sort of dealers trawlies, perhaps after trawler-fishing. They go wherever tourists flock, usually one step ahead of the main drove. You make your precarious living as a trawlie by guessing the tourists' mood. For example, if you can guess that this year's east coast visitors will go berserk over pottery souvenirs, plastic gnomes or fancy hats you can make a fortune. If you guess wrong you don't. A rough game. Beck fancies himself as an antiques trawlie. I don't like him, mainly because he doesn't care what he handles - or how. He always seems to be sneering. A criminal in search of a crime. We've had a few brushes in the past.
'Is that you, Beck, old pal?' I asked delightedly into the fumes of Woody's frying cholesterol.
'Who's Bexon?' he growled across at us.
'Naughty old eavesdropping Big-Ears,' I said playfully. Not that I was feeling particularly chirpy, but happiness gets his sort down.
'Chop the deal with me, Lovejoy?' To chop is to share. There's nothing more offensive than a trawlie trying to wheedle.
'Perhaps on another occasion,' I declined politely. I could see he was getting mad. The dealers around us were beginning to take an interest in our light social banter. You know the way friends do.
'Make it soon,' he said. 'I hear you're bust.'
'Tell the Chancellor,' I got back. 'Maybe he'll cut my tax.'
'Put that in your begging-bowl.' He flicked a penny on to our table as he rose to go.
There was general hilarity at my expense.
'Thanks, Beck.' I put it in my jacket pocket. 'You can give me the rest later.' A few laughs on my side.
We all watched him go. Local dealers don't care for trawlies. They tend to arrive in a
'circus', as we call it, a small group viciously bent on rapid and extortionate profit.
They're galling enough to make you mix metaphors. Take my tip: never buy antiques from a travelling dealer. And if there are two or more dealers on the hoof together, then especially don't.
'Watch Beck, Lovejoy,' Tinker warned in an undertone. 'A right lad. His circus'll be around all month.'
'Find me Dandy Jack, Tinker.'
'Right.' He wheezed stale beer fumes at me.
I rose, giddy. A few other dealers emitted the odd parting jeer. I waved to my public and slid out. I was well into the Arcade before I realized I'd forgotten to pay Lisa for my tea. Tut-tut. Still, you can't think of everything.
As I emerged, Janie signalled at me from near the post office, tapping her watch helplessly. Duty obviously called. I must have been longer than I thought. Through the traffic I signalled okay, I'd stay. I'd phone later. She signalled back not before seven. I signalled eight, then, I watched her go, and crossed back to the Arcade. Now I'd drawn a blank over Bexon, poverty weighed me down. I meant to go but you can't avoid just looking at antiques, can you? Especially not in the Arcade. Patrick yoo-hooed me over to his place before I'd gone a few windows. I forced my way across the stream of people. He always embarrasses me. Not because he's, well, odd, but because he shows off and everybody stares.
'Just the little mannikin I've prayed for!' he screeched, false eyelashes and fingers all aflutter. 'Lovejoy! Come here this very instant!' Heads were turning and people gaped at the apparition posturing in his shop doorway. 'This way, Lovejoy, dearie!' he trilled. I was a yard away by then.
'Shut your row, Patrick.' I entered the shop's dusk. 'And must you wear a blue frock?'
'Ultramarine, you great buffoon!' he snapped. 'Everybody pay attention!' He did a pivot and pointed at me in tableau. 'Lovejoy's in one of his moods.' The trouble is I always go red and shuffle. I can only think of cutting remarks on the way home.
'Don't mind Patrick, Lovejoy.' I might have known Lily would be there. I don't have time to tell you everything that goes on, but Lily (married) loves and desires Patrick (single and bent). Lily insists - in the long tradition of women hooked on sacrificial martyrdom -
that she's just the bird to straighten Patrick. As if that's not enough, both are antique dealers. You see the problem. 'He tried to get a museum expert over,' Lily explained,
'but he's gone to Norfolk.' She spoke as if Norfolk's in Ursa Major. Our locals are very clannish.
'This way, Dear Heart!' Patrick sailed to the rear followed by the adoring Lily. Three or four customers hastily got out of the way of someone so obviously and flamboyantly an expert as Patrick. I trailed along. 'Regardez!'
It was a stoneware bottle. A large fish swam lazily in brushed iron design under the celadon glaze. I reached out reverently, chest tight and breath dry. My mind was clanging with greed and love as I turned the little table round to see better.
'Pick it up, Lovejoy,' Patrick offered.
'Shut up.'
'Oh!' he snapped petulantly. 'Isn't he absolutely vulgar.'
I sat and let the beauty wash from the brilliant work of art into the shop. The master had coated the bottle's body with a luscious white slip. It was lovely, a lovely miracle.
The ninth-century Korean pots are very different - those imprinted with hundreds of those tiny whorled designs in vertical rows tend to get me down a bit. This was from a much later period.
'It's genuine, Patrick,' I said brokenly. 'Superb.'
'You perfect dear, Lovejoy!' he whooped ecstatically.
'Korean, about latish fifteenth century.'
Excited, he dragged me away and showed me a few other items - a phoney Meissen, a modern Hong Kong copy
