The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl Volume 1 Read online

  He paused, stroking his chin with the finger. "Now I was just thinking. These legs on your chestof-drawers might be very suitable. Yes, they might indeed. They could easily be cut off and fixed on to my table."

  He looked around and saw the three men standing absolutely still, watching him suspiciously, three pairs of eyes, all different but equally mistrusting, small pig-eyes for Rummins, large slow eyes for Claud, and two odd eyes for Bert, one of them very queer and boiled and misty pale, with a little black dot in the centre, like a fish eye on a plate.

  Mr Boggis smiled and shook his head. "Come, come, what on earth am I saying? I'm talking as though I owned the piece myself. I do apologize."

  "What you mean to say is you'd like to buy it," Rummins said.

  "Well… " Mr Boggis glanced back at the commode, frowning. "I'm not sure. I might and then again…on second thoughts no…I think it might be a bit too much trouble. It's not worth it. I'd better leave it."

  "How much were you thinking of offering?" Rummins asked.

  "Not much, I'm afraid. You see, this is not a genuine antique. It's merely a reproduction."

  "I'm not so sure about that," Rummins told him. "It's been in here over twenty years, and before that it was up at the Manor House. I bought it there myself at auction when the old Squire died. You can't tell me that thing's new.,, "It's not exactly new, but it's certainly not more than about sixty years old."

  "It's more than that," Rummins said. "Bert, where's that bit of paper you once found at the back of one of them drawers? That old bill."

  The boy looked vacantly at his father.

  Mr Boggis opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again without uttering a sound. He was beginning literally to shake with excitement, and to calm himself he walked over to the window and stared out at a plump brown hen pecking around for stray grains of corn in the yard.

  "It was in the back of that drawer underneath all them rabbit-snares," Rummins was saying. "Go on and fetch it out and show it to the parson."

  When Bert went forward to the commode, Mr Boggis turned round again. He couldn't stand not watching him. He saw him pull out one of the big middle drawers, and he noticed the beautiful way in which the drawer slid open. He saw Bert's hand dipping inside and rummaging around among a lot of wires and strings.

  "You mean this?" Bert lifted out a piece of folded yellowing paper and carried it over to the father, who unfolded it and held it up close to his face.

  "You can't tell me this writing ain't bloody old," Rummins said, and he held the paper out to Mr Boggis, whose whole arm was shaking as he took it. It was brittle and it cracked slightly between his fingers. The writing was in a long sloping copperplate hand: Edward Montagu, Esq. Dr To Thos. Chippendale A large mahogany Commode Table of exceeding fine wood, very rich carvd, set upon fluted legs, two very neat shaped long drawers in the middle part and two ditto on each side, with rich chasd Brass Handles and Ornaments, the whole completely finished in the most exquisite taste £87 Mr Boggis was holding on to himself tight and fighting to suppress the excitement that was spinning round inside him and making him dizzy. Oh God, it was wonderful! With the invoice, the value had climbed even higher. What in heaven's name would it fetch now? Twelve thousand pounds? Fourteen? Maybe fifteen or even twenty? Who knows?

  Oh, boy!

  He tossed the paper contemptuously on to the table and said quietly, "It's exactly what I told you, a Victorian reproduction. This is simply the invoice that the seller the man who made it and passed it off as an antique-gave to his client. I've seen lots of them. You'll notice that he doesn't say he made it himself. That would give the game away."

  "Say what you like," Rummins announced, "but that's an old piece of paper."

  "Of course it is, my dear friend. It's Victorian, late Victorian. About eighteen ninety. Sixty or seventy years old. I've seen hundreds of them. That was a time when masses of cabinet-makers did nothing else but apply themselves to faking the fine furniture of the century before."

  "Listen, Parson," Rummins said, pointing at him with a thick dirty finger, "I'm not saying as how you may not know a fair bit about this furniture business, but what I am saying is this: How on earth can you be so mighty sure it's a fake when you haven't even seen what it looks like underneath all that paint?"

  "Come here," Mr Boggis said. "Come over here and I'll show you." He stood beside the commode and waited for them to gather round. "Now, anyone got a knife?"

  Claud produced a horn-handled pocket knife, and Mr Boggis took it and opened the smallest blade. Then, working with apparent casualness but actually with extreme care, he began chipping off the white paint from a small area on the top of the commode. The paint flaked away cleanly from the old hard varnish underneath, and when he had cleared away about three square inches, he stepped back and said, "Now, take a look at that!"

  It was beautiful-a warm little patch of mahogany, glowing like a topaz, rich and dark with the true colour of its two hundred years.

  "What's wrong with it?" Rummins asked.

  "It's processed! Anyone can see that!"

  "How can you see it, Mister? You tell us."

  "Well, I must say that's a trifle difficult to explain. It's chiefly a matter of experience. My experience tells me that without the slightest doubt this wood has been processed with lime. That's what they use for mahogany, to give it that dark aged colour. For oak, they use potash salts, and for walnut it's nitric acid, but for mahogany it's always lime."

  The three men moved a little closer to peer at the wood. There was a slight stirring of interest among them now. It was always intriguing to hear about some new form of crookery or deception.

  "Look closely at the grain. You see that touch of orange in among the dark red-brown. That's the sign of lime."

  They leaned forward, their noses close to the wood, first Rummins, then Claud, then Ben.

  "And then there's the patina," Mr Boggis continued.

  "The what?"

  He explained to them the meaning of this word as applied to furniture.

  "My dear friends, you've no idea the trouble these rascals will go to to imitate the hard beautiful bronze-like appearance of genuine patina. It's terrible, really terrible, and it makes me quite sick to speak of it!" He was spitting each word sharply off the tip of the tongue and making a sour mouth to show his extreme distaste. The men waited, hoping for more secrets.

  "The time and trouble that some mortals will go to in order to deceive the innocent!" Mr Boggis cried. "It's perfectly disgusting! D'you know what they did here, my friends? I can recognize it clearly. I can almost see them doing it, the long, complicated ritual of rubbing the wood with linseed oil, coating it over with french polish that has been cunningly coloured, brushing it down with pumice-stone and oil, bees-waxing it with a wax that contains dirt and dust, and finally giving it the heat treatment to crack the polish so that it looks like twohundred-year-old varnish! It really upsets me to contemplate such knavery!"

  The three men continued to gaze at the little patch of dark wood.

  "Feel it!" Mr Boggis ordered. "Put your fingers on it! There, how does it feel, warm or cold?"

  "Feels cold," Rummins said.

  "Exactly, my friend! It happens to be a fact that faked patina is always cold to the touch. Real patina has a curiously warm feel to it."

  "This feels normal," Rummins said, ready to argue.

  "No, sir, it's cold. But of course it takes an experienced and sensitive finger-tip to pass a positive judgement. You couldn't really be expected to judge this any more than I could be expected to judge the quality of your barley. Everything in life, my dear sir, is experience."

  The men were staring at this queer moonfaced clergyman with the bulging eyes, not quite so suspiciously now because he did seem to know a bit about his subject. But they were still a long way from trusting him.

  Mr Boggis bent down and pointed to one of the metal drawer-handles on the commode. "This is another place where the fakers go to work," he s