Gemini by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Gash
Ads: Link
chest. ‘All this? Duff?’
‘Duff,’ I nodded. ‘Have you any grub?’
‘Margaret fetched these over for you. She’ll call back.’ He held out a brown paper bag towards me, two whist pies and an Eccles cake.
I sat and ate, recovering, while I explained the three pieces to him. He listened quite mystified.
‘Candle snuffer, Worcester.’ I nodded at the smallest item, a tiny bust of a hooded Victorian woman. ‘It’s1864, give or take a year.’ I hate them. Collectors don’t.
‘Pity it’s not earlier.’ He peered blearily in my direction. Good old Dandy. Always wrong, not even just usually.
There was a shaving mug shaped like a white monkey, grotesque with an exquisite glaze. I honestly don’t know what the Victorians were thinking about, some of the things they made. The bowl was the precious item, though Dandy Jack could see nothing special about it. Like I say, some people can hear fish squeak. Others wouldn’t hear a train in a tunnel. He said it looked like Spode, when it was clear Daniel, early 1830s. I tried not to stare at the lovely thing, but the elevated tooled bird motifs in gold, with curves jesting on feet of bright blossoms, dragged my eyes. Blues screamed at pinks, greens and shimmering maroons in a cascade of colour. It sounds garish, but it really is class, and incredibly
under
priced at today’s prices, though that only means for a second or two. Dandy was more than a little narked that the rest was mostly junk.
‘Bexon’s sketch, Dandy,’ I reminded him. Scanning stuff really takes it out of me, why I don’t know. After all, it’s only sitting and looking.
‘Here.’
I took the drawing from Dandy’s grimy hands. Bong went my chest. Simple, stylish, very real, a tiny pencil caricature with some colour. It was her again. The artist had pencilled her name in, Lady Isabella. She was the same snooty lass, doubtless made to look starchier than in real life, riding in a high absurd one-wheeled carriage with idiotically long shafts and no horse. The wheel splashed water as it rolled through the streets. It was probably one of those crazy skits they got veryworked up about before steam radio and television blunted pens and sense.
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes. Straight up, Lovejoy. What Is It?’
‘Looks like a caricature. Genuine Burne-Jones.’
‘Genuine?’ A long pause, during which Greed crept ominously in. ‘I’ll give you the rubbish for nothing, Lovejoy,’ . Dandy said. Oh-ho, I thought. Here we go.
‘You said –’
He crouched into his whining position. ‘Look, Lovejoy –’
‘Bastard.’ I should have known he’d let me down, though Dandy Jack’s no worse than the rest of us.
‘No, honestly, Lovejoy. I didn’t mean I’d give you the drawing as well.’
‘Sure, sure,’ I said bitterly. I was unable to resist one final glance at the Burne-Jones. He was a Victorian painter, a bit of a lad who did a few dozen caricatures to amuse Maria Zambaco, a gorgeous Greek bird he shacked up with for three years before 1870. Maybe Maria put him up to sketching one of her bosom friends.
Dandy offered me a drink but I staggered out into the oxygen layer, as broke as when I’d arrived. That’s typical of some days in this trade.
There was a blue Lagonda occupying two-thirds of the High Street.
‘At last, Loyejoy.’
‘Oh. Hello.’ I really was pleased to see her. It’s the way it gets.
‘Well?’ She nodded at Dandy Jack’s window. ‘Did you get the picture?’
‘Er, no,’ I said lamely. ‘He, er, he wanted to hang on to it –’
‘You mean he won’t give if to you?’ she fired back.She stepped out angrily. ‘You look drained. Have you scanned for him?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Right. Wait here.’ I caught hold of her.
‘No, love. I’m not up to a battle today –’
‘You’re a
fool
, Lovejoy,’ she stormed. ‘No wonder you’re penniless. You let everybody take advantage –’
I turned away, meaning to walk off because people were
‘Duff,’ I nodded. ‘Have you any grub?’
‘Margaret fetched these over for you. She’ll call back.’ He held out a brown paper bag towards me, two whist pies and an Eccles cake.
I sat and ate, recovering, while I explained the three pieces to him. He listened quite mystified.
‘Candle snuffer, Worcester.’ I nodded at the smallest item, a tiny bust of a hooded Victorian woman. ‘It’s1864, give or take a year.’ I hate them. Collectors don’t.
‘Pity it’s not earlier.’ He peered blearily in my direction. Good old Dandy. Always wrong, not even just usually.
There was a shaving mug shaped like a white monkey, grotesque with an exquisite glaze. I honestly don’t know what the Victorians were thinking about, some of the things they made. The bowl was the precious item, though Dandy Jack could see nothing special about it. Like I say, some people can hear fish squeak. Others wouldn’t hear a train in a tunnel. He said it looked like Spode, when it was clear Daniel, early 1830s. I tried not to stare at the lovely thing, but the elevated tooled bird motifs in gold, with curves jesting on feet of bright blossoms, dragged my eyes. Blues screamed at pinks, greens and shimmering maroons in a cascade of colour. It sounds garish, but it really is class, and incredibly
under
priced at today’s prices, though that only means for a second or two. Dandy was more than a little narked that the rest was mostly junk.
‘Bexon’s sketch, Dandy,’ I reminded him. Scanning stuff really takes it out of me, why I don’t know. After all, it’s only sitting and looking.
‘Here.’
I took the drawing from Dandy’s grimy hands. Bong went my chest. Simple, stylish, very real, a tiny pencil caricature with some colour. It was her again. The artist had pencilled her name in, Lady Isabella. She was the same snooty lass, doubtless made to look starchier than in real life, riding in a high absurd one-wheeled carriage with idiotically long shafts and no horse. The wheel splashed water as it rolled through the streets. It was probably one of those crazy skits they got veryworked up about before steam radio and television blunted pens and sense.
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes. Straight up, Lovejoy. What Is It?’
‘Looks like a caricature. Genuine Burne-Jones.’
‘Genuine?’ A long pause, during which Greed crept ominously in. ‘I’ll give you the rubbish for nothing, Lovejoy,’ . Dandy said. Oh-ho, I thought. Here we go.
‘You said –’
He crouched into his whining position. ‘Look, Lovejoy –’
‘Bastard.’ I should have known he’d let me down, though Dandy Jack’s no worse than the rest of us.
‘No, honestly, Lovejoy. I didn’t mean I’d give you the drawing as well.’
‘Sure, sure,’ I said bitterly. I was unable to resist one final glance at the Burne-Jones. He was a Victorian painter, a bit of a lad who did a few dozen caricatures to amuse Maria Zambaco, a gorgeous Greek bird he shacked up with for three years before 1870. Maybe Maria put him up to sketching one of her bosom friends.
Dandy offered me a drink but I staggered out into the oxygen layer, as broke as when I’d arrived. That’s typical of some days in this trade.
There was a blue Lagonda occupying two-thirds of the High Street.
‘At last, Loyejoy.’
‘Oh. Hello.’ I really was pleased to see her. It’s the way it gets.
‘Well?’ She nodded at Dandy Jack’s window. ‘Did you get the picture?’
‘Er, no,’ I said lamely. ‘He, er, he wanted to hang on to it –’
‘You mean he won’t give if to you?’ she fired back.She stepped out angrily. ‘You look drained. Have you scanned for him?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Right. Wait here.’ I caught hold of her.
‘No, love. I’m not up to a battle today –’
‘You’re a
fool
, Lovejoy,’ she stormed. ‘No wonder you’re penniless. You let everybody take advantage –’
I turned away, meaning to walk off because people were
Similar Books
