They'd certainly not been keen on china. Apart from everyday stuff even a charity shop would have sniffed at, there were just a couple of quite hideous vases, and an epergne even I might have used as target practice.
What I had my eye on was a rather pretty pot cupboard by Waring & Gillow, part of an Edwardian mahogany bedroom suite—dressing table, marble-topped washstand, and huge double wardrobe so bleached by the sun that it would take a fellow restorer hours of work to bring back its original colour. For some reason, the auctioneers had split the suite into separate lots. I couldn't understand it, because usually the sum of the individual parts is nothing like the value of a complete set.
As for mourners, I could see no red snuffly noses or surreptitiously dabbed eyes. Didn't anyone care enough to come? Or, to use Griff's words, had the line died out? Griff was trying to educate me to his Oxbridge standard, but since I'd not so much dropped out of school as never dropped in in the first place, he had his work cut out. But he and I toiled together, with very rarely a cross word between us, just as if he were a dear loving grandfather bent on educating a dim, stroppy, but cherished, grandchild. And I loved him as much as if he were.
Apart from a crop of familiar faces from the trade, there were a couple of good-looking young men not far from us, one of them fiddling with a mobile phone with enough functions to make your eyes water. Unfortunately it would be a moot point whether Griff or I started flirting with them. Griff would keep forgetting that he had a long-term partner to whom he claimed to be devoted. He and Aidan had been together, but not living together, for years. Though I adored Aidan's late Georgian house in Tenterden, a few miles down the road from our village, and all the exquisite furniture it contained, he and I never quite managed to like each other. As for my love life, I was definitely ready to be cheered up; I'd just had yet another relationship end with a bruised ego, if not a broken heart.
Actually, those young men might even be flirting with each other, their well-groomed heads bending intimately together over the catalogue. Or conspiratorially, of course, Griff whispered, as he followed my eye. At that point I was sure one of them looked straight at us.
Eventually, just as Griff must have been about to concede defeat, Wally's mobile beeped and he lost interest. The dressing case—coromandel with brass stringing—was ours for a pretty hefty four hundred pounds. Okay, we'd be able to sell it on for twice, possibly three times, that amount when we'd titivated it. And it was good. Very good. All the cut-glass bottles, complete with stoppers, were in their places, and even the little silver-mounted manicure set was intact. I'd have loved that box for myself—though I'd never use it for cosmetics or perfumes, of course. What Griff called my powders and potions came in plastic bottles, courtesy of our pharmacy loyalty card—Griff indulged himself with so many vitamins and supplements I swear he'd shake if you rattled him.
No, I wanted the box because ... because it was beautiful, I suppose. Perhaps that was the reason why Griff had hung on for grim death. And now it was—yes, it was his.
"I know just who'll want this,” he said, with a little rub of his hands.
So it was spoken for. I wouldn't let myself sigh: It would bring in a good profit, and antiques dealers couldn't afford to be sentimental.
At last the pot cupboard came up. It was late in the day and by now the room was pretty empty. The bigger pieces went down very cheaply, and even the pot cupboard came my way for less than half what I'd expected.
* * * *
I was loading our booty into the new van, proudly lettered Tripp and Townend, Antiques Dealers. Griff had insisted on having a proper business partnership contract drawn up, mumbling about protecting me when he shuffled off his mortal coil. I had been perfectly happy to drive the G Tripp Antiques van, the odd gear apart, but this was a splendid automatic affair, ostensibly bought so that Griff could drive despite his arthritis. In fact, all the driving came down to me.
"And which are you? Tripp or Townend?” asked a voice in my ear. It was a nice voice, one Griff would have called well-modulated. And it belonged to one of the good-looking young men I'd noticed earlier. I was cross with myself for not noticing his approach. Griff had always dinned it into me that since I could be carrying something it would be fatal to drop, I must never be in a position where I might jump. Or be robbed, of course. Because sometimes I carry—somewhere about what Griff calls my person—valuable jewellery.
