or a duckegg like me without two coppers to rub together –
were weighing me up. I heard a massive bloke, quite well dressed, protest as he was being taken in charge by two uniformed security officers. I thought the sight comical, because he could have minced both with one hand. I recognized him, Tex the Mighty Hex, wrestling champ.
'I only said it was crap,' he was grumbling.
'We were broadcasting,' the gallery supersnob complained, wafting this hoi polloi away like a bad smell. I then noticed the array of microphones, technicians swigging the cheap white wine and noshing the free grub.
'Excuse me, Sir Rollaston,' I said, going up to Tex. 'For being late.'
'Eh?' he asked. The action froze.
'I'm sorry, sir. The traffic here has worsened considerably since you were a Fellow at Corpus Christi. Is it the Klein?'
There was a Klein painting on the far-wall. Kleins always do cause argument. It was simply a large canvas with huge swishes of blue across it.
'Er, yes.' Tex shook himself free. The gallery owner went into fawning mode and waved the security police off. 'The, er, Clean.'
'Klein,' I amended and led the way to stand in front of it. 'Yves Klein, Sir Rollaston, had a peculiar affinity for blue. He patented his own shade, called International Klein Blue.'
Tex gazed at the picture. It looked like nothing on earth. 'He dipped women in it, then used them to smudge the canvases.'
Tex gaped. The gallery owner started a sales pitch of the 'Klein's imagery challenges modernity...' balderdash that shouldn't fool a whelk. I interrupted.
'I can see why you think it's not a patch on the two you already possess, Sir Rollaston.
You're not seriously thinking of buying another? I wouldn't advise it, sir. Think of your Picasso ...'
We escaped, the gallery boss trying desperately to woo Tex back to see the rest of his gunge. We had a drink round the corner. I told Tex I'd seen him fight once. Tex had to sniff some white crud using a straw while I had tea. He then had a gin and tonic. He was amazed that the gallery folk had taken my made-up prattle seriously.
'It's true, Tex. It's what Klein did. Died in Paris a famous man. Are those drugs?'
'They help, mate. Lost me wife.' He eyed me. 'Why didn't they bounce you? You look a right tramp.'
I flushed. 'That's because I've no gelt. You're a junkie because you've chucked the sponge in.'
He grabbed me by the throat and I flew across the caff, blamming tables and chairs as I went, finishing up slumped against the window. I rose, tottered out into the rain. Try to help folk, that's what you get.
There's a massive antiques fair near Newark, happens every so often. It starts early mornings among the queueing motors, and continues in fields. Hundreds of antique dealers go. It's a celebration of greed. I love it. You meet the world and his wife.
Tex was there. He pretended not to be watching as I divvied a few antiques for a rich American – there's no other kind – who'd hired me for the day plus com. This meant I'd get a percentage of the commission. His purchases, bought on my recommendation, would be valued by the average of three certified London dealers. The American finished buying about noon. Tex was there as I waited with the bags of handles, small portable antiques, for the Yank to fetch his motor. He shuffled a bit.
'Sorry, Lovejoy,' he said gruffly.
'Okay.'
'Were you hurt?'
'Aye.'
I'd had a bad shoulder for weeks. Doc Lancaster said I was a danger to my own health.
I said not as much as he was. He got some physiotherapist, psychotically bent on breaking what Tex hadn't, to give me exercises. Doctors are sadistic swine. Their helpers are no better.
'I gave them up,' Tex said. 'I owe you. You done me a kindness in that gallery. You made me look at myself.' He glanced away. 'I'd lost my missus. Hard, when somebody dies.'
Well, it wasn't my fault, I thought, still narked.
'Want a job?' he asked as the American approached. 'I'm on an antiques club. We need somebody to divvy.'
'Maybe.' I was on my uppers, having just been given the sailor's elbow by Lydia, my ertswhile — and periodic –apprentice. She has the morals of a beatitude, can't accept that mankind is riddled with sinners. We'd parted over my forgeries of Colette the ghost lady. I wasn't sure if I loved Colette yet, still, now, or ever had, but it felt like flu whenever I thought of her. Is that the real thing? I've no way of knowing.
'I'll send word.'
And he did. I got invited to suss out the antiques they bought. Once a week I'd go to a publican's wife in East Bergholt, who was the panel's paymaster. She stored the antiques in a warehouse by the river.
Lots of people do combined investments nowadays. And some, like Tex's mob, chip in to buy antiques. Not all are honest. I've already mentioned that some people (think Horse and FeelFree) make a fine living from defrauding such societies.
The trick among some groups, though, is to add an extra thrill. They think, hey, isn't it dull just buying antiques? Why not add a little spice? Let's gamble! So they challenge other antiques panels to see whose profits are greatest by the end of the year.
Excitement! And then it's, 'Hey! Let's introduce a special prize – like, say, the panel that gains the most profit
