The Judas Pair
by
Jonathan Gash
256
pages, C&R Crime
Review
by Pat Black
Lovejoy.
That name puts me right back in the zone.
Sunday
night, early 1990s, Ian McShane, mullet, boil-washed white T, leather jacket
and jeans, catchy harpsichord theme tune. I can hardly remember anything about
the plots, but I do remember the furniture.
It’s
a relic of a time when we had far less choice on television in the UK, but had
more of a sense of shared cultural experiences through programmes that everyone watched.
For
me, Lovejoy’s in the same slot as One Foot In The Grave – a well-liked pre-internet
era show which still resonates with the public, nearly 30 years on, separate
from fanaticism or genre geekery.
Lovejoy was set
in the world of antiques, but really it was all about the main man, the arch
wheeler-dealer. There’s probably a picture of McShane’s face, with a smile like
a prison searchlight, next to the entry for “loveable rogue” on Wikipedia. The
role made him a star, and he’s a familiar face on TV and the movies to this day,
from Deadwood and beyond.
Grinning,
breaking the fourth wall, knocking around the flat East Anglian countryside in
his battered vintage car… It seems as comical, even naff, as bell-bottomed
trousers and kipper ties now. Did people fancy Ian McShane? Of course they did.
It was acceptable in the eighties. And nineties.
Lovejoy
is an antiques dealer, a rascally figure with a keen antenna for things of
great value – known as a “divvie” in the trade. He’s the guy who’ll pick out the
Van Gogh in the transit van, or the Canaletto in the car boot sale. Although
the TV incarnation first appeared in 1986 – only coming to prominence after its
second series ran, five years later – Lovejoy was already well established in a
series of novels by Jonathan Gash (John Grant).
The
first of these, The Judas Pair, was
published in 1977.
Now,
while you’ve still got McShane in mind – you might even be humming that theme
tune to yourself – here’s how we were introduced to Lovejoy back then:
“What
the hell do you mean” she was starting to say when I belted her. Down she went
on the loo amid the steam.
That’s
chapter one. This is his girlfriend,
being belted. He goes on to call her “the stupid bird”.
That
flinch reaction you’ve just experienced could be called The Lovejoy Problem.
Gash’s
debut novel is very entertaining. The plot concerns the flintlock duelling
pistols in the title, a legendary “missing” 13th pair made by a
famous craftsman. Hot on the trail of these items, Lovejoy discovers that
someone was killed for them. When someone close to him dies later on in
suspicious circumstances, Lovejoy is less loveable rogue than just plain rogue,
and seeks vengeance.
Along
the way there’s some sleuthing as Lovejoy tracks down both the guns and the
killer. But what I liked best about The Judas Pair was the insight into the
world of antiques, and the shadowy industry connected with sourcing, buying and
selling them, with its strange terms and practices. Lovejoy’s pithy “come
hither, there’s more” delivery really draws you in – a fine example of how a
unique voice can put oil in your storytelling engine.
Still,
for people used to mild Sunday night comic capers with British eccentrics in
leafy villages, this Lovejoy is a bit of a shock. Lovejoy’s still got a cosy
relationship with his audience, addressing his readers in the first person as if
they were friends and confidants, and you’re pulled in by his grubby charm. But
the man himself is a far harder character than you might remember from the
telly. He’s not averse to cheating people, and goes on to outline some
scandalous behaviour in his trade, such as intruding upon the recently bereaved
in order to pick up bargains while people are in a confused, distressed state.
And
he is violent. Lovejoy absolutely batters
two people in this book, which should by rights have seen him haggling over antique
pebbles in the prison exercise yard. That’s separate to his casual approach to
domestic violence, the only consequence of which seems to be a mild feeling of
guilt because he’s left a bruise on his girlfriend’s face.
What
makes this even more nauseating for the reader is that she goes back to him,
and dismisses his behaviour. Just Lovejoy being Lovejoy, eh? Shrug. What a
loveable rascal!
Unacceptable
in any era, you’d hope, but perhaps slightly less so in the seventies compared
with today. You can expect a night in the cells if there’s even a hint that
you’ve lifted a hand to a partner nowadays, but back then, short of serious
assault, police would hope to clear up “domestics” with a talking-to, and
leaving the house in as peaceable a state as possible.
I
don’t think Lovejoy’s behaviour would have been any less shocking to decent
people in the seventies, but it was obviously, that word again, more
acceptable. Hence the reason Lovejoy’s so blasé
about it. What you don’t expect to see is the hero of your page-turner novel
admitting to it so casually.
The
shift between Lovejoy from the book to the TV is mainly a class distinction.
The character as portrayed by McShane might have had a leather jacket and a
mullet, but his manners and diction were impeccable. He would pronounce
everything on the menu without eliciting even a hint of condescension from the maitre d’, and has enough charm to make
any galloping major or country house squire a bit insecure when their old lady gets
to giggling.
