Read Online The Rich And The Profane by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Gash
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almost as if the pool had reached down and—
‘Aaaagh!’ I screeched, fighting the hand off.
‘Goodness sake, Lovejoy!’
‘Ergh, ergh!’ I was frantic.
Moonlight, yes, but the voice was Florida’s. I was not ten years old.
‘Oh, hello, love.’ Cool, calm Lovejoy.
Shakily I scrabbled for a match, lit a candle stub. Florida was about to climb in beside me.
‘Honestly! I hurry to you, and I’m the monster from the deep!’
‘No images, please.’ I relaxed. ‘Have you brought any grub?’
‘You’re sweating buckets, Lovejoy.’ She got a towel, mopped me briskly. ‘Turn over. Worse than any child. Having a bad dream?’
‘Yes. The hot pool at Albansham Priory.’
‘Hardly the most frightening puddle in the universe, Lovejoy. Yes, to food. And thank you, Florida darling, would be super.’
‘Ta, dwoorlink,’ I said obediently.
Waking up in the early evening, hardly dark yet, gives you a headache. My headaches go for gold, real temple-splitters. Waking up from a nightmare makes things worse, not better. I dangled my legs over the edge of the bed.
‘Did you get it?’
‘Get what? The prize money? Soon, darling. I bet far too much!’ She trilled a laugh. Florida’s gorgeous and rich. She gambles heavily on her horses. I could scent the grub. It was in those tin foil boxes that startle you because they’re hotter than you think.
‘Not your nags. I meant the glass vase.’
‘Oh, that,’ Florida said, airy. ‘I forgot. But guess what, Lovejoy? My lovely boy Sharpies got through to the semifinal of the Bycroft Cup!’
‘You forgot?’ I stared at her. Lovely, but a pest.
The previous Saturday, Florida had shown me some photographs. Like all pictures of horsey gentry, they were of stupefying dullness. Except one. It showed Florida laughing with her friend Tara. They were somewhere indoors, a massive boudoir - lady’s room ‘for sulking in’, according to the original French.
On the dressing table was a piece of Galle. It was indistinct, because Florida and her pal were the centre of focus, but it looked for all the world like an artichoke vase. ‘Standard Galle’ glass, collectors call it, but you can’t mistake the white opaque mutton-fat look of the body, with the marquetry-on-glass coloured covering on parts of the vase’s lovely curved form. Its base looks solid agate. Genius. And Florida forgot?
Emile Galle was a glass-maker’s son in Lorraine, and studied in Weimar (yes, that one) before starting up with his dad in Nancy. Before he died, in 1904, Emile was world famous. I like his art. He experimented with glass night and day. A man after my own heart. He became the glassmaker hero of Art Nouveau, and I do mean everybody’s champ. There’s a rule of thumb among antiques dealers that if a piece is signed by Galle it was made some time after 1889, but that’s not always true.
When I’d first asked Florida about the vase, she’d said, ‘Oh, Tara wants to get rid of all her old stuff, have a real throwout.’
Needless to say, I’d begged her to persuade Tara to chuck the vase my way. Now I get, ‘I forgot.’ Yet she remembers that her stupid nag jumped over some sticks. You’re in a bad way when you call a horse a lovely boy.
‘Can I go and see Tara?’
Florida was undoing the foils. ‘Lovejoy. Tara wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole. She’s not into rough trade yobbos.’
‘Like me?’
She darted me a mischievous smile, battling the luscious aroma.
‘Lovejoy. Eat up like a good boy.’
‘Ta, love.’ I got the plate, and screamed as the scalding thing charred my naked thigh. I almost spilled the damned thing. Florida laughed so much that tears came. Her beautiful form shook and quivered. I eyed her, wolfed the grub. Sometimes your mind doesn’t know what comes first.
We made hectic love. After a rest we imposed further demands, and then slumbered in a sweaty conglomerate. Instead of dozing, for once I found myself thinking. It’s always a
‘Aaaagh!’ I screeched, fighting the hand off.
