Firefly Gadroon Page 4

  Most folk shun the Tile and the Queen’s Head but the White Hart’s always heaving like noodle soup by seven-thirty. It’s here that local antique dealers congregate for nocturnal boasting about deals they haven’t actually made, in order to make sure everybody else is misinformed about deals they actually did pull off. Naturally our eternal wail is one of having sold the Crown Jewels too cheaply, of missing a cheap John Constable by a split second. The game is never to question the tales too deeply. They’re all false. You’d only embarrass everybody by making some antique dealer admit that he couldn’t have just snapped up Holman Hunt’s Light of the World from a bloke in the flea-market. Just go along nodding and tut-tutting with sympathy. You can even make up a few tales of your own. The sober truth is that deep down in all the smoke and crap of the taproom every single dealer has had his hands on at least a few precious glowing beautiful antiques in the past few hours. Except me, that is, I thought, standing dripping in the doorway. And even I have a Bible box.

  After the silence of the dark hedgerows outside the cacophony from the crowd dinned my ears. I’m always blinded for a minute while the light and the smoke tear at my eyes. Then my lungs adjust to the taproom smog and I push in, aiming for the bar.

  ‘Hello, Lovejoy,’ came from all sides.

  ‘Watch your women, lads,’ from some wit. ‘It’s our favourite auctioneer.’

  ‘Make much profit, Lovejoy?’ That was Joe Lampton, antique musical instruments and books.

  I grinned. ‘I charged Cuthbertson commission, Joe.’ I got a few approving laughs.

  Tinker was among the boozy crowd. I slid into the space his noxious vapours kept clear. Lemuel was over by the fireplace unerringly selecting cripples from tomorrow’s Newmarket line-ups. Joe Lampton followed, pulling a first edition of Anne Cobbett’s housekeeping handbook from his pocket. My chest clanged from lust, but I kept a calm face.

  ‘This any good, Lovejoy?’

  While Ted the barman got round to me I felt the book gently. In her day Anne Cobbett was as famous as Mrs Beeton. Be careful, though, because good modern photo-lithographic productions exist of many old books including The English Housekeeper – the paper and binding give them away. Any genuine old item, though, will scream its genuine character as soon as you get in reach. Joe’s book was genuine all right. I told him so and valued it for him, loving the touch of the pages and the thick spine.

  ‘Thanks, Lovejoy.’

  I carefully wiped my hands down my trousers a few times as he merged happily with the mob. As I’d opened the book a fine chalky powder had fallen out. Doubtless some diligent housemaid had wished to protect an important household asset against bookworm by powdering the flyleaves with mortared white lead in a muslin bag. It’s poisonous to Homo sapiens as well as to bookworms. Don’t forget this when bookshop browsing.

  Tinker was complaining. ‘Here, Lovejoy. You could have charged Joe for pricing that bloody book. You always do it bleedin’ free.’ He was only worried where the next pint was coming from.

  I shrugged and paid my pasty money over for a pint for him. I got the half. Mercifully Lemuel was still absorbed with the horses.

  ‘Shut it,’ I said. ‘Run round.’ Dealers’ slang: summarize the main antique business of anyone knocking about. He slurped a gill and wiped his mouth on his oily sleeve before beginning. Sometimes I wish he wasn’t so horrible. People are always on at me at the state he’s in, as if it’s my fault.

  Helen wasn’t in yet, I observed, but through the mirrors I could see Olive and Bill Tatum deep in an alcove, probably plotting their new stall in the town arcade. That’s the glass-roofed monstrosity which ruins the High Street. Bill hasn’t much go in him, but Olive’s fierce determination to out-Sotheby the rest of us spurs him on to a greater glory than his handbarrow of disintegrating trinkets in the Castle Yard.

  ‘Olive and Bill mortgaged again,’ Tinker croaked in a whisper seeing my glance. ‘They bought that Staffordshire collection Jill got from Colchester.’

  I nodded to show I’d heard him and swallowed my sudden hard anger. We were leaning on the bar, apparently chatting affably. In reality we were reckoning the chances of leaching anything we could out. That was important news about the Tatums. They’d now be desperate to sell rather than buy for the next month or two. Jill on the other hand would be a keen buyer – always assuming she could spare a few minutes from her latest young seaman. I could see her snappy poodle in the grip of a bewildered youth at the other end of the bar while Jill saw to her lipstick. She has one sailor after the other. Never the same twice. Tinker says they get danger money for just putting in to East Anglia.

