A Rag, a Bone and a Hank of Hair

3

MIMI WELKINSHAW WAS at her dad's van, thank goodness. I needed her help. She waved hello with a forged tribal mask, all ebony and exotic feathers, grinning. I signalled yes, I'd buy it. She rolled in the aisles at that, and chucked it into her van among the other dross. It gave me a wry smile.

Antiques foster mysteries. We even encourage them. Look at the Great Dogon Mask mystery, for instance. A queer business, it still drives antique dealers daft.

It began once upon a time when two French anthropologists went a-wandering in Africa. They took recorders, cameras, gadgetry to get the story right. They studied the Dogon, a tribe who did a complicated dance every sixty years. For this, tribal priests stole away to secret caves where they unearthed sacred masks. These masks are megagalactic rarities, and contained information about heavenly bodies - stars, not people - in the night skies. So far so good?

It was interesting - tribal priests, a sacred cult, every sixty years a dancing jubilee. Our own folk do this sort of thing at Stonehenge. The Chinese climb mountains on special days. My own home town trudges up a hill called Sixty-three Steps on Good Friday, for no reason. It's simply what folk do, no harm done.

But these French anthropologists learned that the dance concerned two stars. One was Sirius the Dog Star, famously the brightest. The other star, so necessary to the ancient cult dance of the Dogon tribe was nearby - well, near as stars go. It was called Sirius B.

Bad news for logicians, for Sirius B is all but invisible.

You can see it if you've a modern telescope. But this tribe's been dancing their ritual dance for century upon century upon… See the problem? Ancient African tribe, keeping records on cult masks in concealed caves about an unseen star. The Dogon priests admitted sure, they knew all about the good old invisible star, so what? They danced to a star they could never have seen.

Astronomers take beautiful photos of this star, so we know it's really there. Mystique mongers had a field day, proving the Dogon came from Outer Space, all that. The real impact, though, was on antique dealers who sulked, because they wanted those sacred

- priceless - masks. They couldn't get them by fair means. This meant forging them, making them up. Never mind that none of us has the slightest clue what a Dogon mask looks like. Antique dealers everywhere, especially in Belgium, bought common old (read new) masks from anywhere, decorated them with weird symbols, oven-dried them, then sold them - furtively and with grave warnings to keep them secret - to anybody daft enough to buy.

See what I mean? The Great Mask Mystery is alive and flourishing. Where two or more antique dealers are gathered together in greed's name, there'll be a Dogon Mask among them. Where was I?

In Bermondsey, alone and palely loitering, wondering how the heck I could warn Sturffie off and still keep my skin. Make no mistake. If it came to Sturffie or me, it'd be goodnight Sturffie, no question. Okay, so he'd saved me that time. But fair's fair. I'm a survivor.

Thumping music started up. Dealers yelled. I couldn't help grinning as Mimi started her famous striptease. She plays a scratchy old gramophone, with her van doors wide open like a stage. (Dance in your vehicle, the law can't stop you. Obstruct London's streets by dancing, you're for it.) Dealers and tourists immediately gathered. Cameras clicked.

Admiring laughter rose in the jostling crowd. There was a lot to admire because Mimi is bulbous and you get a lot for your money. Some dealers were narked, wishing that they too had some pulchritude to entice unwary spenders. Mimi has a sweet nature, is quiet and pure. Because of her show, though, ribald gossip stories abound. Vice escapes gossip, where virtue never does. I loved her dance and hummed along. You can't help worshipping women, big or small, whether full of youth's honey promises or faded crone's loving experience. I love them all, because they're the only source of delight. It gave me an idea. The most magic words ever spoken are the pure and simple 'Listen and save' of the immortal Milton. They were the only words the River Severn's exquisite goddess Sabrina heeded. She did listen, and did the job.

All I needed was a goddess who would listen and save! I watched Mimi buh-buh-buh-booooom. The crowd thickened in more ways than two. She was down to knickers and bolero as the record gave its final ta-rrrrah! whereupon she slammed the van doors amid yells for an encore. I applauded. I love art.

