The Posy Ring

by Catherine Czerkawska

  The hall has rows of folding tables, carefully arranged, with exhibitor names on printouts taped to them. If people encroach on somebody else’s space, disputes can break out. She covers her two ugly tables with a white linen cloth with shamrocks and roses woven into it, and tries to make the stall look enticing. Rob follows her about, tweaking this and that. Occasionally people ask if they can buy the cloth, but it’s so useful that she always hangs onto it, even though it’s difficult to wash and almost impossible to iron. I have a whole trunk full of these now, she thinks. Perhaps more.

  Footfall is poor. May is generally a bad month for customers, and she finds this surprising, because she loves May and June better than any other time of year. But the so-so sales must have something to do with the bank holidays at either end of the month. Maybe people have other things to spend their money on. Some of the early customers are fellow dealers who are looking for a bargain. Rob stands his ground about prices and she’s irritated to note, as she always is, that they’ll offer him slightly more than they offer her. They think they can bully her. They never try to bully him. Sometimes they even recognise him.

  ‘Aren’t you Rob Graham? You play the fiddle, don’t you?’

  Once or twice somebody has asked for his autograph. He pretends to be surprised but he’s tickled pink, she can tell. He isn’t exactly famous, so any recognition is a bonus. Still, Glasgow always likes to celebrate its own.

  Mid-morning is busier; then there’s the lunchtime slump. A shower in the early afternoon brings more people in. Finally, there’s a very quiet time before the last-minute rush of those who think they’ll get a bargain during the free-for-all at the end. She sometimes makes most of her money in the last half-hour. People see something, think they might want it and then make up their minds at the last minute.

  Fairs pass by a lot faster when they’re busy, and this one is just busy enough, but she’s still feeling uncharacteristically jaded and bored with the whole procedure. She sells a black Chantilly lace shawl that she wouldn’t have minded keeping for herself, a small model yacht, a not very good oil painting of a Clyde coast sunset, an exceedingly battered set of the poetry and letters of Robert Burns in four volumes, a milking stool, a carved spinning chair, a bundle of ancient gardening tools – she can’t remember where she acquired these, but it was probably at some country house sale, a house very much like Auchenblae – a couple of pieces of costume jewellery and a miscellaneous collection of bric a brac from her bargain basket. It’s a pretty good day. While her father is packing up, she tells the organisers that she won’t be needing her stall for a few months.

  ‘I’m going away for the summer.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’

  She can’t even begin to explain. ‘I’ve had the offer of some work on one of the islands,’ she says. ‘On Garve.’

  ‘I’ve never been, but I hear it’s lovely there.’

  ‘I don’t know it well, but it is lovely. My grandmother used to live there.’

  She’s not sure why she says this. She hasn’t mentioned her grandmother like this at all before. Not to somebody who didn’t know her. Even as the words are coming out of her mouth they seem quite alien to her.

  Her father is already loading things onto a folding trolley. As a musician, he’s used to this kind of thing, struggling with cumbersome equipment in problematic parking situations. Most people don’t realise just how tiring these one-day fairs are, but he does. And then everything will have to be unpacked and stored away at the other end. A thin drizzle is falling outside to add to their troubles, and it’s chilly for May.

  ‘Christ on a bike,’ he says, laconically. ‘Why do we do this, Daisy?’

  ‘I don’t know. To make a living. But I need a change. Which is why I’m going to Garve for a few months.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re probably doing the right thing.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Aye, I do. I’ve been thinking about it while we’ve been standing here. You can still decide to sell when you want to. But maybe you should go and stay there for a while. See how you feel about the island, about the house. It’s part of your heritage as well as your inheritance and the only way you can get to know about it is to experience it. It’ll tell you something about your mum, as well.’ He stuffs the last box into the car and slams the tailgate.

  ‘I know quite a lot about Mum from you. I hardly know anything about Viola.’

  ‘Me neither. Have we got beers in the house?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know. I could do with a very large glass of wine. Or three.’

  ‘Let’s stop at a supermarket on the way home.’

  *

  She doesn’t mention Cal to her dad at all. On Sunday, he packs up his own gear but he’s used to travelling light. They go for a friendly father and daughter walk in the Botanics, since the weather has turned fine again, but they hardly mention the house or the island. She badly wants to tell him about Cal, to ask his advice, but she doesn’t want to worry him, doesn’t want to spoil his trip.

  On Monday morning, a woman of about his own age, with short grey hair and a sweet face, arrives to pick him up in a Transit. Daisy wonders if this is the latest fling. Her father introduces the driver as Fran, Frances. She leans out of the window and shakes hands with Daisy. ‘I’ll take good care of him,’ she says. Very English. Daisy has a vague memory of seeing and hearing her sing somewhere: Òran Mór or some other Glasgow venue. Rob stows his musical instruments away with great care – more care than he ever takes with her stock, she notices – gives her a hug and a kiss and clambers in beside Fran.

  ‘Have you got your phone?’ she asks.

  He’s not good with phones, forgets how to work them, tends to lose them. He pats his pockets. ‘Somewhere.’

  ‘Phone me. Keep in touch.’

