Yet for all the changes, my uncle was there again in my memory, clear and sharp as a whistle, seeming too large a personality for these miniature rooms. I opened the door of the wardrobe in the corner to put away my gear, and the sight of Uncle Maynard’s clothes, neatly ranged on hangers, made me feel abominably intrusive.
On a sudden thought I felt in the top pocket of a suit. A couple of crumpled bus tickets, a small penknife, and ... yes, there was what I’d expected to find, a few paper-wrapped cubes of sugar. It was the same in his other suits, a sports jacket, an anorak, and a raincoat. A little matter of insurance, he had explained to me once when I fetched a suit from the cleaner’s, and I’d watched him slip in the emergency sugar the moment it was unpacked. “Just in case I ever get caught out in an awkward spot, Tess. There’s no sense in taking unnecessary risks.”
A careful, methodical sort of man, my Uncle Maynard had been, despite his fierce love of living. Yet this careful, methodical man had been found dead from insulin shock in a lonely spot high on the Downs. His life had been lost for the lack of something as elementary as a lump or two of sugar.
Chapter Two
I wakened when a seagull shrieked outside the window, to find that my bedroom had been transformed by the morning sunlight into a golden honeycomb. The footsteps of an early riser rang hollowly from the brick-paved alleyway below, echoing off the walls of close-packed buildings. A tantalising aroma of fresh-made coffee drifting up from somewhere made me long for a cup myself.
I found a jar of instant in the kitchen cupboard, and a pot of orange marmalade. With some uncrisp crispbread I dug out of a tin, it made a sort of breakfast. My one thought was to get downstairs to my treasure trove. Yesterday, in the limited time before my date with Peter Kemp, I’d had only a preliminary look round the shop, and now I wanted to immerse myself in its manifold delights.
I felt an impulse to flitter like a greedy butterfly, pouncing on those items that specially took my fancy, to finger them lovingly and admire the fine craftsmanship. But I disciplined myself to be methodical, checking each piece in turn against Uncle Maynard’s record book, trying to make it all familiar.
A tap-tap on the street door made me jump. A milkman was mouthing soundless words at me through the glass. “Did I want a pint?” he enquired when I opened up to him.
Yes, please, and I’d like him please to leave a bottle on the doorstep every morning. We chatted for a couple of minutes, and when he went off, whistling, I guessed he would spread it around the Lanes that Maynard Pennicott’s niece was taking over his antique shop. That suited me fine. The sooner I found my place in this tight-knit little community, and became one of the locals myself, so much the better.
As I shut the door again, the CLOSED sign rattled against the glass. I looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, then turned its other face: OPEN, OUVERT, OFFEN. Why not? Why lose a possible sale? I was in business now, and it gave me a nice pleasurable feeling.
An hour or so later I was examining a silver and tortoise-shell card case, trying to decipher the engraved monogram, when the bell above the door pinged. Here was my first customer, and I gave the woman an appropriately welcoming smile. She looked leisured, elegant, not short of money to spend, but shrewd and self-confident. She could hardly be described as beautiful, but I guessed that most men would find her instantly attractive, even though she was probably near forty. Her dark chestnut hair (which, if tinted, had been deceptively well done) was swept up into a pleat, revealing a smooth, slender neck; and her lightweight jersey suit in a subtle shade of rust was country-casual expensive.
“It’s charming, isn’t it?” she said, nodding at the card case in my hand. “One of the last things Maynard purchased. He was particularly pleased with it.”
Puzzled, I regarded her enquiringly.
“I’m Pearl Ratcliffe.” She smiled at me, but her eyes were shielded by goggle-size sunspecs, and I couldn’t read their expression. “You’re Tess, of course.”
So this was the part-time assistant. As Peter had said, she didn’t look the type to need a pin-money job, and I wondered why she had chosen to work here. Out of interest in antiques? Or interest in my uncle?
She slid off her sunglasses to reveal magnificent, amber-coloured eyes which seemed to glint with amusement. Were my speculations about her so very plain?
“I was with Maynard for over three years,” she told me in her modulated English voice. “We met at the house of a mutual friend, and he asked me if I’d care to come and lend a hand here. I never regretted it. It was an arrangement that suited us both.”
So they had been lovers. She meant to leave me in no doubt of that. How upset was she about his death? I wondered. Not heartbroken, by the look of her, but such a self-composed woman would hardly wear her heart on her sleeve. Did she feel resentful against me that, because my uncle had left no will. I as his next of kin, and only relative, had inherited all he possessed?
There were so many questions I would have liked to ask her, but I knew she’d give me short-change answers. She made me feel nervous ... intended to make me nervous.
“I’m glad to know you, Mrs. Ratcliffe,” I said, with exaggerated warmth.
She moved without haste across the shop, ledged her crocodile-skin handbag on a shelf, and wound up a wood-cased bracket clock by pulling the brass chain. Then, consulting her tiny gold wrist watch, she opened the glass front and set the hands.
“Maynard always insisted that every clock we offered for sale was in working order and told the right time.”
“Well, I’ve hardly had a moment to...”
“No, of course not.” She made a further adjustment to the hands.
“Peter Kemp phoned me yesterday afternoon to say that you had moved in - to his great surprise, and mine. So I thought I’d call in to see if I could be of any help.”
“That’s kind of you. I realise it will take me a while to get the hang of things here.”
Those amber eyes turned on me in a penetrating glance. “You’re serious about taking over the place yourself?”
“I’ve got a feeling my uncle would have approved,” I said, daring her to challenge that.
With the same unhurried air she began to move around the shop, stroking a decanter of Bristol Blue glass with a well-manicured fingertip, opening one of the display cases and minutely straightening the arrangement of snuffboxes and vinaigrettes. I watched her, having second thoughts now about her working for me, because I wasn’t sure if she and I would ever be able to get on together. Pearl Ratcliffe just wasn’t my sort of person.
“I admire your courage,” she said, “but I think you are being unwise. The antique business calls for an expertise that can only be acquired from long experience. After three years with Maynard, I myself could scarcely lay claim to more than a superficial knowledge. So can’t I persuade you to reconsider?”
I shook my head. “I intend to have a try, even if I have to admit defeat and sell out in the end.”
“I gather that you’ve had an excellent offer for the stock and goodwill. Are you going to turn that down? It’s an opportunity to lay hands on some useful capital, which mayn’t come again.”
“So Peter Kemp told you about that?” I felt disappointed in him, and rather hurt. Pearl Ratcliffe smiled an enigmatic smile, and I shrugged. “What’s the advantage of capital, compared with a chance to do something I shall really enjoy?”
“Well, if you’re quite determined,” Pearl said, “you’ll obviously need some help. Would you like me to continue with the same working arrangement I had with Maynard? I used to come in regularly every Tuesday and Friday, and at other times when he had any particular reason for wanting me.”
I was really thrown by having the suggestion come from Pearl herself. Peter Kemp had been talking altogether too much, I decided sourly, and I regretted now that I’d voiced my thoughts to him. But I could hardly tell Pearl that I’d not meant it. Besides, I knew that I really did need some knowledgeable help if I wasn’t go
ing to end up bankrupt.
“It would be just great, Mrs. Ratcliffe,” I said, switching on the warmth again.
“That’s settled, then.” She was the one conferring the favour, this was to be firmly understood between us. And yet... did I detect a look of relief in those amber eyes?
The doorbell jangled, and this time it was a customer - or rather, two. The middle-aged couple coming in turned out to be Swiss, and expressed interest in a peacock firescreen that was displayed in the window. I’d have needed to look up the details of its pedigree-having already forgotten most of what I’d committed to memory a short time ago. But Pearl took over smoothly. Her sales technique was superb. She talked first of Switzerland, extolling its virtues, and even seemed to know their own particular canton. She discussed Victorian needlepoint with authority, and when they finally left bearing their purchase like a trophy, she put into the cash drawer an amount they could have beaten down considerably if she’d given them half an opening.
