Moonspender (28 page)

"Great, Sandy," I praised, the umpteenth time. I'd
rehearsed wistful-ness in the crate coming over. "If only everything else
was." I sighed, having rehearsed sighs too.

"Trouble?" He quivered with anticipatory glee.
"Tell!" Another sigh. You can't overdo melodrama where Sandy's
concerned. "It's this wedding. I'd planned something really special. An
antique wedding. Queen Victoria's dress, with Rowena secretly changing at the
Minories, then here in a coach-and-four." "An antique wedding?
Real?"

"Well," I said bravely. "You've worked so hard, and
I wanted a terrific opening night . . ."

"So you planned to divert Big Frank's reception from the
George to here?" His eyes shone. "
Tremenduloso
,
Lovejoy!" He was thrilled. "Like Cinderella! Mind you. Queen Vicky's
dinkie
twenty-five inch waist!" He smirked. "Like
mine. Ro's a gasworks! She'll need cantilevering . . ."He paused.
"What's the matter, Lovejoy?"

Time to put the boot in. Head bowed in sorrow, I said, "It's
too late, Sandy." I'm good at dismay and used every erg; I needed Sandy
because Beryl had said it was impossible. "There isn't anybody with the
command of dress sense." I timed it perfectly, adding, "Except
you."

I heard the purr in his voice. "So true, Lovejoy
dearissimo
, but it can't be done. I'm just I mean
positively too drained to dress that porky cow Rowena I mean the lace
alone—"

"Aye. The television crew will be desolate." I did my
sigh.

His voice whipped, "Cameramen?" Smugness vanished. He
caught my arm, bangles and bead rings clanging. "Television? Here?"

"
Mmmh
? Oh, didn't I tell you?"
I shrugged regret. "I promised Goldie a sensation, so the whole BBC—"

He rose in an ecstasy of devoted self-love. "
Brilliantissimo
! They'll worship me!"

"Look, Sandy . . ."I was determined to stay forlorn
until he'd bitten the bait.

He clasped his hands in rapture. "And everybody absolutely
positively adoring me!" His eyes moistened. "Little me, who started
life in a poor fisherman's cottage on this kingdom's most barren coast, hardly
a crust ..."

"Aye," I said sardonically. His family owns half
Strathclyde
. "Well, it's off."

He practically spat with hate. 
"Off?"

"Nobody to dress the happy couple in Victorian."

"Oh, that!" He smiled,
undipped
his handbag, and selected a mirror. "Rotund Rowena and Forgetful Frankie?
Fear not, cherub. A mere bagatelle." He took my arm, which I disengaged.
"What should I wear, Lovejoy? I have a positively 
idyllic
 salmon
and
torquoise
blouse, but aren't shoes 
hell.
"

"Must I send Fixer over? He's done things so far."

"Certainly not! Have you seen his nails? He stopped with a
clatter of bracelets. His earrings were a foot long. "Oh, Lovejoy. What's
that Goldie cow's TV rating?"

"Audience? Fifteen million on one channel, plus—"

He sighed blissfully, eyelashes fluttering. "All for
me!"

Touch and go, but I'd finally cracked it. It was a late hour, I
know, but I had one last job at Dogpits Farm. On the way over I'd phoned to
make sure Candice and the mad major weren't in. I wanted Suzanne York for a
long, long chat. Of all the people involved, I felt she was practically nearly
virtually trustworthy. Almost.

The night was solid, its moon
knittled
by dark cloud, when I drove boldly into Woodbridge. It's a pleasant small town,
handicapped by fervent nature-lovers and arty photographers. Now, it rushed
silence around me as my Ruby wheezed to a halt. Nobody about, no lights apart
from two on the tide-mill's locks; they use the sea tide for grinding com. I
was knackered, so I was beyond tiptoeing. I walked behind

the lovely black-and-white Tudor house, and whistled "The
Lincolnshire Poacher."

The house had leaded windows, faintly sheening when I moved my
head. Then, suddenly, once when I wasn't moving at all. I said softly,
"Boothie?"

"Evening, Lovejoy."

Jesus, but it scares me every time. That he was officially dead
made it worse. I heard Decibel's rapid soft panting as my belly returned from
the
superstrata
. The dog nudged my leg, friendly. I
remembered Jo's rule of pats and strokes, and patted.

"I heard you in the wood, Tom."

"Aye," His disembodied voice said drily. "I decoyed
Clipper's
gyppos
off, to save you."

"You saw me?" I was disappointed. I thought I'd been
really skillful,
Hereward
the Wake.

"You looked a pillock, standing there. Come on in. Kettle's
on. I kept our Elsie up, to give you some of her steak-and-kidney. We expected
you an hour since."

I followed, head hanging. I'd thought I was streets ahead of the
game. But there was no stopping now the whole world was teed up.

Next day, Brendan dropped the leopard off into the Arcade, big in
sacking and labeled, "Ceramics with Care." The long envelope taped to
it was the diagrams I'd given him. He'd done a good job. Ancient bronze has up
to 15 percent tin, the rest copper. Nowadays we put zinc and lead in. The
ancients finished off their bronzes with the meticulous minuteness of a
watchmaker, but we haven't the love in us anymore. Bren must have slogged like
a dog. It was nigh perfect.

I took it to my old garage amidst the garden's undergrowth. Under
the
anglepoise
lamp, the little leopard ran at a low
crouch, forepaw extended and tail taut, a beautiful hunter's lithe line. I held
it up admiringly.

Bronze corrodes. Leave it in air and it goes green or blue—that's
the patina housemaids used to clean off with vinegar. But fakers don't want to
remove that antique-looking patina. We want to put one on.

Fakers use household salt and copper nitrate, then a bath in a
little ammonium chloride and oxalic acid in weak vinegar. But that can take
weeks, even. The method I'd chosen was gentle heating, and brushing with
powdered graphite.

Silver was my trouble.

The Roman leopard's "spots" were to be silver vines. The
Romans loved vine-leaf design. The easiest thing is to heat the whole leopard
over a coke brazier and rub it all over with a soft pencil. Do it a few times
and your bronze looks ancient as civilization itself. Then you can inlay what
you like.

Eleven hours with a
Flexidrill
later, my
bronze leopard's skin was full of vine-leaf-shaped pocks. Another five hours,
and sixty-eight leaves were cut from silver sheeting. A quick nosh and rest for
two hours. Then an epoxy-resin job, sticking the vine leaves into the hollows.
Of course I'd underscored the hollows with a
planishing
punch that the Japanese silversmiths call
sobayase
,
but that's only common sense. The big danger's using too much epoxy—it forms a
thick wodge so the silver stands up proud. You only need to do one sloppy and
you've blown it.

After that it was an endless slog with a gas blowpipe and a
million pencils, rubbing and heating and rubbing the exposed bronze to produce
a lovely rich patina, fraction by fraction. Then, with considerable heartbreak,
a dot of strong acid to corrode little patches, and in those pits a scattering
of cuprite powder, then bronze fillings to make a thick green-colored patina
made by the chemicals I've mentioned. Forgery's got to be more reasonable than
truth, you see. A little bit of the right sort of damage carries conviction.

I stuck it upright in a box of sawdust while the patina developed,
and left to get on with the rest of my life, where things still hung fire. A
few more applications and the Roman leopard's own mother would be proud of it.
So would I.

24

Sometimes I think that time is always its own best ally. One
theory of art claims that all creativity is the reuse of time, the actual
refashioning the stuff as if it were wood. That might be so, but there's a grim
side: Time does things off its own bat. It just doesn't hang about waiting.
Sometimes it steps out of line, goes its own way, springs surprises. Age isn't
all laughter hues.

This week's surprise was time's tardiness. God, it went slow. Now
everything was ready I just couldn't settle. I went with old Robie and okayed a
patch of eleven acres in New Black Field next to Pittsbury Wood, for him to
grow bionic or whatever it's called. He asked if Councillor Ryan knew.

"No," I answered. "It's a secret, see?"

"Farms can't keep secrets, Lovejoy."

Me, with feeling: "I'm realizing that, Robie."

