Drawing the Line Page 3

  No, I didn’t feel particularly proud of myself for conning them, but from day one Griff had dinned into me that I should always do my homework. If I didn’t, and I got my fingers burnt, I’d only got myself to blame. The same rule, he’d added softly, also applied to other people.

  So now I had an extra hundred or so in my hand, when I should have had sixty at the most. Marcus was clearly impressed when I pressed most of it into his hand. Most but not all: some sensible bit of my head refused to let me sell my seed-corn. With just a bit of cash, I might do another couple of deals. ‘Say,’ he began, ‘I was wondering –’

  But at that point Copeland hove into view. He seemed to have the knack of materialising when he was least wanted. I put on my most innocent smile. ‘Ralph was saying something about a Ruskin ginger jar. High-fired,’ I prompted.

  ‘Ralph Harper? That bastard spends so much time on his fakes he wouldn’t know the truth if it poked him in the eye,’ he snarled. He softened. ‘Come on, Lina, it’s not our line at all.’

  Behind him, Marcus was waving his arms and pulling faces. He might have been practising for a gurning competition.

  I took the hint and looked at my watch. ‘Hell. I didn’t realise it was this time. They’ll be opening the gates to the punters any minute.’

  ‘Tell Griff there’s a nice big queue already,’ Copeland said, meaning I was so shove off and stop cluttering up the place.

  I shoved. I needed punters too.

  Chapter Three

  There are days when punters positively leak money. It oozes straight from their hands into yours. OK, so you give them something back – often something that’s worth half what you’ve put on the price label, knowing you’ll be haggled down. But on days like that they don’t even ask for discount for cash.

  There are other days when visitors treat a fair like their own personal Antiques Road Show, bringing their own stuff, ‘just for you to have a look at.’ Yes, they want a free valuation. Other times they’ll simply finger things, observing that they’ve got better at home, and spending nothing at all.

  It looked as if today might have attracted the second sort of punter.

  ‘They come, they touch, they disparage,’ Griff sighed, sipping afternoon tea, his face wrinkled as if he was in great pain. Even I thought the tea tasted nasty, but he’d insisted on having some simply, he said, to pass the time. ‘And then they go.’

  He was right. They had gone. And none had come in to replace them. Of any sort.

  ‘There’s always tomorrow,’ I said, catching crumbs from a slice of treacle tart, no more homemade, despite its quaintly printed label, than the Greenwich Dome. I hoped I sounded more optimistic than I felt. I needed quick sales to get my hands on the frontispiece.

  Today’s empty hours had given me rather too long to consider Griff’s theory that it was probably a forgery. I’d sneaked back for another look when I’d seen Copeland sidle off with his outdoors jacket on leaving Marcus in charge. He wasn’t keen on my having yet another look, but as I pointed out, I now owned at least the ink, if not the paper. The paper felt and smelt right, and the ink was the sort of colour that old ink goes. There was even one very neatly cut side, as if someone had sliced it from a book using a razor or craft-knife. I’d casually asked Marcus if he knew anything about its provenance, a word I’d never even heard of before I joined Griff. But now I knew a provenance was essential, for expensive pieces in general and pictures in particular. Even for butter dishes and marmalade. If the seller could tell you where something came from, and, better still, could show you paperwork to back his claims, then the less likely it was to be a piece meddled with by someone like Ralph Harper. The downside was that it was likely to be very much more expensive if it had spent its days in some gentleman’s residence, as Griff put it, than if it turned up dirty and unloved having done time at boot sales. Marcus had sworn he knew nothing about the page’s provenance. And I’d been inclined to believe him.

  All the same, I had to bring it home soon. ‘What do they say on the film, about tomorrow being another day?’

  Griff loved his old films. Pouring the remains of his tea into the aspidistra we kept handy, supposedly to dress the stall but really, I was sure, for Griff’s slops, he managed a smile. ‘They do indeed. Which is why you mustn’t even think of marking down those Worcester cups and saucers,’ he added in a stronger voice. ‘Now, you did a lovely job on that Rockingham plate, but it’s still a tad battered. You could drop that by twenty pounds for a quick sale.’

  ‘I might if there were any customers to sell to. Where is everyone?’

  ‘Some football match, I daresay.’

  And even if I sold the pretty plate, I still wouldn’t have enough to take home my treasure, not without leaving myself quite skint. I didn’t doubt that Marcus would keep his word, but I wouldn’t put it past Copeland to hand me back my cash with a smirk telling me he’d simply had to accept a much higher offer.

  ‘Go and do another circuit, child. Anyone happening to drift this way would think we were about to witness a public hanging. Weren’t you talking about having an evening out with that hirsute young man? Or has the financial deal compromised your relationship?’

  ‘You tell me.’ Despite myself, I must have sounded very short.

  Griff rearranged a couple of items and returned to his seat, hitching a tartan travelling rug round his knees and reaching for Sanditon. ‘I know it’s not Austen’s greatest, but I try to read all her oeuvre at least once a year. You should read her yourself, dear heart. Even though I can’t guarantee scenes where young men who should know better plunge into ornamental lakes.’ He paused for me to laugh at our memories of the TV Pride and Prejudice he’d shown me on video. To please him I did. Now why couldn’t I have a Colin Firth come dripping into my life? Because he was old enough to be my father, that was why. ‘Start with Northanger Abbey – that’s all about a young woman from a humble background becoming a heroine.’

  ‘Hmm. I’ll try it this evening.’ Yes, I’d be sitting cosily at home listening to the radio with Griff when I’d rather be out in a loud bar with Marcus. Fed up as I was, however, I wouldn’t bite back at Griff. Anyone prepared to become mother, father, teacher and employer all rolled into one to a complete stranger was entitled to a bit of respect. And a lot of love. I knew he was worried about me, so I tried not to sulk. I adjusted a couple of our spotlights, tweaked our sign, and, waving what I hoped looked like a cheery hand, set off.

  If I was gloomy, some of our mates looked downright miserable. Hardly surprising: if they didn’t sell – preferably at a profit – stuff they’d paid good money for, they wouldn’t be able to pay their bills.

  Despite the morning clouds, it hadn’t rained. That wasn’t much comfort to the hardy outside brigade, whose faces had frozen into the sort of smile Griff called a facial rictus, with which they’d no doubt welcome any passing punters. There were a couple of stalls selling what they claimed were ‘collectables’. I gave them a miss, but felt this pull to the jewellery stall I’d sneered at earlier. Where was it? There was something hidden amidst all that glitter that was calling me so strongly I almost whispered to it to stay where it was.

  Chokers. Bracelets. Rings the size of knuckle-dusters. Yes. There in the tray of rings, so small it was almost invisible, was a white gold ring. Someone had thought it was silver. And the emerald, not much to write home about, was set in purple enamel. A few tiny diamonds completed it. I’d no idea why, but I knew the little trinket was important. Thank goodness I’d known not to clear myself out. Perhaps I did have a bit of the diviner’s gift, as Griff always swore I did – antiques, not water, you understand.

  I waved it under the dealer’s nose.

  ‘Twenty pounds?’ She was uncertain, hopeful. And therefore vulnerable.

  I pulled a face. ‘Come on. Trade. I’m with Griff. Griff Tripp.’ Kind Griff, honest Griff. Griff who might or might not approve of what I was doing.

  ‘So you are. Well, say fifteen. And t
hat’s only a couple of quid more than I paid. Pretty, isn’t it?’

  Griff popped a jeweller’s glass into his eye and peered. ‘I knew you were a divvy!’ he crowed. ‘Its intrinsic value isn’t much more than you paid, though the band and setting are, as you realised, white gold. Tiny emerald. Diamonds no more than chippings. Enamel. Oh, I’d say a little more than a hundred, so you’re still in profit.’