I said with reluctant admiration, “I expect you could do with a cup of coffee after that.”
“Why not?”
A certain rapport had crept in between us ... two women working together to the same end. We were almost companionable as we sipped our coffee - until I mentioned Uncle Maynard’s death, commenting upon its strangeness. Pearl’s face clouded and it was as though her armour was thinner than it looked, and she was vulnerable after all. So she had loved him, after her fashion.
“How come he wasn’t carrying his usual lumps of sugar?” I probed. “Was there something weighing on his mind to make him so forgetful?”
“What could there have been?” she replied with a shrug, but there was a tenseness in her voice.
“I don’t know.” I gestured vaguely with my hands. “I just wondered. It seems so curious, when I remember how careful he always used to be about that.”
Sitting with me at the leather-topped writing table which served as a business desk, she stared thoughtfully across the shop. I imagined that she was still considering my point, but then she said abruptly, “You’ll need a cleaning woman.”
“Er ... yes, I suppose so. What happened before?”
“A Mrs. Catchpole used to come in for a couple of hours most mornings. You’d better try her first. She has to be kept in her place, but she’s trustworthy. And she never broke anything.”
“How do I get in touch with her? Is she on the phone?”
“No, but I’ll give you her address ... it’s not far from here. You would do well to go and see her right away, or you might find she’s no longer available.” Pearl noted down an address on the phone pad and handed it to me. “Why not slip round there now? You’ll need some shopping too, I expect, unless you did it yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t have time.”
“Well then ...”
“But will Mrs. Catchpole be home now?” I objected. “In the middle of the morning?”
“If she’s not, you can always leave a note asking her to call round here.”
I bit my lip. “I was really planning to pop out this afternoon. I’ve got to call at the bank.”
“Why not get everything done in one go? I can stay on here while you’re out, to save you closing up.”
“Thank you,” I said meekly.
I had to agree it was a sensible arrangement, but I disliked the way she was managing me. I wouldn’t make an issue of it right now, but she’d soon discover that she couldn’t boss me around. It even crossed my mind that maybe Pearl Ratcliffe wanted to get me out of the way for some reason, but I knew this was only because I’d taken a dislike to her. The prospect of working with her was far from attractive.
My progress as I set out along Meeting House Lane was pleasantly slowed by greetings and hallos from shop doorways; the observation, a dozen times repeated, that it was another lovely day, wasn’t it? How I was picked out from the tourists seemed amazing, but clearly the milkman had done his stuff. Following Pearl’s instructions, I had no problem finding my way to a small terraced house in a back street where Mrs. Catchpole lived.
Luckily she was at home, a stout middle-aged woman with the sort of bland features that didn’t chisel into the memory. She seemed a cheerful soul, though, and promptly invited me to call her Vera.
“Dreadful about Mr. Pennicott,” she said breathily, leading the way into her front parlour. “Oh, it did upset me. A lovely man, he was ... well, you know that, being his niece. So kind and considerate. Mind you, he was always so hale and hearty, so why he collapsed like that is a proper mystery to me. They say he needed some sugar in his system, but I thought sugar was the very thing he wasn’t supposed to have.”
I tried to explain the matter of insulin balance, so far as I understood it myself. She nodded and tut-tutted, obviously not following, and interrupted me to say, “It’s always the way, isn’t it, the best go first. Mr. Pennicott was so thoughtful... giving me little extras now and then, and not complaining if I couldn’t come in some days with my chest. It would have upset him no end to think I never got paid for that last week’s work I did for him.”
“I’ll settle up with you for that,” I hastened to say. “So you will come and work for me, then, Mrs. Catchpole, the same as you did for my uncle?”