The
printed Lovejoy is more of a Del Boy Trotter character – no fool, but no
aristocrat, either, and he cuts corners in the same way. Sausage butties with
lashings of margarine finished off with custard rounds are his idea of a
slap-up meal for his girlfriends. He’s aware of the absurdity of this, but
again, that jack-the-lad pound shop pirate type would cut little ice in a big commercial
novel these days. He’d be more polished, like his TV depiction. It is unlikely
he would be working class.
Lovejoy
does have a soft centre – he looks after some people, and seems fond of the
downtrodden, whether that’s the perky robin he feeds in his garden, or people
on the verge of making a mistake in the antiques trade. Tough guy, shrewd operator,
but with a heart of gold, etc. We get the picture.
But
we still have that pesky Lovejoy Problem to solve.
There’s
a danger of sliding into a kind of puritanism when it comes to interpreting art
from other times. Art, no matter what the era, should make us suspicious if it
solely exists to cater directly to narrow beliefs and prejudices, or what is perceived
to be good at the current rate of exchange. If it does, there is a good chance
you’re consuming propaganda, or spreading it.
Lovejoy
is no Mary Sue, and was never intended to be. We might dislike his behaviour,
even hate him if we must, but we should credit Jonathan Gash for trying to
portray a complex character. We were no doubt meant to be shocked by Lovejoy bashing his girlfriend; perhaps this
granted the character a sense of edge and danger in a hyper-macho era only just
learning to wash its armpits every day.
The
true fault lies in assuming that we would still be on his side after this behaviour, whereas today, no-one would dare
to portray their hero as a wife-beater.
Lovejoy
does suffer, mentally as well as physically. He’s almost burned to death, and
has to use his wits to get out of a seemingly hopeless situation, but this was
less interesting than his emotional journey. After one big twist, Lovejoy
undergoes a breakdown which puts him in bed for days; not eating, not washing, and
not engaging with the world. It seemed
realistic to me. It’s quite rare to see this in a commercial novel, even today,
when we’re far less ignorant about mental illness and the horrors trauma can
inflict on seemingly strong mentalities. I’d like to see this happen to Jack
Reacher.
With
regards to The Lovejoy Problem, there’s a TV show which got on my wick lately: It Was Acceptable In The (insert decade).
It’s a talking-heads schedule filler, where comedians, TV presenters,
journalists, actors and DJs of varying degrees of smugness review clips from
previous decades. The show makes heavy use of crash-zooms on the guests’
gurning faces, as sexism, racism and class prejudice are highlighted, provoking
well-intentioned, if tedious, responses.
And
they’re right to respond that way, because, like Lovejoy punching his missus,
some of the stuff which passed without much comment in past times is awful, and
we should be upset by it, and things have hopefully improved. But we shouldn’t
think this generation will be any different – that its entertainment won’t be
mocked or ridiculed or even completely denounced in the future, by people
living in a different political climate, with different norms, or realigned
social strata.
In
the future, reality TV shows will look particularly awful – as bad as racist
sitcoms or sexist cop series from the 1970s. Perhaps they’ll seem even worse,
because they deal with real people.
I
recall one show from the mid-noughties where a bunch of young models who
thought they were answering an open casting call were invited to strip to their
underwear on camera and take their places in a drained swimming pool. They did
so without hesitation. Even at a very late stage, it didn’t dawn on any of them
what was about to happen.
They
were then blasted with water from a hose. Once the jet was shut off and the screaming
stopped, we were treated to close-ups of ruined make-up, turning them all into
shivering, sobbing grotesques.
The
point of this stunt was – we were told – that the girls shouldn’t feel they had
to put on their best clothes to be beautiful, or their best make-up. I don’t
know who came up with this programme, but cruelty and humiliation lay at the
heart of it. You wouldn’t tolerate this being done in a prison, but there it
was on TV, served up for entertainment.
But
reality TV’s an obvious villain. One fascinating recent phenomenon is how time
can catch up with seemingly unimpeachable content. Look at the recent row over The Breakfast Club. Good old John
Hughes, eh? The stalwart of “almost realistic” teen dramas. Except it seems
like they were a wee bit sexist, too. And nobody noticed, or cared, until now.
I’ve
also heard of people having a go at Friends
for its mockery of overweight people, among a host of other perceived sins
which flew over everyone’s heads 20-odd years ago. Friends! The definition of sliced white bread television. Who’d
have thought it? Nothing is sacred, true enough.
Quick
questions for you to consider: Did you like Trainspotting
when you were younger? Did you have Sick Boy and Begbie up on your bedroom
wall?
So,
yes, Lovejoy’s got his problems. The character’s behaviour is repellent, but I
don’t think we were meant to like it. Let’s not burn the book for one
admittedly awful part. As time goes on, you’d hope he learns how bad his
behaviour was.
Besides,
it’s fiction. In telling lies, writers have to be as truthful as they can.
Characters don’t ring true if they’re flawless. Nothing is.
Lovejoy’s
just a character, warts and all. He’s a product of his time – just like real
people are, for good or ill.
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