Open Writing

“Ming,” he said with an air of confidence that I found troubling. It was a beautiful vase. If it was Ming it would be worth a fortune. But was it Ming?

“Ming?” I queried.

“Ming,” he said, nodding vigorously. Without waiting for me to speak he added another emphatic, “Ming!” He lit a mentholated cigarette.

Elsie had caught up with me by now, so I held out the vase. Her expertise shone through immediately.

“Ooh! That’s a big one,” she said as confidently as the dealer. I smiled. “We could put our wet umbrellas in it to dry,” said Elsie. She was the practical one; I was the dreamer of dreams.

“Umbrellas?” cried the vendor. “Umbrellas in a jug what’s stood in the palaces of the Kings o’ China cent’ries before they even thought of building yon Wall? Harrumph!”

Elsie looked crestfallen. “I only thought” she began, but the would-be-seller turned away and sniffed hard as if inhaling from a bucket of fish bladders.

I sensed that this car-booter might not be the expert he pretended to be. Still, I admired his style. As transparent as he was I could tell he was serious about car boot sales, and that he was an all-weather car-booter. His constant sniffle betrayed a man who stood outdoors in fair or foul weather to turn a shilling.

What do you think, Ray,” asked Elsie. “Do you like it?” I did like it, which is why I picked it up in the first place. “Yes, I like it.”

Mr Sniff had ears like a hawk and swivelled on his good leg. “D’yer wannit then?”

“What are you asking for it?”

He fixed me with his eyes, holding the stare longer than was polite without answering. It seemed as if he was trying to locate my bank balance.

I was interested in the vase purely for decorative purposes. We were redecorating the guest room using a Chinese theme. The vase would stand on the floor in the bay window. I had lived in China for fifteen years as a teacher of English, and had come to love the Chinese and their history. The vase was a modern reproduction made for the European market. It was most definitely not Ming, but loosely after the style of Ming, though less fine. Still, it was a car boot sale, not Sotheby’s fine antiques auction rooms.

The Hawk spoke. “Seven!”

“That’s cheap,” said Elsie. “Seven pounds.” I reached for my wallet.

“Seven ‘undred!” spluttered the Hawk, turning an unflattering colour. He paused, looking into my face for a reaction.

I laughed. “You’d have to throw in your car and house for that kind of money!”

“Whatcha givin’ it?” he belligerated. “’Ouse? Car? It’s a Ming worth thousands and, and, and…”

“What makes you think its Ming?”

“Look arrit. It even looks like Ming!”

“It looks Chinese, but it isn’t Ming. Have you had it authenticated?”

“Or-what-icated?”

“Authenticated. Have you submitted it to the scrutiny of experts who specialise in Chinese ceramics?”

“There’s no call fer that sorta language!” His colouring put him straight on top of the critical list.

I tried a different tack. The man in the red pullover and green body warmer required patient and calm handling. “How do you know it is Ming?”

“The chap what sold it to me said it was, that’s ‘ow!” He paused for dramatic effect, which fell flat, so he went on. “And anyway, there’s a stamp on the bottom of it. What do you say to that?” He gave a half-hearted little laugh, like a man who knows he has won.

I had seen the mark when I first up-ended the vase, before Elsie joined me. I turned the vase over again and rubbed my finger over the blue Chinese characters. “Have you had it translated?” I asked softly.

The Hawk leaned towards me, mistaking my calm tone for capitulation, “’Ere, don’t start that again!” I noted the menace, but it wasn’t profound.

“The fellow that sold you this said it was Ming?”

“’S’right, mate. An’ ee’ knows ‘is stuff does Charlie.”

“Is Charlie an expert on pottery, then?” I decided to play it safe.

“Well, I dunno about ‘is bein’ an expert, but ‘ee knows pots and dishes, does Charlie. I bought it from ‘im an’ ‘ad it at ‘ome, but the wife says it’s in the way.”

“You had this at home? I see. What did you use it for.” I was intrigued.

“We used it fer an umbr … Hey! None o’ yer business. It wer an orniment The wife got fed up of it, that’s all!”

He was miffed, but struggled within himself to regain his composure. Suddenly he brightened, and stretching out a mitted hand over my head shouted, “Hey, Charlie. Can yer settle an argy bargy?”

Charlie appeared from behind his van across the way from the Hawk’s car. He was obviously a fellow car-booter. “Hiya,” said Charley chipperly. “How’s tricks?”

Ignoring the salutation and enquiry into his welfare, the Hawk asked his friend with feigned seriousness as if to emphasise Charlie’s need to educate me in matters ceramic and oriental. “This ‘ere Ming vase you sold me … “

“Whoa, I never said it was Ming, pal,” said Charlie, taken aback. His chipper had fled with his smile.

“Dincha?” asked the Hawk. “I’m sure you said it wer Ming from China.”

“Do you know what a Ming like that would be worth?” asked Charlie, looking his fellow-trader in the eye and getting the best of it.

“No,” said the Hawk, suddenly honest.

“Well, a Ming vase sold at auction a couple of months ago for a cool one and a half million quid.” Charlie apparently kept a finger on the market’s pulse even if he did not dabble in it.

“And this isn’t one?” asked a squeaky voice down inside the red sweater. Charlie laughed. His chirpiness and smile returned to their normal positions. He tapped the vase I still held.

“It’s a nice piece, but not expensive. I sold it to Fred here. Before that we used it for an umb … “

“No need to explain.” interrupted Fred, alias the hawk, “Ee’s not interested in what you done with it. ‘Ee just wants ter buy it fer ‘is ‘ouse.”

“About this mark, Fred,” I intoned in an altogether too familiar fashion. But I threw caution to the winds. I was ready for anything, and I wanted the vase, but not at a silly price.

“What about it?” Fred craned his neck to see where I pointed.

“Well, would you like to know what it says?”

“If it doesn’t say ‘Ming’ I’m not interested!” It is pitiful to see a grown man sulk.

“I can tell you what it says,” piped Charlie. “It says, ‘’Dishwasher safe!’”

He was right. The Hawk’s jaw dropped, and his cigarette fell into his change bag. He muttered something almost under his breath that it is probably illegal to put on the printed page.

“If this fellow wants to buy it,” advised Charlie over Fred’s silence, “just turn a profit on what you gave me for it and call your day good.”

“I’ve not made me rent yet,” protested Fred.

“It’s only nine o’clock, Fred!” said Charlie. I was beginning to like Charlie in inverse proportion to my mounting distrust of the Hawkish Fred.

“What did you sell it for,” I asked Charlie.

“A tenner,” said Charlie before Fred could get his jaw back into speaking position. ”Give him a pony and he’ll die happy.”

“Will you take twenty-five,” I asked Fred. He nodded, reaching for another cigarette. I handed him two tens and a five and we shook hands. Charlie looked at Fred with a grin from ear to ear. “You did okay, Fred. You doubled your money and then some.”

Having shaken both their hands I followed Elsie between the rows of cars to find our estate car. We were going straight home to set down our treasure in its place of honour in the guest room.

As we walked past the front of the Hawk’s car, I noticed that his tax disc was three months out of date, and wondered if it was dishwasher safe.

Copyright © Ronnie Bray

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED