in the world, but it’s still not worth a bent groat. Cynics say “Dresden china firstly copied Chinese, secondly Venetian, and after that anybody,” but it’s harsh criticism because once Joachim Kandler arrived about 1730, they really took off. His figures are lively original objects you never tire of: pretty ladies in farthingales and yellow-lined cloaks, hussars, dancers.
The night we left Penrith I sat mesmerized long after the fairground closed and the folk had all gone. I’d bought a broken porcelain figure of a Harlequin. He was seated on a white stump in his checkered costume and grinning mask. Black cap in one hand, the other to hold what had once been a jug, now broken off and lost. A junk bloke had lugged in a great wooden box of assorted porcelains and slammed it on the table.
“Fifty quid the lot, mister,” he said. “Good and bad.”
“For a flyer, yes.”
Without looking, I’d humped the box to the floor, got Francie to pay him. My chest was clamoring like Easter Sunday. Something pure and thrillingly antique lurked down among the clag. It was the Harlequin, when I looked. Harlequins are the most vigorous of Kandler’s porcelains, these and dancing ladies and waistcoated gentlemen. They were often in pairs, but one swallow does make a summer.
“The show’s pulling up, Lovejoy.” Carol and Mike ran the peas-and-mash booth, a noisy homely couple with their six spherical children. Carol had an idea it might advertise her grub if the antiques expert was seen dining off her elegant edibles. “There’s a bowl and a brew-up for you.”
“Oh. Right. Ta.”
As the crews fell on the fairground and began dismantling it, I had the pasty and peas while evaluating the haul. A piteously worn slender wedding ring with the thick broad gold band that Victorians called the keeper ring, to be worn distal to the wedding ring and prevent its loss. There was an old love letter some young woman had told me was her granny’s, and that she needed money for her baby… Her boyfriend, a flashy nerk with gold teeth and a giant motorbike, had waited outside. I’d paid up without a second thought.
“Lovejoy.” Francie was there, with Joan. And Sidoli, and his two stalwart lads off the electric generators. They still hadn’t shaved. “Sid wants to know what the take is.”
“Take?” I said blankly. “You mean gelt? Nowt.”
“No money?” Sidoli’s lads seethed, leaned in.
“Let him tell you, Sid,” Francie said. “I’ve seen Lovejoy work before.”
“What you pay for this?” Sidoli pointed to the letter.
I shrugged. “Fiver. Can’t remember.”
Sidoli paled. “Can’t even remember?”
“He’s been had,” the slinkiest lad said. He held a length of metal rod. “It was a bird, crying poverty. She was dressed to the nines. With a bike bloke in leather. Stank of booze, both of them. She told Lovejoy the tale. He paid her, not a word. They went off laughing.”
“You’re a trusting sod, Mr. Sidoli.” I’m not keen on sarcasm, but it has its uses. This time it stopped him signaling his two nephews to annihilate me. “No need to read the letter. Just glance. It’s in two alphabets. Called ‘messenger writing’—a letter within a letter. Sort of secret code. The young couple who brought it had made the story up, granny’s love letter and all that. Messenger writing of that style was popular during the Great Civil War— sieges, politics, family conflicts, elopements, heaven-knows-what. The subject will determine the price. But 1642, or I’m not me.”
“How much about?” Sidoli asked.
“Twenty quid, maybe more.”
“The percentage’ll reduce the loss, Sid,” Francie encouraged.
“Sooner or later,” Sidoli moaned. “That’s what this idiot said. His very words.” His voice rose to a scream. “The loss is tonight! It rains two days, people stay home and don’t come to the fair! And he’s got a box of old pots.”
“Francie told me about your loss rate,” I said, rising and stretching. “You can forget it this pitch.” That stilled the galaxy. “One of those ’old pots’ will cover you this stop.”
“Jesus,” Sidoli gasped. “Is true?” Eeass threw?
“Yes, Sid,” Francie said. “Lovejoy’ll be right.”
Joan spoke. “Profit or not, it’s my stake, Sid,” she announced quietly. “I have the say.
Give him a week.”
Sidoli was staring into the box with awe. “One of these is worth…? Which?”
Big Chas came and shouted, “Hey. Nobody striking the show or are you going to stand gossiping all night?” And he sang, “Through the night of doubt and sorrow onward goes the pilgrim band…”
“Coming,” I said, peering out at the rain past him. I felt all in, drew breath, and stepped out to join the gang, leaving Sidoli to stew in his own explanations.
We finished bottling up, as they call it, about five in the morning. I spelled Dan and Francie alternately, one hour in three off for a shuddery slumber in Francie’s wagon.
Ern normally spelled Dan, but this stop he and Big Chas were among the rear gang who would clear the generators and heavy machinery and haul on after us by eleven.
Our next pitch was near one of the Lancashire mill towns. I was relieved as we bowled in, because it meant grub and a kip before the rear guard arrived and we’d have to start erecting the fair all over again. After Francie’s fry-up I went straight out and did my poster stint.
When I returned, the cauliflower sky mercifully clearing into a geographical blue, the camp was still. Everybody was kipping. I made my way over the heath to the wagon hoping my blanket hadn’t got damp during the journey, when somebody called my name quietly. Joan was sitting on her caravan steps.