  I prompted Tinker, spotting a familiar cropped head against the far wall. ‘Jason?’

  ‘You saw him buy, Lovejoy.’

  Jason, once a regular army officer, now goes straight as an antique dealer in silver and furniture. A surprising success in the arcade. He’d successfully bid high for a satinwood commode today, to the annoyance of the Birmingham crowd.

  ‘And Tom Haslam’s started ferrying.’ Tinker’s beer had gone. He gazed forlornly into the glass while I tried not to notice.

  ‘A lot?’ Tom’s one of the wealthier dealers so this was important too.

  ‘Almost every stick. And running it.’

  Roughly translated, Tinker was reporting that Tom had decided to start exporting antiques wholesale to Continental buyers, and illegally at that. It’s really smuggling in reverse. Hereabouts it’s simple enough. We have too many small inlets for the coastguards’ peace of mind. Ferrying gives a profit that’s fast but ‘flat’, as we say – you tend to get as much profit this month as the next. If you think about it, this implies you’re being underpaid for the better-quality antiques. Curiously, dealers who ferry are regarded with a mild sympathy by the rest of us. They should worry.

  I asked about Patrick, now busy shrieking at Deirdre – his latest widow I told you about – for doing his pink gin wrong. Tinker eyed the battle with distaste.

  ‘But, darling . . .’ Deirdre was expostulating. She inherited a fruit farm down on the estuary and is bent on reforming Patrick with the proceeds, which is a laugh. A sad one.

  ‘And your hat!’ Patrick screeched viciously. I honestly don’t know why she puts up with him.

  Tinker snorted. ‘He bought three finger jades today—’

  ‘Japanese or Chinese?’

  ‘Dunno, Lovejoy. Does it matter?’

  Today’s accent certainly was eastern. I thought a bit as the far door swung open and Maud Endacott stepped inside. I decided it did matter. ‘Yes. Find out who he sells to.’

  Lemuel saw us just then and weaved foggily towards the bar. To my relief Maud Endacott advanced, through a shoal of ribald remarks. Oddly enough Big Frank from Suffolk was with her. Big Frank says he has wives like other folk have flu, time after time and every virus different. He paused to chat with Olive and Bill. Maud came on like the Light Brigade.

  ‘Lovejoy.’ She stood facing me, trouble all over. Tinker began to edge away. So did Lemuel, and so did I. I’d lost both rounds so far. There seemed no point in a third.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ I said. ‘Just going.’

  ‘Three pints, please,’ she said over my shoulder. Tinker and Lemuel reappeared like magic, trapping me against the bar but avoiding my eye. Loyalty, I thought bitterly. She got a complicated vodka thing for herself and paid up with a flash of notes that momentarily quietened the pub into reverence. I hadn’t known sociologists got a percentage.

  ‘And again, please,’ she told Ted. He was hovering handily, ogling. Tinker and Lemuel cackled and slurped frantically, ready for another.

  I made sure I spoke softly. ‘What’s the game, Maud?’

  ‘Want a job, Lovejoy?’ She gazed at me over the rim of her glass. ‘Antiques.’

  ‘For . . . ?’

  ‘For me.’ She squeezed my arm but I’ve had tea-ladies before. A tea-lady’s our slang for a bird who teases a knowledgeable bloke on until she’s learned
all he knows in his own particular field – say, Georgian manuscripts. Then she’ll ditch him and take up somebody else and repeat the process. Lucrative, but definitely one-way.

  I shook my head. ‘No, love.’ Tinker nudged me desperately. I gave him the bent eye, implying that barkers do as they’re told or get a thick ear. He ducked back into his beer.

  She smiled sweetly. ‘I understand there’s a fee, Lovejoy.’ And the world shivered to a quivering halt right there in the pub’s unbreathable air. Money’s nothing in itself, not really. But it’s the golden ladder you climb to reach antiques. My resolution faded. Maybe I could eat again, something except fried tomatoes.

  ‘Er, well . . .’

  ‘See you outside in a minute.’

  ‘Er . . .’ But she’d already crossed over to Big Frank. They seemed very, very friendly.

  ‘For Christ’s sake charge her, Lovejoy,’ Tinker croaked urgently in my ear. ‘Sod that little box.’