  ‘There’s a but coming up. I can feel it. What’s the but, Griff?’

  ‘A nice but.’

  I grinned.

  ‘I know a lady who collects this sort of thing. Women’s Social and Political Union – Suffragettes, to you and me. These were their colours. There’s a story behind this ring. And it’s that story that may bring you in some hard cash. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the lady in question lives in America.’

  ‘So I may have to wait.’ I could feel my face fall.

  ‘“One auspicious and one dropping eye”! Poor Lina. Would you like me to make you a tiny advance on your undoubted profit? Enough to buy that damned page?’

  The whole hall probably heard that I would. Thank goodness my dear Griff was the sort of gay who liked being hugged by women. Removing his shoe, he pulled out a warm and slightly damp wad of twenty-pound notes. ‘How many?’ Without waiting for a reply, he peeled off five. I was home and dry.

  And, of course, frustrated. Completely frustrated. Now I had the frontispiece, how did I find that vital thing, its provenance? It was clear that Marcus neither knew nor cared, and Copeland was in a foul mood over what he declared a completely wasted day. He was no worse off than the rest of us, and possibly better: several people had gone off with his distinctive carrier bags. Admittedly they were small or middle-sized bags but a sale is a sale. Copeland’s presence seemed to quench any desires Marcus might have had for a drink or any other designs he might have had on me. Meek as a lamb he helped pack the more valuable prints and put away his paints.

  Not to be outdone I withdrew to Griff’s stall, packing with what I hoped looked like terrifying efficiency.

  Griff blinked, and said mildly, ‘So the miserable churl doesn’t deserve your tenderness. But I must tell you that that bit of Coalport does. Gently does it, dear heart. Now, what do you say to treating ourselves at the pub on the way home? It’s been a long day and I fancy we have quite a lot to celebrate.’ He glanced at Marcus, scurrying after Copeland like a whipped puppy. ‘All the same, quite a lot.’ He patted the carrier bag holding my page and a bulge in his pocket, caused by a box holding the WSPU ring.

  Yes, I was frustrated in every sense of the word. But Griff was making a real sacrifice in offering to eat out. He hated the noise and smoke of a pub, even when we tucked ourselves into the smoke-free zone, swatting rather pettishly at any stray wisps he fancied might be coming our way. The expression on his face if he had to move a leftover ashtray would make you think he was handling raw sewage.

  ‘What’d be even nicer,’ I lied, ‘would be to stop off at that big Sainsbury’s in Ashford and pick up some bits and pieces for you to cook. And maybe a bottle of bubbly to go with it.’

  It was worth the wait I’d let myself in for while he flitted happily round, making up his mind which vegetables would go with which meat, just to see his face light up.

  ‘Do you really mean it? Or, dear heart, I saw this wonderful recipe in a magazine at the doctor’s the other day!’ Which meant he’d torn it out and stuffed it in an overfull carrier bag hanging behind the kitchen door.

  ‘Of course I mean it.’ And I’d buy a small item on my own account from the stationery section while he pottered round the chill cabinets.

  ‘A loose leaf folder!’ Griff picked it up off the kitchen table. ‘For me? Lina, it’s lovely of you to give me a present –’ He held it as if were no more use than a slice of old bread. He might have asked out loud, ‘But what do I use it for?’

  I mustn’t be disappointed. ‘You see these polythene wallets? They’re open at the top. You can slide pieces of paper inside. There. School children sometimes use them for projects or essays.’

  ‘So you’re expecting me to –?’ His face was still screwed into doubt.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything. While you cook the dinner, I shall sit down at this end of the table with a pair of scissors and your recipe bag and I shall trim all the jagged tears and pop the recipes in the wallets. So if you like them, you’ll know where to find them, and if you don’t like them all you have to do is fish them out and throw them away.’