‘Goodness sake, Lovejoy!’
‘Ergh, ergh!’ I was frantic.
Moonlight, yes, but the voice was Florida’s. I was not ten years old.
‘Oh, hello, love.’ Cool, calm Lovejoy.
Shakily I scrabbled for a match, lit a candle stub. Florida was about to climb in beside me.
‘Honestly! I hurry to you, and I’m the monster from the deep!’
‘No images, please.’ I relaxed. ‘Have you brought any grub?’
‘You’re sweating buckets, Lovejoy.’ She got a towel, mopped me briskly. ‘Turn over. Worse than any child. Having a bad dream?’
‘Yes. The hot pool at Albansham Priory.’
‘Hardly the most frightening puddle in the universe, Lovejoy. Yes, to food. And thank you, Florida darling, would be super.’
‘Ta, dwoorlink,’ I said obediently.
Waking up in the early evening, hardly dark yet, gives you a headache. My headaches go for gold, real temple-splitters. Waking up from a nightmare makes things worse, not better. I dangled my legs over the edge of the bed.
‘Did you get it?’
‘Get what? The prize money? Soon, darling. I bet far too much!’ She trilled a laugh. Florida’s gorgeous and rich. She gambles heavily on her horses. I could scent the grub. It was in those tin foil boxes that startle you because they’re hotter than you think.
‘Not your nags. I meant the glass vase.’
‘Oh, that,’ Florida said, airy. ‘I forgot. But guess what, Lovejoy? My lovely boy Sharpies got through to the semifinal of the Bycroft Cup!’
‘You forgot?’ I stared at her. Lovely, but a pest.
The previous Saturday, Florida had shown me some photographs. Like all pictures of horsey gentry, they were of stupefying dullness. Except one. It showed Florida laughing with her friend Tara. They were somewhere indoors, a massive boudoir - lady’s room ‘for sulking in’, according to the original French.
On the dressing table was a piece of Galle. It was indistinct, because Florida and her pal were the centre of focus, but it looked for all the world like an artichoke vase. ‘Standard Galle’ glass, collectors call it, but you can’t mistake the white opaque mutton-fat look of the body, with the marquetry-on-glass coloured covering on parts of the vase’s lovely curved form. Its base looks solid agate. Genius. And Florida forgot?
Emile Galle was a glass-maker’s son in Lorraine, and studied in Weimar (yes, that one) before starting up with his dad in Nancy. Before he died, in 1904, Emile was world famous. I like his art. He experimented with glass night and day. A man after my own heart. He became the glassmaker hero of Art Nouveau, and I do mean everybody’s champ. There’s a rule of thumb among antiques dealers that if a piece is signed by Galle it was made some time after 1889, but that’s not always true.
When I’d first asked Florida about the vase, she’d said, ‘Oh, Tara wants to get rid of all her old stuff, have a real throwout.’
Needless to say, I’d begged her to persuade Tara to chuck the vase my way. Now I get, ‘I forgot.’ Yet she remembers that her stupid nag jumped over some sticks. You’re in a bad way when you call a horse a lovely boy.
‘Can I go and see Tara?’
Florida was undoing the foils. ‘Lovejoy. Tara wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole. She’s not into rough trade yobbos.’
‘Like me?’
She darted me a mischievous smile, battling the luscious aroma.
‘Lovejoy. Eat up like a good boy.’
‘Ta, love.’ I got the plate, and screamed as the scalding thing charred my naked thigh. I almost spilled the damned thing. Florida laughed so much that tears came. Her beautiful form shook and quivered. I eyed her, wolfed the grub. Sometimes your mind doesn’t know what comes first.
We made hectic love. After a rest we imposed further demands, and then slumbered in a sweaty conglomerate. Instead of dozing, for once I found myself thinking. It’s always a
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