The Rich And The Profane by Jonathan Gash

to the wall until I was close to the hedge, then walked slowly - that’s the trick in the dark - until I blundered through the hawthorns, heading for where I imagined Gesso had left his motor.
    It was gone. The selfish swine had done a flit, leaving me. That’s friends for you, I thought bitterly. I checked the direction of maximum skyglow, and struggled through the undergrowth until I came on a feeder path of an apple orchard. It gave me the way to Aldeburgh, from where I knew the way home.
    Five hours later I tottered into my cottage. No sign of Gesso. The night was a success, one way or another. I lit my candle and stared at the painting.
    ‘Roderic O’Conor, as ever was.’ I actually said the name aloud, marvelling at what I’d nicked - I mean borrowed, for research purposes.
    Now, the ‘squirt-and-flirt’ school of painters, exemplified by Vincent Van Gogh, were laughed off from mid-Victorian days until the 1930s. Derided, ignored by all except close friends or perceptive shrewdies. This is where greed comes in, because there were scores, hundreds, of starving new-style artists.
    As the twentieth century rolled in and on, collectors, museums, galleries all infarcted in horror at their ghasdy oversight. They’d passed up valuable works of art that they could have got for a groat! The great scramble began. Gaugin, Van Gogh, Mondrian, all the now-famous names were hunted. Greed spread. Fortunes were made as folk bashed and cashed in. A glimmer of realization, maybe even understanding too, God help us, shone on lesser artists like Gilman and Roderic O’Conor. This latter bloke is typical. He was 1860 to 1940, give or take, and hung out with Gaugin’s followers at Pont-Aven. Never super-famous, or ever likely to be, he’s still notable. And very, very collectable.
    Which raised the question of what should happen to works of art like this. I stared at the picture until the candle guttered and left me only the glow of its dying red wick. Some days you can’t depend on anything. I carried the painting out to the workshop and set to.

11
    N ext morning i was wakened by a pounding on my door. Normally it’s only bailiffs. I clad my waist in a towel. It was Prince, in high dudgeon.
    ‘Lovejoy!’ He used to have a waxed moustache, to twiddle in outrage, but now he’s gone native and does without. ‘You trick me!’
    ‘How?’ I had, but in which way specifically?
    He stood quivering. Pistols for two, coffee for one.
    ‘My furniture is unready!’
    ‘Well, yes, Prince.’ Florida can wrap herself in a towel and it’ll stay put all day long. It’s because women have waists. We men are cylindrical, so I had to clutch my towel. ‘There’s a good reason. The gloss on furniture—’
    ‘You flannel me!’ He marched off. ‘Come this instant!’ Blinking, I followed into the drizzle, donning my hat, a tweed business with a feather. I nicked it from the Treble Tile hatstand one rainy eve. Three little children were in the lane. One shouted.
    ‘Lovejoy!’ He’s a little brute called Roy, famous for stealing tortoises. He has six so far. ‘Your mam’ll tan you for not having anything on!’
    Little Charlotte called, ‘You’ll catch cold, Lovejoy. Get dressed.’ Females are born with the right to tell you off. ‘Right, love. In a sec.’
    She said to an overcoated man, ‘His new auntie’ll be here soon.’
    ‘Will she?’ Summer asked her politely. ‘So early?’
    ‘Yes,’ said little Charlotte Blabbermouth. Five years old, she knows everything which she tells everybody so they’ll know everything too. ‘She sleeps on top of Lovejoy, but you’ve not to tell or she’ll be cross.’
    ‘Will she?’ Summer didn’t know whether to be intrigued or amused. He glanced my way. ‘Why?’
    ‘Because she’s secret.’ Charlotte was really motoring, a harbinger of doom and loving every syllable. ‘She laughs in bed at night. I hear her.’
    ‘Charlotte,’ I called, not wanting Summer to hear of