Gold By Gemini

'Has his handwriting improved any?'

Dandy Jack fell about at my merry quip. Once, Bill actually acquired a genuine love-letter from Horatio to his dearest Emma Hamilton. Nobody else dared believe Bill. I bought it for a song. That's the danger of forging too much and not doing it well enough. A happy memory.

'He's got something right up your street.'

It was probably that bone flute, cased, sold in Bury the previous week. I'd heard Bill had gone up. Potter, the great old London maker, if Tinker was right. Very desirable. I said nothing, nodding that I'd pop in.

'I want a favour, Dandy. A certain sketch.'

His eyes gleamed. 'Come back here.' We withdrew into his inner sanctum. He offered to brew up but my stomach turned. That left him free to slosh out a gill of gin. Dandy was permanently kaylied. He perched on a stool opposite his crammed sink, shoddy and cheerful, a very rum mixture. Where I think in terms of mark-up, Dandy thinks booze.

I've never seen him sober in n years, where n is a very large finite integer. He has a good eye, sadly wasted. For some reason he believes there's no way of actually learning of the beautiful objects we handle, but then you don't get libraries in pubs.

'An old chap called Bexon. You got his stuff at Gimbert's auction.'

'Your young lady spoke to me yesterday. I gave her the box.'

'That's only rubbish, but he was an old friend and -'

'Yeah, yeah,' he said. 'Never mind all that, Lovejoy.'

I said, desperate now, 'She said you had a sketch he did.'

'That sketch'll cost you.'

'How much?'

'Do me a scan and you can have it free.'

'Get lost,' I groaned. It always came down to this, from fellow dealers too useless to do their own work.

'Go on, Lovejoy. You're a divvie. Help me out.'

I had enough trouble without feeling sympathy. 'Commission?' I tried hopelessly, but the wretch was grinning. He knew he had me and shook his head.

'Scan my stuff or you don't even get to see Bexon's picture.'

'All right,' I gave in bitterly. 'Anyhow, your commission wouldn't keep me in pobs.'

'My stuff's in that crate. I'll fetch it.'

He dragged in a tea-chest of miscellaneous porcelain, followed by Jenny Bateman protesting she'd not finished looking.

'Hard luck,' Dandy told her, pushing her out. All heart.

'Is this it?' I hate scanning junk.

'A job lot. There's a ton of valuable stuff in there, Lovejoy.' The eternal cry of mankind since Adam dressed.

I sat wearily, waiting for the mystic mood to come over my mind. A divvie always suffers. Having friends irritates me sometimes. I closed my eyes and stilled. Sounds receded.

The world slipped into silence and all feeling fell gradually into the distance.

Divvie? Maybe from the old word 'diviner', as in water, but who knows? It's slang for anybody who can guess right about a thing without actually knowing. Some people have it for gems or paintings, others for racehorses, thoroughbred dogs or scenic design, a precious knack that goes separate from any learning. I'm an antiques divvie.

And, incidentally, I'm the very best there is.

I've tried asking other divvies how they know, what actually happens. Some say they are 'told', others say it's a feeling. Water diviners say it's a foot-tingle or a twisting stick.

To me it's a kind of bell, and it rings in my chest. My knowledge, on the other hand, only tells me what an antique is. But my bell just rings for truth. And look, folks - good news. Everybody alive has this knack for something. Maybe not for antiques or diamonds, but for something. Nobody's been left out. It's superb news really, because you're included too. You. All you need to find is what your particular gift is for. You might actually be the most original and creative porcelain or furniture expert without knowing it. If you don't already know you're being dreadfully wasted.

The way I do it's to get close as possible, look and then maybe a light touch if that's not damaging to the antique. Always remember to leave antiques alone. Never fondle, clean, wipe, polish or brush. And I don't mean 'hardly ever', like in the song. Never is never. Leave antiques alone. Never scrape, improve, smooth, fill in or dissect.

Remember that all antiques really are Goya, Chippendale, Sheraton or Michelangelo until proved otherwise. If you say that yours aren't, I'd like to know what makes you so sure.

Dandy Jack was very considerate as I worked, tiptoeing in like a steamhammer for another pint of White Horse and having a hell of a row with a customer over the price of a modern vase he swore was Ming. Honestly, my head was throbbing by the time I finished. I was finished.

'Dandy,' I called. 'Done.' He dropped a pile of books with a crash and reeled in.

'Prime stuff, eh, Lovejoy?'

'Not bad.'

He grinned at the three objects on the table and nodded wisely.

'Bloody rubbish,' he agreed. 'I knew it was all valuable except for them.'

'They're the good stuff, Dandy.' I rose, stretching. 'Chuck the rest.'

'Eh?' He glared into the heaped 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's 1864, 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 resting 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 underpriced 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 very worked 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.