  ‘Lemuel,’ I asked. ‘That Shibayama set?’

  ‘Oh.’ He got into his whining crouch. ‘Sorry, Lovejoy. Never reached Dedham. Lost the bus fare. My pocket. Must be a hole . . .’

  Typical. I told the two of them to be in the arcade tomorrow noon. Helen would be narked that I’d missed her, but Tinker was right. I’d have to get a groat from somewhere or I’d starve. But why me? Big Frank’s as good a dealer as they come, which admittedly is really pretty mediocre. Maybe he’d failed her in some way, I thought unpleasantly.

  Anyway, wisely or not I pushed my way to the pub door and out in a mood of total hope, which only goes to show how really thick I can be. My judgement in antiques is great. In everything else it’s just the opposite.

  Outside was pitch black and drizzling. A car swished by, all lights and aggro. A few people slammed in and out of the public bar. I waited under a tree in the bitter cold like a duck egg. The way Maud spoke back there it looked like she wasn’t going to let the firefly cage go. I wondered idly about Maud and Big Frank. Headlights turned in to the forecourt and blinded me.

  ‘Lovejoy?’

  ‘Hello, Dolly.’

  The motor’s lights dowsed. Only the shrouded pub lanterns showed her standing gleaming in the darkness. Maybe men like blondes because they’re easier to find in the dark. I’d never thought of that before. We dithered before I lost as usual and had to speak first.

  ‘Look, love,’ I got out after clearing my throat a million times. ‘I’ve a job on just now. And, er, sorry about today—’

  ‘You’re an outrage, Lovejoy.’ Her voice was quiet, flat. She stepped closer and slowly lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me, Lovejoy.’

  What can you say to this sort of stuff? ‘Er, well, love—’

  ‘Don’t invent excuses.’ She seemed without emotion. ‘I must be insane.’

  Women make me nervous when they’re in these odd moods. I wish they’d stay fair-minded and reasonable like me. Life would be a hell of a sight easier.

  ‘I’m not a . . . slag, Lovejoy.’ Her voice was unchanged. ‘Is that the word?’

  ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘Don’t bother even saying it.’ She sounded tired, resigned. Her eyes lit in a passing motor’s beam. We waited politely until the distant noise faded, as if the countryside’s belly had rumbled. ‘You always were . . . eccentric.’ I drew breath but she went on in the same level voice, ‘I have a busy husband, nice home, good furniture. Funny that I never rated you till we met again. Are you broke?’

  ‘No.’ I lied defiantly. ‘I’ve this job on . . .’

  A voice called. ‘This way, Lovejoy.’ Good old Maud, goose-stepping out right on time. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Mmmmh,’ Dolly said. ‘That’s the job, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said eagerly. ‘She’s got this antique . . .’

  Dolly put her hand on my face. ‘Shhh. See you tomorrow.’

  Then she’d gone, clipping off among the cars. She never even glanced towards Maud’s voice. Maud was working on her mouth with lipstick by pencil light when I finally found her midget car. How did Big Frank get in, I wondered. I made it, finding joints I never knew I had. She watched another motor’s headlights sweep the trees.

  ‘I suppose that cow’s your fat blonde?’ Dolly’s not fat, but women hate each other on sight. No telling why. A man’s stupid to join in, so I ignored the crack.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Yours,’ she said curtly. ‘Direct me.’

  So I did.

  ‘Jesus Christ. What a dump.’

  I said nothing, but was secretly pretty narked. I think my cottage looks really quite good, thatched roof and all that. It’s just a bit dog-eared because I don’t get much time to tidy it. I heard her derisive snort at the faded wooden sign against one of the apple trees: ‘Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.’

  ‘Leave it further up the drive, please,’ I asked.

  ‘Drive? This is a frigging swamp with gravel, Lovejoy.’ She drove in anyway.

  Charming. I got out and felt for the keys. If I forget to switch the alarm off before opening the front door our village’s vigilant bobby infarcts. He’s always moaning about it.

  ‘Cut the lights, please,’ I asked. ‘Er, the hedgehogs don’t like them . . .’ She ignored that and drummed her foot impatiently. ‘Come in.’ I held the door. She waited while I put some lights on, then pushed through the little hall.

  ‘You actually live here? I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.’