“Vera,” she corrected absently. “Oh yes, dearie, I’ll come, and you’re very welcome,”
Leaving her house, I seemed to remember there was a little neighbourhood shopping street somewhere near where I’d be able to buy everything I needed. Reaching the main road, I stood in a group at a pedestrian crossing waiting for the lights to change. As people pressed close behind me I felt a hand on my bottom, moving up to the small of my back. A groper, I wondered, or a bag snatcher? Clutching my shoulderbag tighter I tried to move away, but the pressure increased and suddenly I was sent reeling forward. For an instant I teetered on the kerb, desperately struggling to retain my balance, then I sprawled out into the road on my hands and knees. In a terrifying flash of vision I glimpsed a bright-red car bearing down on me. I heard a squeal of brakes, the shriek of skidding tyres, a crash, and a splintering of glass.
Chapter Three
A babble began as people gathered around. I tried to focus my scattered wits and get back on my feet, thankful for a helping hand under my elbow. But I froze, and the helping hand fell timidly away when one voice was raised above the others—loud and extremely angry.
“What the bloody hell d’you think you were doing, staggering all over the road like that?”
From where I was, still on my knees, the man towered ten feet tall. I cowered there, a quaking jelly, until indignation took sudden charge and I found the strength to stand up.
“Look, it wasn’t my fault,” I protested. “I was pushed.”
He snorted. “You fell over your own clumsy feet. Damn lucky you weren’t killed.”
I saw him only hazily, through a mist of anger. But then some quality about that voice plucked at my memory, and I found myself staring into an achingly familiar face.
At the very same instant he exclaimed incredulously, “It ... it is you, isn’t it? Tess Pennicott?”
“Ben.”
It was all I could manage to gasp out. I felt... what did I feel? I was caught in a soaring spiral of emotions that jostled and fought each other until one emerged supreme... a sort of dazed, bewildered joy. Was this the work of kindly fate, the answer to my most secret longings? Was this the real reason why I’d come rushing across the Atlantic with the freakish intention of taking over my uncle’s little bric-a-brac shop in the Brighton Lanes? Because it gave me an even chance that my path would cross again with Ben’s, and a wildly improbable chance in a million that something might come of it?
No, that couldn’t be the reason, I wasn’t that crazy.
Was I?
In one respect, at least, Ben hadn’t changed. While I still goggled at him he took charge of the situation, wasting no time on preliminaries.
“Get in the car, Tess. It’s still driveable
, with any luck.” Turning to the crowd of gapers, he continued with brisk authority, “The show’s over now, and nothing to get excited about. No damage done beyond a busted headlamp, and a chip of paint off the Corporation lamppost.”
He kicked the broken glass into the gutter, bent to inspect his tyre, then leapt into the car beside me and drove off with stylish aplomb. But the face he turned to me, when he swung into a parking bay in the next street, was considerably less than calm.
“I near as hell ran over you, Tess... I hope you realise that. If I’d not been braking already because of some damn fool of a cyclist who came wobbling round the corner just before you fell all across the road ...”
“Ben, I did not fall across the road. I was pushed.”
“What d’you mean-pushed?”
“Someone gave me a deliberate shove that sent me flying.”
His look indicated total disbelief. “For Christ’s sake, who’d want to do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know who, because I didn’t see him. It was somebody behind me in the crowd,” A slightly hysterical note had crept into my voice, and Ben shook his head in a sorrowful way.
“This isn’t like the Tess I remember.”
“I’m not making it up,” I retorted, my temper flashing. “If you hadn’t been in such a tearing hurry to get away, I’d have asked the people round about if they saw what happened. But you didn’t give me the chance. You more or less threw me into your car and gave them all their marching orders.”
“It was the best thing, wasn’t it? Better than letting you make an even bigger spectacle of yourself.” My face must have betrayed the hurt bewilderment behind my anger, for Ben went on contritely, “I’m sorry, Tess. Let’s forget all this, shall we, and go and have a drink somewhere? You look as if you need one.”
The October Cabaret Page 2
