The Rich And The Profane by Jonathan Gash Read Free Book Online Page B

afford nineteen quid to buy it in the first place, where the hell d’you think I could get a fortune?’
    She suddenly smiled, took my arm, and began to walk me towards the archway. I gaped. Was the woman demented?
    ‘Lovejoy,’ she breathed, fondness itself, ‘I really do think you and I are going to get along. Would you like tea before lunch? The novices grow their own tea. Personally, I think the greenhouse is somewhat too arid.’
    Caution in every step, I went with her because there’s not much else you can do when a bonny bird squeezes your arm, but I was ready to run. This Marie Metivier ought to try consistency for a change, give blokes like me a chance. As we went into the interior courtyard, I tried to work out what turned her switch on and off.
    Her brother narked her, for one. As did Hunter. And Arty, when praising a horse. The horse too she hated. So what pleased her? Me, being broke. And me again, for not having a viable motor. Me a third time ... for not being a gambler?
    Her George had mentioned odds at the "ley point-to-point races, what, thirteen to something? Hunter the Punter. And Arty, who’d taken up antiques to become even more broke when gambling. Aha, I thought. I’d invented the wheel, and smiled with new confidence at the lovely Marie Metivier. This gorgeous bird didn’t care for menfolk who blued their loot on tardy nags in the three-thirty at Aintree. Simple as that! I felt relief, tried out my theory.
    ‘Nice little place you’ve got here,’ I quipped, standing before Albansham Priory. Time for a firing. ‘Did you know that some ancient priories were actually wagered in ancient days?’
    Her features clouded, abruptly Wicked Witch of the West.
    ‘Don’t talk to me—’
    I was happy. ‘Gambling is utterly wasteful.’
    Her face unwrinkled and the dazzling sun shone. She squeezed my arm. I beamed. I was a hit! Eagerly I went on, ‘Once, I knew a man who chucked everything he owned on a game of cards, bet his entire shop - a pokey little antiques place, but still his livelihood - at a poker championship. I tried to talk him out of it...’
    Her face was rapturous. I kept up the patter. Once a crawler. But look how politicians get on. There’s mileage in grovelling.
7
    You can’t smell antiques, but you can sense them. It’s not a guess, not a feel. It’s like suddenly hearing an enormous shout. You know that feeling in passion, when she becomes the ultimate goddess and it’s heavenly violins? Well, add a clamorous bonging and there you have it. Fakes don’t do it. Forgeries don’t do it. But antiques? Oh, yesyes.
    It’s because antiques have been lived with. People loved them, polished them, cried when they had to sell them, watched heartbroken when bailiffs took them away. Antiques are different. Is it any wonder? It’s how they were made. Anybody can make a chair with modern glues and an electric drill. And if you’re too idle even to do a hand’s turn, simply buy the pieces ready carved and stick them together. Then, like most furniture manufacturers nowadays, claim that you’re as good as the immortal Sheraton or Hepplewhite.
    Except you’re phoney. The reason was plain at Alban-sham Priory.
    The interior courtyard was busy, busy. Workshops abounded. I’d been sniffing tantalizing scents ever since alighting from Hunter’s van. The aromas of glues filled the air. A workshop - chairs, tables, even a small bureau - stood in plain view. Two smocked monkish figures beavered away. I almost puked at their frigging nerve. They had a bandsaw, two jigsaws, a stack of machined beechwood chair legs, more devices than the parson preached about. It was obscene.
    Further along, three figures in nunnish apparel sat at embroidery frames in a large bay window. They too were going at it like the clappers, adjusting auto-holders, sliding their adjustable frames beneath arrays of focused spotlights. No mediaeval eye strain there.
    And I heard the solid thunk of a kiln door, heard the