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Authors: Jonathan Gash
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squeal of rubber.
‘Marion’ll wear one of those maddening brown waistcoats that positively
drain
colours from every possible wall, Lovejoy,’ Sandy predicted. ‘The cow really is too much . . .’
I closed my eyes and leaned back, thinking: this bloody antiques game. I sometimes wish I had a dull, easy job, somewhere peaceful like on an oil rig out in the North Sea.
Marion’s place is past the Castle along South Hill. When she’s absorbed all that Jed can teach her about prints he’ll be shown the door. So far she’s become quite expert in about eight branches of antiques. Hard work.
‘Isn’t it the female tarantula which eats its mate?’ Sandy was saying innocently as we pulled in. ‘Mel, dear,’ he crooned, ‘do we stay out here in the noisy, smelly traffic, or encounter dearest Marion?’ Mel glowered silently. ‘He means no, Lovejoy,’ Sandy continued.
I shrugged and went inside. Marion was pricing two vinaigrettes, one a Willmore silver gilt fob-watch shape and the other an Empire-style gold oval of about 1810. Joseph Willmore loved the fob-watch style. Life in the good old days being sordid, dirty and full of the most obvious of human stenches, people wanted to disguise the terrible pongs of the cities. So you carried a bottle of perfumed vinegar, hence the name. Men carried them as well as women up to about 1840. You get them all shapes, even as ‘vinegar sticks’, where the container is cleverly made into the handle of a sword or walking stick. Women tended to have them as locketsor on chatelaines. The commonest you find nowadays is a box shape.
I told Marion why I was late. We fenced quite casually, drawing blood over every groat the way friends will. The purchaser has of course only a few quid in hand and ten thousand starving children to support. The vendor has paid a fortune and wants at least a groat or two profit. You know the sort of thing. We settled finally, when our heartstrings could vibrate no more.
‘I’ll drop the stuff in tomorrow afternoon, Marion.’
‘Great. Oh, Lovejoy. That creep Leyde was asking around after you this morning. Dealing with him nowadays?’
Bill Leyde. I’d heard the name. Of course. Honkworth’s pal, the sleek sourface who travelled about with Dolly and the blowsy blonde in Honkworth’s car. Leyde, collector of antique gold – ‘geltie’ in our parlance.
‘At Woody’s. Got quite agitated.’ She eyed me evenly. ‘Jed and me got the feeling he was waiting for you.’
And me late into town because of George, the berk.
‘Did he say why?’
‘No. Jed had to shoot off to Gimbert’s.’ Our local auction warehouse near St Jude’s derelict church.
‘Thanks, love,’ I said casually.
She waved to me from the doorway as I stepped into Sandy’s car. I’d been over an hour.
‘Marion, dearie,’ Sandy called in syrupy tones. ‘Don’t stand about in the street. People are
so
quick to misunderstand.’
He drove off with a squeal of tyres into the traffic before she could reply.
‘Did you see that absolutely fearful russet bolero she was
welded
into, the stupid hag?’ Mel hissed malevolently.
‘Couldn’t look past those crocodile shoes, dearie,’ Sandy said blithely. ‘If only she had some friends willing to tell her, poor cow.’
‘I thought she looked nice,’ I offered.
‘Lovejoy,’ Mel said over his shoulder with feeling, ‘you were so
brave
.’
‘Liz Sandwell’s, please, lads,’ I said.
‘That purulent green wallpaper!’ Sandy shrieked.
They both groaned.
I had a lot to think about during the journey. Martha said Dolly had gone with ‘her friends’ when old Henry and I tottered up the garden yesterday, sloshed on his vitriolic rum. Presumably that included Leyde. Now here he was practically champing on his reins wanting to see me.
‘Marion said Leyde was zipping about,’ I said, too casually.
‘A real el butcho,’ Mel said. ‘Consorts with your buddie Honkworth.’ They tittered, knowing we didn’t get
‘Marion’ll wear one of those maddening brown waistcoats that positively
drain
colours from every possible wall, Lovejoy,’ Sandy predicted. ‘The cow really is too much . . .’
I closed my eyes and leaned back, thinking: this bloody antiques game. I sometimes wish I had a dull, easy job, somewhere peaceful like on an oil rig out in the North Sea.
Marion’s place is past the Castle along South Hill. When she’s absorbed all that Jed can teach her about prints he’ll be shown the door. So far she’s become quite expert in about eight branches of antiques. Hard work.
‘Isn’t it the female tarantula which eats its mate?’ Sandy was saying innocently as we pulled in. ‘Mel, dear,’ he crooned, ‘do we stay out here in the noisy, smelly traffic, or encounter dearest Marion?’ Mel glowered silently. ‘He means no, Lovejoy,’ Sandy continued.
I shrugged and went inside. Marion was pricing two vinaigrettes, one a Willmore silver gilt fob-watch shape and the other an Empire-style gold oval of about 1810. Joseph Willmore loved the fob-watch style. Life in the good old days being sordid, dirty and full of the most obvious of human stenches, people wanted to disguise the terrible pongs of the cities. So you carried a bottle of perfumed vinegar, hence the name. Men carried them as well as women up to about 1840. You get them all shapes, even as ‘vinegar sticks’, where the container is cleverly made into the handle of a sword or walking stick. Women tended to have them as locketsor on chatelaines. The commonest you find nowadays is a box shape.
I told Marion why I was late. We fenced quite casually, drawing blood over every groat the way friends will. The purchaser has of course only a few quid in hand and ten thousand starving children to support. The vendor has paid a fortune and wants at least a groat or two profit. You know the sort of thing. We settled finally, when our heartstrings could vibrate no more.
‘I’ll drop the stuff in tomorrow afternoon, Marion.’
‘Great. Oh, Lovejoy. That creep Leyde was asking around after you this morning. Dealing with him nowadays?’
Bill Leyde. I’d heard the name. Of course. Honkworth’s pal, the sleek sourface who travelled about with Dolly and the blowsy blonde in Honkworth’s car. Leyde, collector of antique gold – ‘geltie’ in our parlance.
‘At Woody’s. Got quite agitated.’ She eyed me evenly. ‘Jed and me got the feeling he was waiting for you.’
And me late into town because of George, the berk.
‘Did he say why?’
‘No. Jed had to shoot off to Gimbert’s.’ Our local auction warehouse near St Jude’s derelict church.
‘Thanks, love,’ I said casually.
She waved to me from the doorway as I stepped into Sandy’s car. I’d been over an hour.
‘Marion, dearie,’ Sandy called in syrupy tones. ‘Don’t stand about in the street. People are
so
quick to misunderstand.’
He drove off with a squeal of tyres into the traffic before she could reply.
‘Did you see that absolutely fearful russet bolero she was
welded
into, the stupid hag?’ Mel hissed malevolently.
‘Couldn’t look past those crocodile shoes, dearie,’ Sandy said blithely. ‘If only she had some friends willing to tell her, poor cow.’
‘I thought she looked nice,’ I offered.
‘Lovejoy,’ Mel said over his shoulder with feeling, ‘you were so
brave
.’
‘Liz Sandwell’s, please, lads,’ I said.
‘That purulent green wallpaper!’ Sandy shrieked.
They both groaned.
I had a lot to think about during the journey. Martha said Dolly had gone with ‘her friends’ when old Henry and I tottered up the garden yesterday, sloshed on his vitriolic rum. Presumably that included Leyde. Now here he was practically champing on his reins wanting to see me.
‘Marion said Leyde was zipping about,’ I said, too casually.
‘A real el butcho,’ Mel said. ‘Consorts with your buddie Honkworth.’ They tittered, knowing we didn’t get
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