The Tartan Ringers Read Online Free Page B

repeated, trying to lock the name in. She always forgets. ‘Dave’s just into port, aren’t you, honey?’ In or out is her only criterion.
    ‘Yes.’ Dave was bemused, like all Jill’s Jolly Jacks. Coastal ships docking at our town’s minuscule port take turns lending Jill nautical manpower. The names change, to protect the innocents. I’ve never met the same one twice. Tinker says they don’t dare land again.
    ‘Hello, er, Dave,’ I said heartily. ‘Jill. You sometimes commission Tipper Noone?’
    ‘Not lately, Lovejoy. I’ve been absolutely
rushed
off my feet!’ Big Frank from Suffolk, silver dealer among the Regency ware, snickered at the unfortunate turn of phrase. A couple of other dealers up-ending furniture politely disguised their guffaws as coughs. ‘Dobson gave him a twinner, Patrick said.’
    Tinker’s tale was beginning to sound true, despite Dobson’s reticence.
    ‘Ta, Jill. Tell him to bell me, eh?’
    I evaded another soak, gnaw, and scenting by eeling among heavy suites of 1910 furniture to where Patrick stood. He always looks crazy to me – crocodile handbag, silken bishop sleeves and enough mascara to black your boots – but he’s a hard-line dealer. I was swiftly getting narked. This bloody drudgery’s Tinker’s job.
    ‘Hiyer, Pat. Where’s Lily?’ Lily’s a married woman who loves Patrick while her husband’s away and sometimes when he isn’t. I’d say more but it’s too complicated and I’d get it wrong.
    ‘Patrick,’ he corrected. ‘That stupid bitch brought the wrong chequebook, Lovejoy! Can you
imagine?’
He swore extravagantly in falsetto. ‘I made her go right home!’
    ‘That’s the spirit, Pat. Look. Where’s Tipper Noone?’
    ‘To each his own, dear heart. You won’t find him in my boudoir.’ He boomed – well, trilled – a gay laugh.
    ‘Don’t help, then,’ I said evenly. ‘See if I care.’
    Other dealers sieving through the gunge on display paused at the implied threat. Even Patrick abated somewhat.
    I may not be much to look at, but among antique dealers I’m special. Very few dealers know anything about antiques. In fact most are simply Oscar-minus actors highly skilled at concealing their monumental ignorance. Try one out, if you don’t believe me. Offer an antique dealer a Rembrandt – he’ll hum and ha and won’t offer you more than eighty quid. It isn’t because he’s miserly. It’s because he can’t tell an Old Master from an oil slick, which is why you can still pick up fortunes hidden among loads of old tat.
    Ignorance being endemic, it follows that antique dealers need somebody to help them, not only with reading and writing, but also with
knowing
antiques. I don’t mean somebody who’s simply read the right books. I mean somebody whose inner sense tells if that fifteenth-century
Book of Hours
is a brilliant sequence of illumination from the unsullied monks of Lindisfarne, or a newspaper and starch. Easy? Yes, for somebody like me, who quivers and trembles when that Roman oil lamp radiates its honest ancient little soul’s vibes out into the universe, or when that antique Chinese jewelled fingernail cover emanates gleams under the auctioneer’s naked bulb.
    The people distributed in Gimbert’s showrooms had paused with alert interest because I’m the only divvie for many long leagues. I’m gormless with money and women, which is why I’m always broke, but I’m the only one of us who isn’t gormless with antiques.
    Patrick’s venom is legendary. But if I called his antiques fakes he too would be broke. Mostly I’m honest because special gifts aren’t for monkeying about with. So, wisely, he turned sulky and pulled his mauve silk lace gloves on.
    ‘Don’t be
nasty
, Lovejoy. I positively sweated
blood
arranging for Tipper to give me an estimate for mending a Chippendale fret. He didn’t turn up, did he, Lily?’ Patrick’s admirer had just breathlessly returned proudly bearing her chequebook.
    ‘Tipper? Yes.