Gold By Gemini

'With some antiques?'

'Yes. Cleaning and improving them.'

'For selling?'

'You're learning.'

A mischievous smile lit her face.

'Lovejoy. You… really need my help? Not Algernon's?'

'Especially not Algernon's.'

'Nor Margaret's?'

'Good heavens, no.' I wanted no dealers.

'But I know nothing about antiques.'

Careless old Lovejoy almost said that was the point, but I covered up quickly by telling her I trusted her.

'More than your friends?' she pressed. 'More even than Helen?' Typical.

'Much more,' I said. Honesty was everywhere. I felt quite moved myself.

'Then I will. On one condition.'

'Eh?'

'That you pay me, Lovejoy.'

'Pay?' I yelped, starting upright in the bed. 'What the hell with?'

'Give me one day - of your time.' She was adamant. I'd have to go carefully. What a dirty trick.

'One day?' I countered uneasily. 'You can have tomorrow. That do?'

She shook her head prettily. She's always especially attractive when she's up to no good. Sometimes I think women play on our feelings.

'No. When I say. For me to decide what we do for a change.'

'But what if -?'

'No deal if you're going to make excuses, Lovejoy. Get somebody else.' I thought hard and with cunning but there seemed no way out.

'Well, it's a bit unfair,' I said reluctantly. 'Will you give me some notice?'

She hugged me, delighted.

'Possibly, Lovejoy,' she said. 'And possibly not.' I tried wheedling but got no further.

She told me, smiling sweetly, 'All we have is time.' She fluttered her eyelashes exaggeratedly. I thought of the forthcoming death of Edward Rink, Esq., and smiled, in control.

Now here comes the bit I said you wouldn't like. Same as your grandma's beef tea it won't be pleasant but it will do you good. If you're poor it will save you a few quid. If you're one of the struggling rich it may save you millions.

All I've said so far about antiques is right for antiques. But think a second. What exactly is 'an antique'? Look about at the articles round you. We can agree on many items, for a start. Your teacup made last week in good old Stoke-on-Trent isn't antique, for example. And that ball-point pen made last year isn't either. Right. But those three decorative Coronation mugs on your mantelpiece, how about them? Well, Liz II hardly qualifies. And that George VI cup? Not really. That George V mug, then? Sorry, no.

Notice how difficult it's getting. None of these is 'an antique', not truly. Some people define 'antique' as being one hundred years from today. Others claim twenty-five years is plenty. And there's some logic in that, I suppose. After all, jubilees begin at twenty-five years, and a century's the magic hundred, isn't it? But the actual honest truth's sadly different. Anything from now to twenty-five years ago is modern. Going back from then to a century ago's bygone. Then there's a bit of a twilight zone. Then come antiques.

Antiques begin, fans, in the shoulder of that lovely blissful Year of Grace 1836. No matter what dealer groups do with fanciful definitions, keep that magic date in mind.

But please don't think I'm advising you to sprint out and hurl your Coronation souvenirs into the nearest jumble sale. That would be foolish, because three other factors besides age come into it. They're rarity, nature, and condition.

And here it comes, pals, the end of our beautiful friendship. What I've just told you is okay for antiques as such. It's known by any dealer worth a light, and by most collectors with any sense.

But nobody knows it like forgers do.

You reach antiques by standing on piles of money. So my mind went: One, I have no antiques of my own.

Two, I need money.

Three, I therefore need to sell antiques, but I've got none.

Four, I therefore need to sell some things that resemble antiques but which aren't the real thing. Hey ho.

CHAPTER XIV

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BEFORE I GO ON, don't knock forgery. It's a respectable trade and has done a lot of good for mankind. Anyway, what's wrong with a good honest forgery? People only hate the idea because it means they can't afford to be lazy when buying.

Michelangelo started out as the most expert forger of the Renaissance, copying an ancient sketch so well even his teacher Ghirlandaio was misled, mainly because Michelangelo had cleverly aged it. And even then he didn't own up, only being caught out by being overheard bragging about it in the boozer. And he went from strength to strength. It's a sobering thought that he would never have got himself launched, had it not been for his famous Sleeping Cupid forgery - he buried the statue where it would be found, and saw it actually sold to the famous collector Cardinal Riario. He'd the sense to include a 'straightener' (a give-away) so he could claim his just deserts later on.

So, folks, an expert may do the actual forging, but it's us that make it something it never was in the first place.

Ever since I can remember I've been making. As a kid I'd only to hear how William Blake revived and modified Castiglione's monotype engraving for me to go thieving copper sheet and working dementedly till all hours to see how it could have been done.

It might sound odd behaviour, but it's taught me more about antiques than any other experience - and I include reading. I've tried everything: casting bronzes, silver-smithing, hammering coins, early 'chemical' photogravure, wood-block printing, making flintlocks, copying early German clocks, making parchment like St Cuthbert's monks in his Lindisfarne outfit, ironwork, Chinese glazes, making chain armour, anything.

I often think of Faberge, that great (permit me to repeat that, folks: great) designer. He didn't actually make his brilliant masterpieces: that beavering was all done by subterranean troglodytic minions in his workshop such as Durofeev, the self-taught mechanic of St Petersburg who made the fabulous gold peacock which still trots out of Faberge's exquisite rock crystal Easter egg he gave to the Czar. When the new bureaucracy poured into his Moscow business at the Revolution's takeover, Faberge simply begged leave to be allowed to don his coat and hat and politely faded out of this modern era. The coming of the Admin. Man was just too much. Understandable, perhaps. My reaction's different. I fight. The opponent is barbarism.

Being an antiques man and not having much else to fight with, I fight with antiques.

And now I had a fight on my hands.

I explained to Janie I had work to do.

'More of that mysterious business in the cottage you won't let me see?' she complained.

'That's it.'

'If I find it turns out to be a secret cupboard containing a dumb blonde, Lovejoy -'

'Very funny,' I got back, not wanting her to think of hiding places. 'Your husband's back today anyhow. Time for your homework.'

'There's an alternative course of action.' Janie never smiles in this sort of conversation.

'Tell any dealers you see I'm still contagious and they're not to call.' I pushed her out. I could tell that pleased her. She didn't even say 'Including Margaret?' which I expected.

'Phone me,' she said.

'Yes,' I promised. She'd written the best times down in case some stray serf picked up the blower and summoned her better half to take me to task. I stood at the door watching her drive off in the Lagonda. Like a mobile Stately Home.

My workshop's only a shed. As much as possible I like the scene to be set correctly. No electricity. No gas. No lasers or power drills, just candles and an oil lamp. I have one wooden bench, a marble slab for special work and an old dental drill, foot-pedalled to a horizontal spindle for grinding and polishing. At the back of the garage there's a small brick kiln I've built and some leather foot-bellows I made. That's really it.