But the young man's smile was as pleasant as I'd hoped. He'd shed his equally dishy friend and didn't seem to be about to rob me.
"I'm the Townend half,” I said. “Lina Townend.” An older generation might politely have shaken hands. Though perhaps not if they were wrestling with a pot cupboard.
"I saw you across the room,” he said, “and you weren't at all like any of the others so I just thought I'd ... I'm Conrad, by the way."
"Hi, Conrad. Are you in the trade too?"
He hesitated, which alarmed me. Surely he was or he wasn't.
At last he said, “I'm just interested at the moment. I like old things and I've come into a spot of money so I wondered...” He smiled. “You know, a bit of this, a bit of that..."
I didn't know. I'd served a long unwritten apprenticeship with Griff, who though the tenderest of taskmasters was rigorous in his training. I'd learnt as much as I could before he let me loose with any sort of deal, and even then I'd made hideous—and expensive—mistakes. It would have been worse except he claimed I was something of a “divvy"—in other words, I had an instinct for what was genuine and what was fake. I only wish it worked with people.
"Are you going back tonight?” Conrad asked, with a twinkle and a shuffle of the shoulders that meant he might have been suggesting a drink if we were anywhere local.
"'Fraid so.” Griff got very tired these days, and I liked to make sure he got a night's rest in his own bed, plus a lazy day, before we went on any more expeditions.
"Far to go?"
"A couple of hundred miles, give or take.” I should have asked him the same question, but my mouth felt too dry.
"Do you come to many of these sales?” he persisted.
Was that the equivalent of, Do you come here often? I wasn't sure so I simply took the question at face value. “If we see anything promising in the catalogue. The trouble is that after Antiques Roadshow on TV everyone thinks they're experts and about to find a bargain. So they make us all pay shedloads for complete rubbish."
"You didn't pay all that much for that little cupboard.” He nodded at it.
"No, I was lucky, wasn't I?” I agreed. I would have loved to tell him about its twin, already in place beside my bed. I did like symmetry. And I was fairly sure that a future customer would like his and hers cupboards either side of their bed, and though I'd miss them, I'd enjoy the profit. But I didn't think he'd want to hear about that, or about the origin of the term. Pot cupboards used to house chamber pots—or “gazunders” as Griff called them—in preen suite days.
I'd better say something. “Did nothing catch your eye?"
"Only you."
I could feel a blush rising from my navel. What could I say? “Me and my pot cupboard,” I managed.
"Why did you want it?” He seemed really interested.
"Why does any antiques dealer want anything?” Except when she wanted it for herself.
"To sell it and make a profit? Well, sell it to me now."
Which was just what I'd thought Griff and Wally Moore should have done, of course—negotiated a post-sale deal. So why didn't I want to sell it to this charming young man, with the most beautiful blue eyes and white, even teeth? I didn't want him anywhere near it. “This is for my own use,” I said lamely.
"An antique bedside cupboard? Why on earth would you want one of those?"
"Why should you? Hello, Griff—here's someone trying to buy my cupboard before I've even got it home,” I said with a nervous laugh.
Griff looked so honest and transparent I knew he was going to lie for me. He shook
his head sadly. “You know I can't let it into the house until it's been treated, my dear. Or into anyone else's. I wouldn't answer for the consequences if I did. Not with that level of infestation. Into the van with it immediately, and make sure you seal the polythene round it. Here.” He dug in his trousers and produced a roll of tape.
I did as I was told, without a word of protest, even though he was soon deeper in conversation with Blue Eyes than I had managed. And no doubt without a blush, either. Even at his big fat lie. Somehow he managed to pop the dressing case into the van for me to bubble-wrap, too, while he continued his conversation. I gave it a farewell stroke and a little pat of farewell.
At last I heard Griff getting into the front of the van, so I emerged and slammed the rear door shut. Conrad Blue Eyes was still there. His smile was very warm.
"I wanted to talk to you and I end up listening to the old guy for ten minutes,” he said. “How can I get in touch?"
