it came, a great explosion in a slamming din of sound, a noise so cacophonous it rapped your eardrums.
Tinker's wiry little frame jerked double and bobbed with the effort. It's a pity they don't give Olympic coughers' medals. The Russians wouldn't stand a chance. Tinker would walk it.
I opened my eyes in relief as the appalling noise dwindled, Tinker rejoined the human race, wiping his nose on the back of his filthy mitten, his rheumy old eyes streaming from the relief of having coughed and survived. The entire auction room was stunned into an appalled silence.
Tinker was contentedly rolling himself a fresh cigarette when he noticed the ominous stillness.
'Pardon, ' he croaked.
A few of the dealers chuckled and nudged each other. And even Helen from the Arcade, the loveliest dealer in East Anglia, smiled at Tinker. The trouble was that Millon chose to be offended, which led to his downfall. Antiques are dear, but there's nothing so costly as pride.
'Who made that awful noise?' he parped. He knew very well who.
The place stilled. Tinker stopped rolling his fag.
'That corf? Me. ' Tinker was indignant. 'I said me pardon.'
Millon lost his rag. 'Get out! I will not have this auction interrupted by any old doss-house lounger!'
Poor old Tinker was stricken. He glanced apprehensively at me, knowing I needed him for a Kwangtung temple-door carving I had my eye on among the high numbers. A couple of the local dealers, suddenly nervous, shot glances at me. I saw Alfred Duggins, an elderly bowler-hatted collector of hammered coins, roll his eyes in alarm. He'd known me since I was a callow youth and guessed what was coming.
Mortified, Tinker shuffled sideways towards the door. 'Sorry, Lovejoy. I'll see me quack, get something for me chest. Honest. ' He thought I was mad at him for one lousy cough.
I said nothing. I was looking at the floor, planks in a row and worn to the nails by generations of people coming in this crummy auction just because they wanted an antique, a piece of the loving past to cherish them against the shoddy crapology of our modern world. In this generation those ordinary people just happen to be Tinker and me. And you.
'Do-you-hear-me?' bleated this nerk on the rostrum.
'I'm going, mate,' Tinker muttered.
'Tinker. ' I gave him a quid. My voice sounded funny. 'Wait in the pub. I'll only be ten minutes.'
'Ta. But the auction won't be over till—'
He peered at my face and then quickly went, his old boots clumping until the door pinged shut behind him. By now old Alfred was at the door, nervously measuring distances for a quick getaway. Trust him to suss me out before the rest.
Millon announced, pompously tugging his waistcoat neater, 'Now we can get on! Lot Forty-One. The bid's with you, sir. ' He pointed to a tall neat gabardine-suited bloke, who had bid last in a foreign accent. 'It was fifty pounds. Who'll give fifty-five?'
I found Helen's hand on my arm. 'Please no, Lovejoy,' her voice begged. But it was miles off and I shrugged her away.
Millon was chanting, 'Fifty-five anywhere?' when I coughed. The place stilled again. It was nothing like a Tinker special, but I did the best I could.
'Who'll give me fifty-five for this—?'
I coughed again, a non-cough phoney enough to gall anyone. Millon glared in my direction. 'Sir. Please control your noise or I shall have to ask you to leave also.'
So I was a sir and Tinker was a doss-house lounger. I coughed again, looking deliberately at Millon. He reddened and for the first time noticed that the other bidders had silently begun to recede, leaving a clear space around me. I heard Alfred mutter,
'Oh Gawd!' The door pinged once as he slid out. Wise old bird.
Millon's voice wavered but he gamely went on, 'In view of the interruptions we will leave Lot Forty-One in abeyance and go on to Lot Forty-Two, which is Chippendale—'
'No. ' That was me, trying for a normal voice but it came out like a whipcrack.
He stared. I smiled back. In that moment one of the strangers next to the big bloke started to say something but he was pulled up by a kindly friend, which saved him a lot of trouble, whoever he was. I heard another voice murmur, 'Watch it, mate. That's Lovejoy.'
Millon's gaze wobbled. For confidence, he stared belligerently to where his three miffs were standing. Miffs are auctioneers' callers who hump stuff about and make sure potential bidders get the barest glimpse of the lots next on offer. They were looking anywhere else. You have to smile. Sometimes they behave like real people.
'What do you mean, no?' Millon snapped, which only goes to show how dumb auctioneers can be.
'I mean your “Chippendale” bureau is a fake.'
There was a babble of alarmed chatter, quickly fading.
Millon practically went berserk.
'This is outrageous! I'm putting you out this instant! And I'm having you sued for—'
That old familiar white heat glow came in my head. I gave up trying to be patient and found myself walking forward, the mob parting like a bow wave. Everybody gave me their attention, especially when I told them to.
'All of you listen, ' I said. 'Lift his Chippendale bureau up. It's the wrong weight for its size. Look at the right- hand drawer—you'll find a pattern of old filled-in screw holes. It's oak all right, but nicked from a World War One vintage bedroom cupboard. And the ageing stain's phoney. Invert the drawers and you'll see the paler shrinkage lines round the edges. ' I looked up at Millon, now looking considerably less assured. I added, 'It's not Chippendale, chum. It's a bodged mock-up.'
