Newark before the wars 1990
In a van the cold comes up. That is if you are sleeping in the back of a Transit in December. I was covered in blankets but I had woken at 2 am freezing cold. I realised I needed as much bedding below me as above. I settled back down to sleep but it was pointless, I was too excited. I looked out of the rear window. I shared a runway with a thousand other vehicles. In the distance a Vulcan V Bomber sneered down at the hardware below it, and lining the other side of the airfield was an unbroken convoy of shipping wagons bearing the emblems of Paris, Milan, Amsterdam, London and delightfully Chippenham, Wilts.
Newark Showground, I had to be awake at 5 am.
It was local Bath dealer, Robin Coleman’s idea. We should load a van full of “dead” stock from the various dealers in Bath, sell it at Newark and share the profits. I was on a wage – I could not lose and so here I was with a vehicle loaded with antique goodies embarking on my very first adventure in the antiques trade.
It had snowed hard the day before and the Cotswolds stretched out before me like the Russian Steppes. I felt like a Panzer Tank Commander as I followed the grey ribbon of the A46 heading north. Skirting Coventry I left the old Roman Roads behind me before rejoining the Fosseway after negotiating the bypasses and one-way systems of Leicester. The Legions used to tramp this way, up and down.
I reached the Showground and the steward directs me to my place in the line. Soon I am hemmed in on all sides by cars, vans, pick-ups, trucks and trailers. The rule is that there is to be no selling before the stands are filled at 11 am.
Six hours before this time, I am standing in the snow whilst boozy smelling men with torches plunder the stock. I sell a silver platter, some Staffordshire flatbacks and a Victorian inkwell before anything is reloaded and we are sent into the Showground proper. Before I am ready I am interrupted by a couple of press photographers who take a few snaps and move on. I see later that I have made the front page of the Newark magazine!
Then the trade move in. I am not ready for this but manage to rally and sell some more lots. Then my first challenge – two Italians ask me the price of a jardiniere. I check the ticket – “£100?” I venture. “No, no, no, is no good, see this chip? I give you £60.” I say “Shall we split the difference - £80?” “No, no, we toss a coin, heads I give you £60 – tails I go to £70.” “Okay” say I, and of course it’s heads. I’ve just lost £40 in 30 seconds, a valuable sum more than twenty years ago.
Gretchen from the Lacquer Chest in Kensington comes by and pays ticket price for a Kelim, then I am beaten down to £90 for a Windsor chair which is a tenner less than I paid for it.
The pace slackens a bit, and I have a chance to catch my breath. An amiable looking American strolls up and asks for the price of a stained glass window frame which we want a £100 for. A seasoned trader now, I mention £220. “Look, could you take £200?” says he. I sigh and pass the frame to him deadpan as I trouser the cash.
The day melts into evening and I am wandering towards the bar where there is jazz and hot food. Amazingly I see a Lowry painting sold for cash. A suitcase full of cash! I drink in celebration, as if I needed an excuse.
Next day the public are in. The lady on the stand next door to me pours me a cup of tea from her thermos flask and we pass the time of day. Clearly she is an old hand at this and I pretend to be too. “Gino will be along later” she says. “Gino is coming”. I am reminded of Aslan and wonder if Gino brings redemption from sin.
Nevertheless, I am surprised when a bevy of swarthy men arrive looking like extras from the Sopranos in their camel hair overcoats and shades. They descend on the stand and without engaging me in any dialogue at all, push stickers on a few pieces of brown furniture and walk off!
I glance incredulously at my neighbour who is staring after them trembling. “Gino” she whispers, “Gino”.
Five minutes later, a couple more foot soldiers follow and press into my hand a substantial wedge of fifties. “Gino” I whisper, “Gino….”
More jazz, more beer and I am enjoying this. The next day though the snow has gone and so has the magic. The medieval jamboree of the past two days is now an ill tempered scrum of dealers trying to get home. I bide my time, as I am in no rush to get back, so I count the cash and find that we have all done very well. Very well indeed.
Driving back I reflect on how, in my innocence, things have turned out. I think I have learned more about people and life in a few days at an antiques fair than in the previous decade.
We divvy up the next morning and resolve to repeat this. I have cleared my overdraft and brought back thousands of pounds to Bath and everyone is very optimistic about the future. This is the way forward and maybe things will be okay. Across the desert sands however, in a Kingdom far away, the drums of war begin to sound and things were very far from okay.