I dug in my jeans pocket and produced a rather bent business card. We have two types—one with all our contact details, including our address, and the other with just our mobile-phone number and e-mail address. For some reason I gave him one of these. Well, it was too late to grab it back and change it. I just hoped he'd be interested enough to call me.
Or, given that he might be more interested in the pot cupboard than in me, perhaps I didn't.
Without waiting to wave us off, he disappeared. At this point Griff decided he needed one last visit to the loo before we set off, so he disappeared too. For ten minutes. Sighing, I beat my fists on the steering wheel. I had a hundred-and-eighty-mile drive, including a stretch on the vile M25, and he did his Cheshire Cat act—without so much as a smile.
But he was chortling when he came back.
"I do believe you're not the only one to have been chatted up,” he announced, fastening his seat belt. “I could have told the lady she was wasting her time with my good self, but it was nice to hear such cut-glass vowels."
"Tell,” I suggested, heading for the road.
"Nothing to tell. She was about my age, good-looking in a Deborah Kerr way, and very well dressed."
"So what did she want?"
"Dear heart, what made you such a cynic? Not me? Tut, tut."
"Who else?” I laughed. But it wasn't really Griff's fault: If you have a childhood like mine, you get cynical, believe me. “Anyway, if she didn't want anything, she must have fancied you.” I shot a quick sideways glance. “And why not? You look very dapper these days."
"Thanks to you, dear heart. I've never known such a dab hand with an iron as you. I don't know what she wanted,” he continued. “We simply chatted about the dreadful state of the house. There's a rumour I picked up in the gents', by the way. They mean to turn it into an urban wildlife centre. And with that garden who knows what they might end up studying."
"Tigers, at very least. So what's holding them up?” I joined the tail end of what looked like a very long jam.
"Lack of documentation. Even though the solicitor knows that's what Marguerite Fairborn wanted, no one can find any paperwork."
"Surely that's what solicitors are supposed to do? Keep wills safe,” I objected.
"Indeed. But even solicitors aren't immune to acts of arson. Some yobs thought it would be fun to stuff fireworks and petrol into the letterbox and set fire to it."
"Fireproof boxes?"
"The codicil was still in draft form, awaiting the old lady's signature. She had her original draft, but after her stroke couldn't communicate where it was. So although her lawyers are doing their best to fend off the vultures, I should imagine a pukka block of luxury apartments will soon be on that site—and bother the tigers, or whatever. And her distant relatives—who probably never sent her so much as a Christmas card—will be rubbing their hands with glee. Now, dear one, shall we have some music on this space-age radio of ours?"
* * * *
I'd not really expected Conrad Blue Eyes to phone, nor did he. I didn't have time to fret, however. One thing you can't do when you're restoring precious china is worry about your love life, or lack of it. If your hands start shaking it's fatal.
Then Griff and I headed off to set up our stall at a big antiques fair practically in our own backyard here in Kent. Detling isn't one of my favourite places to work, because I've never known it when it wasn't blowing a gale. However, Griff had got it into his head that because it wasn't far to travel we ought to support it, so we always did. Perhaps half of me hoped that what Griff would call my suitor might be tempted by the prospect of lots of luscious antiques, and thus me. But if I couldn't think of anything to say to him, what was the point? Anyway, I smiled a lot all day, and sold several pieces at a considerable profit, though not a lot in total.
I got to the car park to find a car—a posh Audi—nose to nose with the van. Rubbing noses, in fact. How anyone could have managed to run into an object as large and obvious as this, goodness knows. But this woman had, and was standing wringing her immaculately manicured hands in distress. She looked ready to weep.
I tucked my own battered paws into my pockets and quickened my pace. Soon she was all over me with apologies, pressing her insurance details on me and begging my forgiveness. Frankly I didn't think it was an insurance job, more a cash-in-hand one, to preserve her no-claims bonus, but she insisted it was done by the book. Which meant, she said, an exchange of addresses.
