from interested donors. She’s a careful blue-eyed cigarette-smokeryou don’t take for granted. And there’s no doubt about her dealing skills, so precisely focused on oriental art, fairings and African ethnology. Helen’s not an instant warm like Dolly. More of a slow burn.
While she made breakfast and I shaved I couldn’t help thinking about her. Antique oriental art. We’d been close when she first hove in from one of the coastal fishing villages. Eventually she bought a little terraced house in the ancient Dutch quarter near the antiques arcade, and she’d arrived. Now, I thought, politely passing the marmalade, why are we suddenly so friendly again? It haunted me all the way into town, because antique oriental art includes Japanese firefly cages of the Edo period, right?
Sadly, I’m afraid this next chunk is about that terrible stuff called money and those precious delectables we call antiques. You’ve probably got cartloads of both. But if you are penniless please read on and save yourself a bob or two.
Helen dropped me in the arcade. This is a long glass-covered pavement walk with minute alcoves leading off. Each is no more than a single room-sized shop with a recess at the back. It doesn’t sound a lot but costs the earth in rates. That’s why we dealers regard possession of a drum in the arcade as a sign that you’re one of the elite. Woody’s Bar perfumes the place with an aroma of charred grease. We all meet there for nosh because it’s the cheapest known source of cholesterol-riddled pasties and we can all watch Lisa undulate between tables. She’s a tall willowy PhD archaeologist temporarily forced into useful employment by the research cutbacks – the only known benefit of any postwar government. Woody keeps messages for barkers like Tinker while serving up grilled typhoid. I always pop in to Woody’s for a cup of outfall first, to suss out the day’s scene.
‘Wotcher, Woody!’ I called breezily. ‘Tea and an archaeologist, please.’
‘It’s arrived, lads,’ Woody croaked. He’s a corpulent moustache in a greasy apron. ‘Chain it down.’
‘Here, Lovejoy.’ That was Brad beckoning through the acrid fumes. He’d only want to moan about the scandalous prices flintlocks were bringing. He couldn’t be more upset about it than me, so I pretended not to see him for the smoke.
A few mutters of greeting and glances from bloodshot eyeballs acknowledged my arrival. My public. Pilsen was in, a half-crazy religious kite collector who lives down on the Lexton fields somewhere. Devlin was absent, which mercifully postponed the next war. Harry Bateman was in the far corner still trying to buy a complete early Worcester dining set for a dud shilling, and Jason our ex-army man was still shaking his head. What puzzles me is that Harry – a typical antique dealer, never paid a good price for anything in his life – thinks other people are unreasonable. Liz Sandwell waved, smiling. She’s high class, a youngish bird with her own shop in Dragonsdale village. Her own bloke’s a rugby player, but I’d never seen the geezer she had with her now. She had three pieces of Russian niello jewellery pendants on the table between them – think of silver delicately ingrained with black. One was the pendant Devlin had complained to me about. I crossed ever so casually near her but Liz stopped talking so I couldn’t hear the prices. Wise lass. That way I landed Pilsen.
‘Wotcher, Pilsen. Get rid of your scroll?’
‘A blessing from the Lord upon thy morning,’ Pilsen intoned, hand raised.
‘Er, ta, Pilsen.’ I sat gingerly opposite while his head bowed in prayer.
‘May heaven bring its grace upon Lovejoy and our holy meeting.’
‘Tea, Lovejoy.’ Lisa plonked a cup down. She always ruffles my thatch. ‘Money, please. Woody says no credit for the likes of you.’
‘Ruined any good antiques lately?’ We’re always arguing. I’ve not forgiven Lisa for what the professional
While she made breakfast and I shaved I couldn’t help thinking about her. Antique oriental art. We’d been close when she first hove in from one of the coastal fishing villages. Eventually she bought a little terraced house in the ancient Dutch quarter near the antiques arcade, and she’d arrived. Now, I thought, politely passing the marmalade, why are we suddenly so friendly again? It haunted me all the way into town, because antique oriental art includes Japanese firefly cages of the Edo period, right?
Sadly, I’m afraid this next chunk is about that terrible stuff called money and those precious delectables we call antiques. You’ve probably got cartloads of both. But if you are penniless please read on and save yourself a bob or two.
Helen dropped me in the arcade. This is a long glass-covered pavement walk with minute alcoves leading off. Each is no more than a single room-sized shop with a recess at the back. It doesn’t sound a lot but costs the earth in rates. That’s why we dealers regard possession of a drum in the arcade as a sign that you’re one of the elite. Woody’s Bar perfumes the place with an aroma of charred grease. We all meet there for nosh because it’s the cheapest known source of cholesterol-riddled pasties and we can all watch Lisa undulate between tables. She’s a tall willowy PhD archaeologist temporarily forced into useful employment by the research cutbacks – the only known benefit of any postwar government. Woody keeps messages for barkers like Tinker while serving up grilled typhoid. I always pop in to Woody’s for a cup of outfall first, to suss out the day’s scene.
‘Wotcher, Woody!’ I called breezily. ‘Tea and an archaeologist, please.’
‘It’s arrived, lads,’ Woody croaked. He’s a corpulent moustache in a greasy apron. ‘Chain it down.’
‘Here, Lovejoy.’ That was Brad beckoning through the acrid fumes. He’d only want to moan about the scandalous prices flintlocks were bringing. He couldn’t be more upset about it than me, so I pretended not to see him for the smoke.
A few mutters of greeting and glances from bloodshot eyeballs acknowledged my arrival. My public. Pilsen was in, a half-crazy religious kite collector who lives down on the Lexton fields somewhere. Devlin was absent, which mercifully postponed the next war. Harry Bateman was in the far corner still trying to buy a complete early Worcester dining set for a dud shilling, and Jason our ex-army man was still shaking his head. What puzzles me is that Harry – a typical antique dealer, never paid a good price for anything in his life – thinks other people are unreasonable. Liz Sandwell waved, smiling. She’s high class, a youngish bird with her own shop in Dragonsdale village. Her own bloke’s a rugby player, but I’d never seen the geezer she had with her now. She had three pieces of Russian niello jewellery pendants on the table between them – think of silver delicately ingrained with black. One was the pendant Devlin had complained to me about. I crossed ever so casually near her but Liz stopped talking so I couldn’t hear the prices. Wise lass. That way I landed Pilsen.
‘Wotcher, Pilsen. Get rid of your scroll?’
‘A blessing from the Lord upon thy morning,’ Pilsen intoned, hand raised.
‘Er, ta, Pilsen.’ I sat gingerly opposite while his head bowed in prayer.
‘May heaven bring its grace upon Lovejoy and our holy meeting.’
‘Tea, Lovejoy.’ Lisa plonked a cup down. She always ruffles my thatch. ‘Money, please. Woody says no credit for the likes of you.’
‘Ruined any good antiques lately?’ We’re always arguing. I’ve not forgiven Lisa for what the professional
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