'No,' I said sadly. 'This is the real thing.'
Before I go any further, there's greed. Greed is a wish for success, ambition, secret romantic desires ... In other words, money. There's a way of making it, from nothing.
Some things I can explain. Like, when Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, hunted with the Wynnstay Hunt (think Chester / Flint / Denbeighshire) in the 1880s, she had herself stitched into chamois leather knickers. Reason: vicious brambles locally.
Some things, I can't explain. Like, why is Russia's Great October Revolution called that, when it occurred in November? Did the Gregorian Calendar have something to do with it? Dunno. Or, how come the vast Wedgwood porcelain conglomerate forgot to renew its own name / title recently, and redfacedly have to make a deal with some eleven-year-old to buy its own name back? Or why all women don't realize that they can possess any man on earth, whatever their own age, shape, status. There are other inexplicables: Scotland has banned mystic William Blake's exquisite poem 'Jerusalem'.
Sociologists, people who've never heard of a smile, have banned the children's game of Musical Chairs because it might be competitive (like life isn't). To most questions, I hold up my hand and say I don't know.
Antiques are different. And fakes are very very different. It's because of money. Don't read on unless you are prepared to consider a little bit of sin, okay?
Now, we're all greedy. I do mean all of us.
Let's say you happen to be a housewife – that honourable position now hated by every talk-show host in the known world. 'Housewife' was once a name for an eminently praiseworthy, all-knowing mainstay of society, pillar of common sense. Nowadays, though, girls spit the word with unequalled venom in bus queues. 'What, be a frigging housewife?' they snarl. Or they whine, 'Listen to my mum, you'd think everybody has to keep clean and do homework . . .' Parents please fill in the dots. You know the feeling.
Back to greed. Let's say you're a lady whose daily round is well established. You've done the housework, seen the infants to school, had your snack (tomato soup for the hips, one sinful slice of bread, and tea without sugar). What now? Time on your hands, because soon George will be home, et mundane cetera, okay?
Your eyes light on a TV film. An old black-and-whitey, maybe Brief Encounter or some flashy 1950s thing where everybody has spacious motor cars and smokes themselves to death, the actresses gorgeously dressed, diamonds sparkling in every scene.
You watch, smiling. And you think how marvellous it would be just to have one day of that kind of life. Romance? Maybe. Affluent wealth? Oh, yes, very desirable. And you scan your own lot. Not with any kind of animosity. Because George is reliable, does his stint at that hellish factory. And the family, thank God, is healthy. No, nothing sinister.
But something starts whispering. It's gremlin-shaped, green. It is Envy. It talks quietly, as you flip through pictures of models who've earned a king's ransom just for dressing to the nines and standing still while society photographers take snaps for the centrefold.
It whispers of jealousy.
It says things like, 'Just look at her! In her baronial hall, gem-studded elegance and Vervainoo clothes! Never done a day's work in her life! She was always the idlest at school...'
Your envy grows.
In fairness, you reply to your gremlin, 'I'll bet her life isn't all cakes and lovers! I'll bet there are snags!' And (desperately making it up) 'Isn't she the one who had that terrible divorce in Monte Carlo only last month?' etc, etc.
Whoever wins – the Envy gremlin, or you – the greed seed is sown. You start to wonder what it would be like to suddenly shazam into a lottery win. Or find a precious antique in the flea market! (See where we're heading?) All are genuine possibilities. But what exactly are the odds? Phone them, and ask.
They'll tell you that the big lottery is fourteen million to one, minimum. TV quizzes are a hundred thousand to one. Better, your little green Envy whispers, to make money from nothing, and keep that gelt coming! Impossible, eh?
No. Antiques can do it. How on earth?
Forgery is the answer.
Back to our housewife, now listening avidly to her gremlin. Get some regular money, to spend as she likes! That's all very well, but she has a problem: she has no expertise in jewellery, porcelain, silverware. She couldn't knock up a Sheraton tallboy if she tried a million years.
Here's how she (no, you!) can do it. Today, buy a cheap set of oil paints or watercolours, cost a few pence. Take out a library book on Lowry's paintings. Copy any single one of his small 'Little Girl' pictures. Do it in watercolours, oils, and do it quickly.
Never mind accuracy. Frame it. Pay a few quid to some printer to print a label of the Stone Gallery, Newcastle- upon-Tyne, stick the label on the back and date your painting (call it 'Little Girl in a Mini-Skirt') 1964 or so. I promise that you'll sell it, however badly you've copied the original, for a week's average wage. Trust me – or, rather, trust the greed that's making you do this.
Sign it Lowry, of course – many of his signatures are all but indecipherable. Don't worry. You're legally allowed. The Law, God bless it, says so.
One last thing. The dealer.
He'll be mistrustful. He'll say, 'This doesn't look genuine ...' You'll lie that it's been in your attic for quite a while, and you agree that it can't be genuine, because your brother swapped a pair of old boots for it years ago. And so on.
The dealer will sigh (they all do a great sigh) and say, 'Look, love. I can't buy it as genuine Lowry. Tell you what I'll do. I'll buy it as a replica, okay?'
What do you do? You take the money and scarper. You needn't ever go back. You've been honest (well, almost) and so has he (well, almost). All's well. You have money in your purse! You get home in time to start your next Lowry lookalike.