In nearby converted warehouses there's an occasional nosh bar. Some are elegant with flowers and trellises, where you could safely take your grandma. Others are wobbly trestles and a steaming urn spewing tenpenny grot. I prefer the grime, because Billia is usually there.

'Why Billia, Billia?' I asked, paying for a gill of outfall and a cheese wedge. I was relieved she hadn't gone walkabout with some rambo. She's prone to it.

Actually she made her name up. Pretty slim and shapely with flowing blonde locks and the most amazing mouth. It's never still. She doesn't use much makeup, which is a shame, but always wears bright colours. Today's theme was every shade of reds, scarlets, rose. She was sitting smoking a fag. Fire is not her only hazard.

'Thought you'd be along, Lovejoy, soon as I heard.'

'I'm that famous, eh?'

She glanced around. The nosh place was in an arched doorway leading to a hall crammed with antique stalls. By the wide wooden stairs a couple or three dealers had managed to slot in archaic church furnishings, glass trinket-filled cabinets, display boards festooned with jewellery. Throngs of tourists mingled. Like dining on a shrinking ice floe.

'You, down-hearted?' I stared, partly because I can't help it, but mostly in disbelief.

'You're beautiful, got your own shop. God's sake, your car goes!' I couldn't imagine greater wealth.

She smiled a bitter smile, her mouth fluttering. It tortured me just looking. Yet anguish communicates, doesn't it? I felt the same shame as I had moments ago watching that struggling crone. Reminded me of someone, dunno who.

'Typical, Lovejoy. But bless you for coming.' She stubbed out her fag end, the symbolism momentarily stopping my synapses. 'I began to wonder if you'd got my message.'

Had I? I'm not good with messages. 'What's the problem, love?' A little hope crept into me, because a dazzling beauty's gratitude might mean that ecstasy followed close behind.

'Dang took a drop last week. I wanted you to prevent it.' She touched my hand in tearful forgiveness. 'I'm not blaming you, Lovejoy. I know you'd have come earlier if you'd been able.'

'Better late than never, eh?' I thought, what the hell? I'd come to her for help, and she thought I was her rescuer.

Dang I vaguely knew. He lived over her antique shop in Islington. I'd met this muscle mountain when I'd delivered a rare 1786 vase-shaped mustard pot there. He'd dismissed me with a terse ta-goodnight, which could only mean heavenly choirs as soon as the riff-raff, namely moi, departed. He'd grabbed the mustard pot so hard I'd told him to be careful. Billia had emerged. I explained to him that 'wet' mustard pots came after Queen Anne. Until about 1730 or so, diners mixed mustard powder as they dined along. He'd just gaped at me with complete incomprehension. Bodybuilder, boxer, Dang and Billia later did an antiques stall in St Edmundsbury market, him toting her barge and lifting her bales with massive dedication.

'I'm scared, Lovejoy.'

Glam, rich, delectable, all these are superlatives. But scared was a definite grounder. It was also impossible. Women, having it all, cannot possibly have any reason to be scared. Lovejoy logic was called.

'You can't be, love. You've got everything.'

'You're just thick, Lovejoy.' She said it listlessly.

Folk bullied into the hall clamouring arguments about clock hands they'd failed to re-blue properly. If I'd not been mesmerized by Billia's kaleidoscope mouth I'd have gone after them to explain. The temptation is to do it on a naked flame, but that's wrong.

You do it in a crucible of brass filings, on a gas ring. It calls for split-second timing.

Watch for the colour change from a grubby brown to deep slate, then soon as you see a pretty steely blue whip the hands into an oil bath. Leave them to cool. The blue's exactly that on flintlock gun barrels. Incidentally, take care not to set your place on fire.

Had she just said hospital? 'Hospital?'

'You're not listening, are you?' Bitterness reigned. 'I saw you lusting after that fat cow Mimi. And that dim whore Moiya. You're just weak, Lovejoy.'