  ‘I will, yes. I’ll probably stay with Fran between gigs.’

  ‘Where would that be?’

  ‘I’ll text you the address. Near Glastonbury.’

  ‘Oh, very suitable.’

  He grins. ‘And you do the same, Daisy. Let me know how it goes.’

  ‘I will.’

  She waves him off cheerfully enough, but when he’s gone, she feels faintly bereft.

  *

  She plans to go back to Garve the following day. She has some sorting out to do in the storage unit first, but at some point during the day, she passes Mr McDowall’s office and climbs the stairs on the off-chance that he’s in. He is between clients and sits her down with a cup of Earl Grey tea.

  ‘So you’ve seen the house?’ he says. ‘What do you think? Do you want me to organise the sale?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m going to spend the summer there.’

  ‘Are you really?’ He peers at her over the top of his glasses. He’s a precise man, intelligent and cautious.

  ‘Yes. Really. I want to spend a bit of time there and summer seems as good a time as any. I can carry on with my online business from Garve. In fact, I can sell some of the contents myself.’

  ‘Of course. I always forget what you do for a living, Miss Graham.’

  Some living, she thinks.

  ‘How did you get into it?’ he asks. ‘I mean, it doesn’t run in your family, does it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know so much. My mother’s family seem to have known a bit about antiques and collecting, don’t you think?’

  ‘That’s very true. I hadn’t thought about that.’ He steeples his fingers, gazing at her with frank interest. ‘I believe Viola’s father was fond of art and other objets de vertu. But you didn’t know that.’

  ‘Then it’s in the genes. Besides – I used to go to the saleroom with my other granny, my dad’s mum, down in Ayr, when I was a wee girl.’

  ‘Was she a collector?’

  Daisy smiles, thinking of her gran. ‘Not really. I think she started
going to the auctions after my grandfather died. She enjoyed the company. She was there every week, come rain or shine. She’d buy trays and boxes full of God knows what and put most of the things back into the sale the following week.’

  ‘So you went down to Ayr in the summer?’

  ‘I did. Dad was often working so I spent summers with my gran. I miss her a lot.’

  She thinks about their saleroom days, the anticipation of wondering what they might find, and then the crowds on auction day with gran worming her way into a good position, pushing Daisy ahead of her. ‘On you go, hen. Use your elbows,’ she would whisper. They always went to the same café at lunchtime. Then gran would pack her purchases into a tartan shopping trolley and trundle them home.

  ‘And that was where it all began for you?’

  Daisy nods. ‘You learn a lot just by being there. Watching the real dealers. Working out why they’re bidding on something but not on something else. And because I was a chatty wee thing and they all knew my gran, they were nice to me. I enjoyed it. Started doing a bit of bidding on my own behalf when I was old enough.’

  ‘But you went to university between times?’

  ‘I did a history degree. Probably should have been fine art, but I didn’t fancy it. I still stayed with gran during the holidays and they gave me a temporary job in the saleroom. Then I moved onto one of the Glasgow houses. I don’t think I was ever going to make a career of it, though. The auction houses, I mean. But I quite liked the buying and selling.’

  ‘This explains a lot,’ he says. ‘I did find myself feeling a little curious about you. One watches, er, Bargain Hunt, you know – my wife is very fond of that programme – and one wonders how they get into something like that.’

  She suddenly remembers the real purpose of this visit. Mr McDowall is an engaging man and very good at getting information out of people, but he owes her some information in return.

  ‘The valuation,’ she says suddenly. ‘Of the house contents. For probate.’

  ‘Yes?’ He sits up very straight. ‘My dear, it had to be as fair and as accurate as possible, but we didn’t want to over-value things either. You can surely understand that. As it is, most of your grandmother’s money has gone to the Inland Revenue.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not complaining. And I’m not unhappy with the valuation. I’ve been there, remember? I know what a mixed hoard it is. I’m just curious. I was just wondering who…’

  ‘Ah, who assessed it? Well, it had to be somebody with the right credentials of course. There’s a shop called Island Antiques, on Byres Road.’

  She nods. ‘I know it.’

  ‘It’s run by William Galbraith, the artist, and his wife Fiona, of course. Between you and me, I think Fiona does most of the work.’

  ‘It’s a bit out of my league.’

  ‘My wife prefers a more contemporary look. But I’ve met them socially. Well, Fiona Galbraith and my wife are on a couple of committees together. William keeps himself very much to himself these days.’

  ‘So who…?’ But she already knows. She just needs confirmation.

  ‘Their son is in your line of business, I believe. Fine art and antiques.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I think he’s out of my league as well.’

  ‘I never knew there was such a hierarchy.’ He looks faintly disappointed.

  ‘In everything, isn’t there?’

  ‘I suppose so. Anyway, Calum Galbraith spends a lot of time on Garve. William has a cottage there that he hardly ever uses, but Calum does. I asked him if he would do a general valuation of the contents, one that would satisfy the Revenue, and he did it for a very reasonable fee.’

  ‘Reasonable?’

  ‘A lot more reasonable than if I’d had to bring somebody over from the mainland.’

  ‘I expect it was. I met him.’