  He’d put on his glasses to look at the folder. Now he took them off again and polished them furiously. ‘That will be very useful. More than useful. And all the kinder since I know all you want to do is pore over that page.’

  He nodded at it: he’d put it flat on the piano he never played but couldn’t persuade himself to sell. He said it would be a sign of giving in – what to he never specified.

  ‘You think it’s all right?’

  ‘It’s got all the signs of being authentic,’ he said cautiously, wandering over to peer at it again. ‘But I’d like to have it – very quietly – authenticated. UV lights, ink samples, paper samples.’

  ‘That’d cost more than a week’s gewgaw money,’ I reminded him.

  ‘But there’s more than one way, in the vulgar parlance, to skin a cat. We could show it to Titus.’

  ‘Trevor Oates! That revolting man!’ He was worse than Ralph Harper, with nasty freckled convolvulus hands.

  ‘Some may say he’s merely a master forger. Others may say you should set a thief to catch a thief. Titus knows every trick in the book. And every rival in the market place. If that’s not kosher he’ll know. And he’ll know who forged it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Copeland?’

  He looked me straight in the eye. ‘Would you fancy asking him?’

  ‘I suppose I could always ask Marcus –’

  ‘Not, I’d have thought, if you still harbour any carnal thoughts of him.’

  ‘Carnal?’

  ‘Look it up, cherished one. The dictionary is in its usual place. I, meanwhile, will go and put the van away and lock the garage.’

  He always did that, if he was embarrassed about anything, sex, usually. Well, only sex, come to think of it, and heterosexual sex at that. So I didn’t need to look anything up. Instead, I swung the keys from his hand and headed for the van. Even as I checked the electronic locks were doing their job, I could hear in my head what I knew Griff would ask at bedtime: ‘It’s all right and tight? You’re quite sure?’ I’d only just managed to persuade him not to go out in all weathers to double-check. So yes, I was sure, quite sure.

  I could have slipped down after supper to the Hop Pocket for a game of darts with the lads, and Griff wouldn’t have complained. He rarely complained. The only time he came near it was when I was planning to embark on some body piercings and told him enthusiastically about where I was going to have them. He let me rabbit on for ages, not saying a word. At last he reached across the table I was working at and picked up a fruit bowl I was trying to rescue. It had been mended years ago, ugly staples reinforcing the blackened glue.

  ‘What do you feel when you look at those?’ he asked quietly.

  I shuddered. ‘They’re – they’re just awful. It’ll take me ages to soak out the plaster of Paris holding them, and I’ll never really be able to get rid of the scars.’

  ‘Quite. An insult…a violation…’ He looked at me under his eyebrows.

  Neither of us had said anything more. And no, I didn’t have any piercings. When I briefly contemplated a butterfly tattoo on my shoulder I thought of how pained he’d looked before and dropped the idea stone dead.

  So I didn’t go down to the pub. Not after Griff had gone to the trouble of cooking a wonderful Chinese meal, complete with bits and bobs. Griff did things properly. And he was teaching me about wine, too – or rather, trying to. I could tell the difference between red and white, but that was about all. Oh, and rosé, of course. Too mu
ch lager when I was too young, he said, and seemed to think that if I drank lots of water I might clear my palate. Whether my palate improved I couldn’t say, but my skin did: I was becoming quite presentable.

  Tuning the radio, he found some music he liked, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever get the hang of string quartets, and dozed while I finished the recipe clippings and thought about working on one of my stash of chipped and otherwise damaged china. But the sort of delicate brushwork I’d be doing needed the very bright light of the workroom, and I didn’t want to disturb Griff by getting up to leave the room. So I found Northanger Abbey, which he’d casually left on a Chinoiserie occasional table, and made a start. Not exactly your Bridget Jones’s Diary. In fact – put it down to the big meal, the wine, the warmth of the room or those toiling violins – I did what Griff had done. Without the snores, I hope.