I said indignantly, 'I heard every word.'

'Dang's so gullible, Lovejoy.'

'He didn't look it to me.' Hospital, though?

'Far too trusting. Now it's too late.'

I cleared my throat. 'Who's in hospital?'

'The other boxer. They hurt him badly because he didn't lie down in the sixth round.'

Took a drop, she'd said. She meant throwing a fight.

'You know who did it?'

'The money men sent their friends.'

'Lovejoy? Suss these, wack. Brilliant, eh?' I stared at the stack of greeting cards plonked in front of me. Ballcock's a shifty madman who travels on a bicycle. It has butcher-boy paniers, so he can carry his fakes.

I riffled through them. 'They all Father's Day, Ballcock?'

'All dated, 1868 to 1903, genuine Victoria.' He was so proud.

'Great, Ballcock.' Sometimes I don't have the heart. Everybody from Camden Passage to Petticoat Lane knows that Ballcock fakes and decorates these greeting cards himself.

He went into it four years ago to meet alimony payments. Mrs John Bruce Dodd of Spokane, Washington, USA, would have been surprised, for it was that sentimental lady who in 1910 (note that) petitioned the US president Mr Woodrow Wilson to designate a special day for remembering dads. Her own widower father raised his six children unassisted, did a grand job. June's third Sunday got elected as the modern Father's Day, joy of retailers everywhere. Now here came Ballcock with cards dated 1868. And he'd sell most by dusk. I just said, 'Great, Ballcock,' and he departed rejoicing. Caveat emptor.

That little incident made me notice how other dealers were behaving. Usually, antique dealers are one big bustle, yapping worse than any wine party. They shout, catcall about deals gone wrong, Leonardo paintings missed by a whisker, amazing antiques found in some old lady's cupboard. Fables, lies, and crises are the soul of the antiques game. Yet since I'd joined Billia - usually as popular as fish and chips - not a soul had said a word to me, except for Ballcock, a known crazo. Something was wrong. To test, I deliberately grinned as Legs Leslie clumped past - he lost both feet in a motor race years agone. I got cut dead. Legs pretended not to see me. This, note, from a bloke who I'd got a job for at Pasty's oil-fired pottery kiln in Long Melford.

They were shunning me because I sat with Billia. Whose bloke Dang had thrown a fight. Oh, dear. One plus one equaled exit.

I went ahem, ahem. 'Look, love. I can't do much for you just now. I've got this sick dog that's dying of…' What do dogs die of, for God's sake? '… er, viruses. And I've to fly to Chicago. A sick uncle…'

Her eyes filled. 'You too, Lovejoy?'

'No, love,' I said earnestly. 'I'll help, sincerely.'

'You will?' Her magic mouth moved, opened, closed on her tongue.

I demanded, hoarse, 'Tell me what you want.'

'See me later? The Nell of Old Drury?'

'Up the West End? Why there?'

'I want you to meet someone.' It was her turn to look furtive.

I couldn't imagine anybody on earth big enough to put the frighteners on Dang. I smiled reassuringly, with no intention of meeting her.

'About seven do, love?' I rose, poised for flight.

'Seven o'clock,' her delicious mouth said. 'I'll do whatever you want, Lovejoy, if you'll help.'

Life's a swine. I dithered. 'I promised, didn't I?'

'Remember that mustard pot, Lovejoy? I've got the original. It's yours, if you'll stand by me.'

I bussed her cheek, and took off. Until she said that, betrayal seemed easy. After all, promises are made to be broken. And me protecting Man Mountain Dang from a lorry load of rabid East Enders was ludicrous. But temptation's never done me much good.

Within a couple of minutes I'd worked it out. By seven I'd want a drink, and where better than one of London's most famous taverns?

I emerged into the open market, intent on sizing up Moiya December, and came upon Fawnance Duleppo, who I'd been avoiding ever since I could remember. What with Sir Ponsonby, Miss December, and the woebegone Billia, names weren't my thing today.

With a name like mine I should talk.