Every Last Cent

'Ta, Vi. Look, could you lend me ...?'

She wouldn't half me a groat, stingy cow. Affluence comes in the door and charity flies out of the window.

Funny, but I felt odd, because something thrilling bulged a sheet on her stall. My chest bonged. A genuine antique within reach? Shoppers thronged. I could see nothing except that little mound. 'What've you got, luv?'

'Silver things, Lovejoy. Take a look.'

She uncovered a dozen items of genuine hallmarked silver. Knives, forks, serving and table spoons, fish servers. I drew breath.

'Sorry they're tarnished, Lovejoy,' she said apologetically. 'I've got a tin of scouring polish. Not had time.'

'Chuck it, Vi.' I frowned. They looked good, meaning silver that's supposed to be silver happens to be real silver, if you follow. 'How much?'

'For the lot?' Vi stopped bagging her crud and peered. 'You okay?'

I'd gone sick and had to lean against her stall, beads of sweat on my brow. She perched me on her barrow, propping me upright until I nodded that I felt fine.

'It's my cutlery, isn't it?' She gaped at the silver. 'I got them for a spade and three Cotton Easters.'

And I hadn't the wit to pretend they were worthless. All except one was standard 1930s stuff you can get anywhere. Tarnished but not deformed, they must have lain in a drawer, been sold as a job lot on some old biddy's passing. I winced as her fingers touched the one that mattered. She pounced.

'This?' she marvelled, holding it up. 'A frigging deformed teaspoon?'

'Be careful, you clumsy cow.' She dropped it into my palm, coming to ogle.

It's always other folk get lucky. Look for a short bulbous-bowled spoon with a straight rat's tail handle. (They fake them in Egypt and Turkey, so be careful.) Dealers call it a diamond-point, because its hexagonal handle ends in a faceted tip. They also say its bowl is fig-shaped, which it's not – though you can always kid yourself in antiques. The main thing is the 'Arctic' leopard's head mark, in the bowl near the handle's insertion.

I'd only ever seen one, and only heard of three.

'Is it rare, Lovejoy?'

'Edward IV, love, made about twenty years before Columbus sailed.'

She clapped her hands. 'How much?'

'It'll buy you a new car plus a round-the-world cruise. And,' I added, returning it like sacrificing a finger, 'leave some change to reward a helpful friend.'

'Great!' she cried. 'See you, Lovejoy. Good luck with the clowns!'

Help a friend, lose a friend, my old gran used to say. Tired, I drifted through the market, blaming Mortimer for getting me into this mess. Nothing for it, but to resume my job at the Pot Race Garden Nurseries, where I laboured on days that go horribly wrong. They'd be glad to see me.

You walk from town along the river until it goes under a bridge. There it forms a pool where a meadow slopes up to old people's bungalows. The Pot Race Garden Nurseries occupy a few acres, selling things to gladden gardeners. It's run by Merry and Tramway Adenath, who live in a troubled marital state. On quiet evenings you can hear their rage as far as Southwold. Their fighting script's unchanged these twenty years.

They divorced three (some say four) times, but remarried repeatedly from a deep longing to resume conflict. The reason is Merry wants herbaceous efficiency while Tramway wants uninhibited growth. Which means Merry wants the Eastern Hundreds sprayed with lethal non-degradables. Tramway wants chemicals banned. Merry stocks her shelves with sprays, toxins, and molecules of fearsome potency, all of them synthesized by evil alchemists and guaranteed to necrose Planet Earth for eternity.

Tramway undoes this good work by propagating weeds. He develops sturdy dandelions and nettles resistant to every known herbicide, and grows them exactly where their pollen wafts onto Merry's potent sublimates. Marriage is total war.

Actually I'm on Tramway's side. You have to admit this couple is a good argument for bringing back duelling, though Planet Earth would lose out whoever won the shoot-out.

I entered through the car park and reported for duty.

'Lovejoy!' Tramway was pricking out some desperately sick weeds into meagre soil.

'Good to see you. Sorry those dealers are going to hang you.'

'Wotcher, Tramway. I'll escape when I've a bob or two.' Hint, hint.

'Money? You're fired, Lovejoy.'

'Eh?'

He led me to where a few score of tiny trees struggled in dishes. I nodded, pleased. 'My handiwork. They're looking well, eh?'

'No, Lovejoy. They're ruined.'

'Can't be, Tramway,' I said proudly, not getting it. 'I repotted them.'

'Into?' he prompted, waiting. I noticed he looked more ferocious than usual. He held a stainless steel dibble, swung it to and fro in a menacing manner.

'Into bigger pots!' I pointed. 'I used good compost, honest.'

'Why, Lovejoy?'

'They were stunted. Poor little sods were all gnarled. Give them a bit of sun and water, they'll grow like pantomime beanstalks.'

'They were priceless, Lovejoy. They were bonsai.'

'Eh?' I gaped. No wonder they'd seemed little.

'Yes, Lovejoy. Miniature trees, in pots. Some were eighty years old.'

'But their poor feet,' I said lamely, quickly edging towards the entrance where two children and their dad were lugging out some frondage.

'That's why I'm going to stab you to death, Lovejoy,' Tramway said, advancing. 'You owe me thousands for the damage you've done.'

'Let me help!' I called out, desperately trotting over and helping the dad and his kiddies. 'Car over there, is it?'

Screened by the little family, I reached their motor, then legged it. Merry jubilantly emerged to wave me off. I'd made a real pal in Merry by ruining Tramway's conservation programme, but maybe I'd spoiled her herbaceous skullduggery too. I couldn't risk it, so headed for the Antiques Emporium. Go back to antiques where you belong, you can't go far wrong. It's one of my more useless laws. I wondered if Tramway might give me some back pay.

Now all I could do was confront Mrs Eggers with a team of pretend divvies. At least I'd finish up with a bawbee and a bite. For me, that's a good day.

6

GIMBERT'S AUCTION ROOMS were crowded. I was pleased, but worried Liza was in.

In prison slang, to 'chiff off' means to escape, slink away unseen, from the old word for a file or knife. Two years ago, sociologists did a survey on work defaulters. And who were the worst skivers? Answer: TV people – broadcasters, technicians. And second?

The police, that's who. The sociologists didn't test themselves, clever old idlebacks that they were.

Liza used to be a posh sociologist before she clawed her way free to be a reporter. She has special links with the plod. Liza's a stringer, meaning she hangs about hoping for a political scandal, a train explosion, or some meteor to strike before her very eyes. Every reporter's dream. She distrusts me, unfairly, because of something that wasn't my fault.

Gimbert has taken over the East Hill auctioneers and is now the biggest in East Anglia.

He's a sombre grouser of ill fame who endears himself to all by upping his auctioneer's commission every millisec.

'Auctioneers win every time, Lovejoy,' Liza said, guessing from my expression. 'Today, he's going to charge buyers and vendors.'

'Wotcher, Liza. Any news?'

'Out, Lovejoy!' Gimbert called, imperious and testy, on his high seat. 'I'm not having you saying these genuine antiques are forgeries. Out!'

'I'm going, Gimby.'

Banishment didn't altogether displease me, though I really did want to drift among the lots. In every auction, however tatty, musty dusty fortunes lurk, just waiting for me (or, less deservingly, you). Vague shapes of maybe brilliant Turners and Gainsboroughs hang on yonder cavernously dark walls. Cabinets of jewellery – currently the most prolific source of lucky finds – and grimy porcelains, all bring a different magic. My rule about auctions is that every auction contains gold. This is the reason that viewing days are like women, full of brilliant promise. Always have been, always will be.