  I shrugged and made a feeble pass at clearing some books for her to sit on the divan. It unfolds into my bed. There’s quite a lot of space in the living room, really, but it never seems to be as available as it might be. Maud walked past the space I’d prepared and moved about the room, flicking aside the curtain to inspect the kitchen alcove with distaste. I noticed the grime on the windows.

  ‘It’s a shithouse, Lovejoy.’

  I was red-faced, shovelling things aside on the low table for her handbag. She sat at last. I know I don’t create much of an impression as a high-powered antique dealer but she needn’t be quite so blunt.

  ‘Can’t you get anything better?’ she demanded. ‘We ought to condemn it.’

  ‘It keeps me in antiques,’ I explained. The trouble is that when I’m embarrassed I go defensive, as if everything’s my fault.

  ‘You’re really into this antiques crap, aren’t you?’ For the first time some gleam of curiosity showed. ‘Here. Open this.’ And she pulled out the bamboo firefly cage.

  You have to smile at some antiques. This little cage stood jauntily on my table, cockily aware of its undoubted elegance. Its side and top netting had frayed, of course, but the little half-door at the bottom was intact and the side and bottom struts of bamboo were perfect. It was no taller than a few matchboxes.

  ‘What’s so funny, Lovejoy?’ Maud gazed from me to the cage and back.

  Still smiling, I took the lovely intricate cage. Light as a feather. The ancient maker would have searched for days to find the right bamboo. Then he would have seasoned it, exposing it to sun, laid it in the right direction, talked to it, encouraging the pieces to become accustomed to a new life. Then slicing, and balancing on his outstretched finger to ensure an even lightness. At last, the incredible detailed jigsaw assembling, and the delicate net windows to retain the fireflies. Then the oirans, those lovely women, the star courtesans so dedicated to feminine elegance, would take it, wandering in the gardens of the Green Houses. Among the night-blooming flowers they would catch fireflies until the little cage would glow with a soft nebulous splendour. And at the Hour of the Rat, about midnight, the first-rank lady courtesan would finally lie reclining in love with her ardent suitor by the seductive glow of its gentle but brilliant emanation, perhaps watched through the screens by her shinzo, invariably so eager to learn the breathlessly inventive techniques with which the oiran’s erotic skills lifted her soul to her lover’s as they soared—

  ‘You’re a fucking nut, Lovejo
y.’ Maud was still looking at my face. ‘Get on with it.’

  Crump. I breathed a deep breath and opened its door carefully.

  Maud watched, puzzled. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing inside? No other places?’

  I sighed. She had the secret-compartment syndrome I told you about. I examined it carefully. ‘No.’

  ‘What the hell is it?’

  I looked at her sitting there. Aggressive. Trendy. Impatient, full of certainty. Clueless as the rest of them. Everything that everybody is nowadays. And a sociologist to boot. I thought, what’s the use?

  ‘Just a box.’ I said a mental apology to it. ‘Was that the job you mentioned? You could have opened it yourself.’

  ‘No. I just wanted to see you do it. This is the problem.’ And she pulled out another.

  I stared. Another firefly cage? Exactly the same, a small rectangular tower on four round stumpy legs. A front part-door. Side and top netting. But all black as Newgate’s knocker and glittering with an extraordinary dark lustre I’d never seen before. I reached over and picked it up. Heavy and cold. I looked at one top corner of the little door where it had been chipped by some lunatic trying to lever it open. Good old Big Frank. It’s a wonder he hadn’t used a hammer. I inspected it with a hand lens a long while before the penny dropped. It was made of coal. And I mean real coal, the sort you burn in a grate. The netting over the windows, the door and its handle, even the minuscule hinges. The entire thing was coal. Somebody, perhaps the maker, had covered it with black lacquer, presumably to keep it from smudging things, maybe to strengthen it. Coal carvings are occasionally still done, but this small fragile cage was superb, far higher quality than most. Yet it felt modern.

  I readjusted my face. A gaping expert’s unconvincing to a customer.

  ‘Who made it?’

  ‘Just open it, Lovejoy.’ That cold determination again. ‘And give me a cigarette.’

  I glanced at her as I felt at the exquisite little cage of living coal. She sat there almost quivering, her eyes fixed on the object with an eagerness that could only be called lust. I realized she’d bought the bamboo firefly cage hoping it would reveal the way this copy opened. And it hadn’t.