I'd never been in that situation before, strangely enough, so I handed over the business card with all the details, wrote our insurance details on the back, assured her that I would survive the terrible shock of the impact, and waited for her to move so I could pull the van out from its slot. She seemed inclined to hover, but suddenly returned to the Audi and shot off.
Only now could I inspect the damage properly. What damage? There was hardly a chip. So why, I asked Griff, who'd appeared at my shoulder, all the fuss?
He shook his head. Clearly all he wanted to do was go home and put his feet up.
* * * *
Griff may be fey in many ways, but being winsome and vague doesn't extend to protecting his property. The cottage and shop both have state-of-the-art locks and CCTV, augmented by constantly primed video cameras. No missing a mug shot of Burglar Bill because no one's remembered to renew the cassette.
Outside the cameras are quite obvious: it's clear we're not to be messed with. But inside they're much more discreet. Anyone browsing our shelves, better still making a purchase, is recorded. We've had no violent attacks since the system was installed, a good thing, since though I'm as tough as old boots I'm pretty small, and Griff, of course, is showing his years.
When we looked at the tapes the next day, we found that a couple of customers had actually turned on their heels when they saw the external cameras. The woman sported a headscarf such as the Queen might wear, plus Jackie Onassis sunglasses, while the man with her had his collar turned up, his porkpie hat pulled right down. Next day we actually had a woman in the shop completely swathed in a burkha and niqab, but I'd have sworn what little skin we could see was standard Anglo-Saxon: was she an extreme convert, or simply casing the joint? Griff tried to engage her in his usual friendly and helpful conversation but she was decidedly averse to that—again, I suppose, if she was a genuine fundamentalist Muslim, she might have objected to any man's courtly flirtation.
Then we had a call from our car-insurance company. The name and address of the other party, they said, didn't tally with the ownership records of the vehicle. Which wasn't surprising, because the vehicle with the number I'd written down was a Clio from Cardiff, not an Audi from Aldershot.
Since by now you couldn't even see where the cars had touched, Griff was inclined to dismiss the whole affair. I was less happy. Had I fallen for a simple ruse to find where we lived?
I was even more worried when I was tailed for five miles, despite my attempts to shake it off, by a 4x4 with tinted windows. I wanted to stop and confront the driver, but I had Griff with me, and I wasn't abou
t to expose him to any manhandling. The driver eventually parked where he clearly thought he was out of range of our cameras, but he'd reckoned without our backup kit, so we had excellent footage of him regarding the place through what I suppose were night-vision binoculars. I was furious and ready to smash in his windscreen, but Griff was afraid I might get hurt, and wouldn't let me do more than take a photo from an upstairs room.
And—guess what—the 4x4's number was the same as the Audi's.
I was getting really worried, especially when the word on the street was that Wally Moore had had his place—and his face—smashed up by intruders. He wasn't saying anything. As soon as he was out of hospital, people said, he'd nipped off to his son's place on the Costa del Crime.
* * * *
"You ought to contact that tame policeman of yours,” Aidan said, accepting from Griff a glass of the driest fino sherry, two old gentlemen of a certain age and class happy in each other's company. They usually dined, as Griff said, a deux, at Aidan's, but occasionally he would come round here to our cottage and I would be one of the party.
"I don't see what they can do until a crime's been committed,” Griff protested.
Aidan and I exchanged a glance.
"When did all this trouble start?” Aidan asked, nibbling a homemade cheese straw, one of Griff's specialities.
"After the mishap to the van,” Griff said. “And no, Aidan, I wasn't driving it while under the influence. It was stationary at the time."
"A posh lady in a posh car hit us,” I added. “And though there was hardly a scratch she had the manners to hang round and exchange insurance details."
Adrian cocked his head. “How very unusual. Had anyone witnessed the incident?"
"No."
"Which makes her honesty all the more surprising. Well, well.” He sipped his fino. “Had you bought anything particularly valuable that day? Or sold something for a great deal of cash?"
Griff snorted. “At Detling! Pin money only, dear boy."
EQMM, November 2008 Page 11
