Guilty Pleasures Read Online Free PDF Page A

it?’
    Good question. I’d made a bit of a name for Tripp and Townend with my restoration work, but that was china and occasionally glass. ‘I’ve never tried fixing silver,’ I admitted. ‘And after that business with the Hungarian dish, I’ve not managed to get very fond of it.’
    â€˜Hmm. You’ve always struck me as being capable of doing anything you turned your mind to,’ he said, surprising me. Then he returned to his priority. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find something to sell.’ He removed the cup and saucer from my grasp. ‘Come on. There’s a new quiz show starting in twenty minutes, and I wouldn’t want us to miss it.’ Delete the us and you’ll get his meaning. And perhaps go on would have been more accurate than come on .
    Although my father had very little to do all day, illegal activities apart, he didn’t think of filling the hours tidying or cleaning his wing of the house, though I have to admit that these days I no longer feared a visit to his kitchen might cause instant food-poisoning. Perhaps he was right to confine himself to polishing the sink and swabbing the tiles. All the other rooms were crammed with a weird assortment of objects. Some would have made a Sotheby’s auctioneer reach sweaty-palmed for his gavel, some I’d have consigned to the tip as happily as I’d have disposed of this afternoon’s leavings. It wasn’t hard to tell one from another. In the rooms I hadn’t already reorganized for him, it was more a question of reaching what I wanted without causing an avalanche of assorted plates, books and pictures, many, despite my efforts, still stacked willy-nilly on top of each other.
    What I liked to do was stand in one of the corridors, or on a flight of stairs, and wait to be called. If my father was in a hurry, I’d just have to barge into a room at random and pick something. Then I’d clean whatever it was, sell it, taking ten per cent, and use the proceeds to buy him food, clothes or whatever. Champagne, mostly, though in the past I’d organized a fridge-freezer, a washing machine and tumble dryer. I kept a very strict account of what I’d taken and how much it had made. I even made him initial the transaction, just in case a half-brother or sister ever turned up claiming what they hoped was a fat inheritance and alleging I’d robbed him. Sometimes, like when I held a rather poor oil painting of a family group like the one I was looking at now, I rather hoped a sibling would turn up. A sister would be nice, since there were plenty of assorted men in my life.
    But enough of that.
    The oil painting was far too primitive to attract a collector. I should imagine it was the result of one of my female ancestors finding some genteel occupation. Perhaps it ought to be back in the main part of the Hall, but it would give my father apoplexy if I suggested it. Maybe I could smuggle it in one day. I knew a couple of unauthorized entry-points and could easily slip through while my father was glued to the TV.
    Meanwhile, I must hunt for something else. What about that pile of plates under a hideous split plastic planter? Four of them. Oh, ho! This might be my lucky day with birds. First the Meissen, and now what I was sure were Joseph Crawhall plates. Each had a bird with foliage on the front. And – yes – the reverse of each plate had a thumbnail head and shoulders self-portrait and was signed and dated. A set like that should keep my father in champagne for a while and would allow me to pop some in the emergency account we’d set up for him during one of our occasional forays together into Canterbury. I stowed them carefully in the planter, which I could bin at home.
    By now he was well into his new programme, accusing it of being rubbish – who was I to argue? – and waving a casual hand in farewell. But then he actually got to his feet and zapped the TV.