  I slept on his sofa bed, she thinks.

  ‘Ah, that’s good. I’ve always found him to be a very engaging young man. I used to see him when he was just a lad. When Fiona used to take him and his sister to the island for the summer and I would pay the occasional visit to Viola.’

  ‘Engaging. Yes.’

  Mr McDowall chuckles. ‘He confessed to me that he had always wanted to get a look at the contents of Auchenblae, but Viola didn’t exactly welcome visitors, especially young antique dealers. He knows his stuff. It’s just occurred to me that you could do worse than get him to take a much closer look at whatever is in your house. I’m sure he’d be able to advise you about getting the best price for the more desirable pieces, such as they are.’

  ‘I’m sure he would. I’ll think about it, Mr McDowall. I’ll certainly think about it.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Later that day, she finds herself on Byres Road, on the way back to the flat, hauling two hessian bags of shopping with her. On impulse, she heads towards the corner where Island Antiques sits. It’s in a prime position with big shop windows on two sides, the door positioned diagonally on the corner with a shallow marble step. It’s a shop that she has always found daunting, and she can remember venturing into it only once before. Softly lit, the space is arranged into three rooms, with vastly expensive pieces of furniture and equally expensive artworks on the walls. Through the window, she notices a miniature bureau, with a detailed floral inlay, so desirable that it practically makes her salivate, an elegant chaise longue with a paisley shawl draped over the back, a proper straw Orkney chair with a drawer underneath the seat, and a very dark oak chest with naïve carving and the patina of five hundred years.

  On her first and only previous visit, the briefest glance had told her that she wouldn’t be able to afford anything in the shop and now – even with her unexpected inheritance – another glance tells her that nothing has changed. It is all very beautiful, but it is way out of her league. She remembers when she was working in the big auction house, watching the price of a Gillows desk climb higher and higher until it reached £50,000. She remembers that it sold to ‘Island’. Everyone else seemed to know who that was, but she was too shy to ask at the time. She supposes that it finished up in this shop where presumably it was marked up even higher and sold on. Glasgow isn’t an obviously wealthy city, but there are certainly a great many rich people here, often living cheek by jowl with the extremely deprived. There are streets, especially here in the West End, where million-pound Georgian and Victorian houses at one end, built by those who made their money during the industrial revolution, give place to down-at-heel council estates at the other. It is not as pronounced as in London, but it is there, a fact of city life.

  She takes a deep breath and goes in. The bell tinkles musically. The shop is very quiet, an oasis in this busy part of the city, although she can hear Mozart playing in the background. Everything seems perfect. There are glass cases with fine china and porcelain. On one wall, several stunning silk rugs are faultlessly displayed. The floor is polished wood. A cabinet, beside the mahogany counter, has a selection of jewellery and pretty silver items: a card case, a chatelaine, an art nouveau mirror. There are a couple of easels with subtle lighting above, displaying large canvases that she recognises as being by Cal’s father: bleak urban exteriors with not a single living soul to be seen. The shop smells sweet, of pot-pourri, lavender and roses.

  A tall woman of about her own age sits at a desk, sleek head bent over a tablet. Everything about her matches the shop itself. She’s impossibly slender and glossy, from the tips of her designer shoes to the very top of her immaculate blonde head. It’s as though some fairy godmother has touched her with a magic wand and transformed everything about her, instantaneously. Her nails are long and palest pink. Her make-up is faultless. How does she do it, wonders Daisy, smiling at her, fighting the urge to ingratiate herself in some way. She just knows that beneath the devastatingly simple black dress – looks like linen, but with not a crease and how does she do that, too? – her underwear will be
equally perfect. Minuscule but perfect. She probably wears a thong.

  The woman looks up, briefly, from her tablet. Daisy would lay bets she is reading a novel, but she makes it look as though she is being interrupted in the middle of some vital piece of work.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks, only just disguising her boredom.

  ‘May I have a look around?’

  ‘Oh. Feel free.’ She spreads her hands, giving a very Gallic shrug, although she sounds posh Scottish. Kelvinside. She looks astonished at the very idea of somebody wanting to browse. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘Not really. I’d just like to ... look.’ For God’s sake, she thinks. It’s a shop, isn’t it?

  The woman goes back to her reading. Daisy could swear that there is a barely audible ‘tut’. She feels trapped. What on earth is she doing in here? She thought she might be able to see Cal’s mother and father, satisfy a certain curiosity about them. But the repellent assistant seems to be in charge and now she’ll have to stay for a few minutes at least, save face, look around, uneasily aware of the blue eyes boring into the back of her head. Surely this can’t be Annabel, can it? The woman Cal talked about down at Carraig. Time will tell. I may have tried to squeeze into your pyjamas, she thinks. The idea makes her giggle, but she turns away to hide it.

  She is making a good show of examining a Scottish lowland grandfather clock, brightly painted with female figures representing the four seasons, when the door opens and somebody positively erupts into the shop.

  ‘Jesus!’ says a husky voice. ‘I’ve spent half the fucking morning on the fucking phone to the fucking parcel company about that fucking pig, and I’m getting fucking nowhere!’