Ledger interviewed me about the fire at Harold Ayliffe's, how come
I'd been so handy to rescue that lass and all that. I told him I'd just been
strolling past, and heard Enid's screams. ... He said, "Oh, aye," and
left. Where's trust gone these days? The newspaper reports were subdued. I'd
awarded Lize scoop four, and promised her a further stupendous run, five to
eight, in a package deal sealed hazardously between design sessions with
Suzanne York and analyzing Manor Farm's performance with Mrs. Ryan.

Then I called Clive to do me the hanger job we'd discussed in
tomorrow's exhibition at the museum. I'd give him the item the next morning at
8 o'clock. Fixer Pete would be my link man. He said okay, pleased.

After that time did its stuff,
footdragged
to Wednesday midnight. I can't say I like time passing, but I do like it to do
one damned thing or the other, stay still or get on with it.

Eons later, it crept to four o'clock in the morning. I worked on
my leopard, finishing touches. Time oozed to five o'clock. I brewed up, fed the
birds, considered washing up, didn't. Days later the
trannie
awoke to its usual hysteria. Six o'clock. I had a bath, fried some bread for my
breakfast. Read. Waited. Read. Walked about. And . . .

Six-thirty a.m., same day.

Time grinned, having me on, dozed. I listened to the radio,
checked that the brass carriage clock was ticking (Mrs. Ryan's elegant gift;
rubbish). All electronic indicators seemed to show that time was cracking on,
hard at it. The
trannie
played a million more
records.

Six-thirty-eight, same day.

Epochs later, six-forty. I thought, do you believe it? But there's
no mileage in patience when time's being stupid so I thought sod it, rang
Fixer, and said let's go. He tried telling me everything was on schedule but
I'd had enough and hit the road.

Ten o'clock that morning I happened to be in the Castle Museum,
nearly accidentally, when the new exhibition of local antiques opened. And,
surprise, there was my leopard looking dug up yesterday, but authentic. The
legend gave it: "Recent Find, Anon; Romano-Brit/ Celtic." Good old
Clive.

There was a lot of attention. Winstanley was at the bookstall,
smiling hello. Sir John looked fit to kill, and demanded in a funny voice if I
knew anything about the newly discovered bronze. I said, "No. Nice,
though, eh?" He went off steaming.

Dealers came, including Joe Quilp and his gorgeous Varlene. She
hugged us all—whether collectively or individually I can't remember— and cooed
that Joe "could make so much money from all these lovely things, dwalling
..." before sweeping off to adorn the main gallery. Joe tottered after,
calling that these lovely things weren't his, dwalling.

And by eleven the antiques mob were there in force. I drifted,
nodding, saying coming to Big Frank's wedding and all that, being pleasant. I
had to cope with three dealers who'd not received invitations, so blamed Fixer
and promised it'd be all right on the night.

My big chance came when the place was packed. Den Hutchinson found
me and said sorry about sending regrets for Saturday. He knew Big
Frank'd
understand. "Besides, Lovejoy," he added,
"I've been to six of his others."

"Okay, Den." He was into the exhibits before I called,
"Oh, Den. You'll miss the antiques."

Den screeched to a stop. "Antiques?"

"Yes, the antiques . . . whoops!" I gave a false laugh
as if I'd almost betrayed a prime secret. "Er, nothing. Den." Forty
antique dealers were fixing me with their beady eyes.

Den said, "Antiques? At Big Frank's wedding?"

I laughed a hearty laugh. "Don't talk daft. I didn't even
mention antiques."

"You did." Helen was close by, curious. "I heard
you."

"Look, Helen." I pretended anger. "I was
joking."

"Lovejoy. You did a raffle at some restaurant." Good old
Jessica, gliding up. "Are you doing another at dear Big Frank's ninth
nuptials?"

"Eighth," I said. "Slip of the tongue, for heaven's
sake . . ."

By the time I left there were desperate shouts going up for Fixer
Pete. By teatime there'd be a thriving black market in our wedding invitations.
Ledger passed me at the park gates. I smiled a beatific greeting. He frowned.
He really hates optimism, especially mine. Well, I hate his.