The Grail Tree by Jonathan Gash Read Free Book Online

She rose at Woody’s emphysematous shout for her to get a move on. I slurped my tea as a penance. Rising to go, I crossed to Marion and Jed.
    ‘German dolls?’ I offered hopefully. We aren’t ones for formal greetings in the trade. Jed drew an eager breath but Marion said no, too sharply.
    ‘A Wellington chest, Lovejoy?’ she countered. ‘London 1830?’
    I sighed, saying no. If only I had the money.
    ‘I need Irish glass,’ she said after a drink. ‘And jade.’
    My spirits rose. Irish glass? Liz Sandwell had offered me some. Obviously, the promised luck had just arrived.
    ‘I’ve got two good buyers down from the North,’ Marion added.
    ‘See you tonight at the pub,’ I said. Well, if I had a chance of earning a quid or two from Liz’s cut glass, I could pop in for a free nosh as well at Ma Cookson’sand pick up the Holy Grail. It should be worth a few pence, I thought nastily, after all these years. And she had asked me to lunch.
    Mercifully, I escaped without remembering to pay. Lisa once said that my trouble is I always forget but sometimes remember, instead of it being the other way round. I hope I don’t know what she means.

Chapter 5
    L IZ S ANDWELL’S THREE pieces of Irish cut glass were nearly what she’d told me. We agreed on prices, and by ten to twelve the Ruby was tottering up Martha Cookson’s drive, obviously beginning to feel it had done its bit for the day. Naturally, I hadn’t the money to pay Liz, but a day or two’s no problem in the antiques world where people who pay on the nail are regarded as imbeciles or eccentric.
    Liz had been proudest of a ‘real bluish antique Waterford flat-cut glass, Lovejoy’. That mysterious bluish tinge which is supposed to be characteristic of all Waterford glass is a myth. Hand on my heart. Antique Waterford glass is no more blue than you or I. Look at an authentic piece in a museum and see. If it
is
blue, it’s a fake, manufactured by the skilful for the incredulous. Dutch imitators had flat-cut Liz’s bluish polygonal glass bottle, using bluish-tinted glass. There’s a lot of them about. I’m all for copying as long as I know what actually goes on. The Excise Acts from 1745 on messed about with English glassmaking, so the free trade Ireland got after 1780 boomed Irish glass production, sales and reputation – you don’t need to delve too far back in history to find out politiciansmaking a balls-up. Hence the development of the sophisticated three-piece mould system for blown glass in America and Ireland before 1825 or so. Why the Yanks aren’t proud as peacocks of their lovely glass beats me. Liz had one, a lovely barrelled spirit bottle complete with stopper (remember the stopper – its presence doubles the price you pay. And if it’s missing starts some hard bargaining). The last piece was a Cork Glass Co. decanter, quite attractive, but beware.
    ‘Bainbridge,’ I explained to Liz, ‘says they made modern ones from the original moulds, and I think he’s right.’ Hers was genuinely old, though I didn’t tell her that my bell was clamouring its lovely chime, so she said okay let’s price it as modern. I didn’t disagree. Well, all’s fair in love, war and antiques.
    So there I was, the Ruby crawling spluttering up Martha Cookson’s drive. An ancient gnarled gardener rose from among some bushes to stare. I gave him a royal wave. He resumed work, shaking his head and grinning.
    The river was running higher than last night from the rain we’d had. The old longboat seemed immovable, not rocking at its ropes like boats are supposed to do. Maybe it was stuck on the bottom by aeons of silt. If it wasn’t, that thick hawser would keep it from accidentally winning any races.
    No smoke rose from its black chimney. It was a fifty-footer, no longer neat but still embellished with carvings and painted floral and scenic decorations of the traditional bargee style. Curious how those gross reds, greens, yellows and light blues caught on with