“Dad is being such a bastard!”
“No point getting steamed up, love. Come on, we’ve earned the right to tuck into those lovely cakes, I think.”
“How can you be so … reasonable!?”
“I’ve wasted enough energy on your father already. I’m not going to let him get in the way of our new life, Xanthe,” she said as she stick-step-sticked her way toward the stairs.
In the kitchen, they feasted upon sticky lemon-drizzle cake and chocolate-fudge brownies, which were the best Xanthe had tasted. They ate in silence until they both felt restored by the sugar and fat coursing through their systems.
“You know,” Flora said, brushing crumbs from her fingers, “things are going to get better.”
“I know. Sometimes it all just comes flooding back. Everything that happened. I get … overwhelmed.”
“It’s understandable. You had a dreadful experience. It takes time, getting over something like that. It was such bad timing, your father and me splitting up so soon after what Marcus did to you.”
“It wasn’t deliberate, Mum. He didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“I can’t see it like that. He was the one with the drug problem. Those were his drugs that were found in your flat. He should have taken responsibility for them.”
Xanthe gave a weary shrug. “We’ve been over this.… The lease was in my name. Marcus wasn’t even there when they were found. The law says they were down to me.”
“You’ve never touched drugs in your life. Marcus had plenty of time to come forward, but he didn’t. He let them take you to court, to that awful prison.…” Even now that it was all over, all firmly in the past, Flora’s eyes filled with tears when she thought about her daughter in jail. In fact, of all that he had put her through, the one thing Xanthe would never, could never forgive Marcus for, was seeing what it cost her mother to visit her in prison, to watch her looking at her only child, locked up, shut away, alone, and beyond her help.
Xanthe reached across the table and took hold of her mother’s hand.
“New beginnings, Mum, remember?”
“Yes.” She nodded with a small, brave smile.
“Stuff ’em all!” Xanthe added their little rallying cry.
Flora laughed then, the pain of the past packed away for another day. “Come along,” she said, picking up the last brownie as she got to her feet, “there’s work to be done.”
They descended the stairs once more. Although Flora was hampered by her crutches, she had long ago developed tactics for lifting things with one arm, or filling a backpack or shoulder bag with items she wished to move, or sometimes leaning on a parcel trolley to shift heavier objects. Together, she and Xanthe put their new treasures in the room of mirrors and then began the daunting task of clearing the shop. The room would have to be emptied completely so that it could be redecorated. Xanthe suggested a system of heaps and areas: clean and keep, repair and keep, take to charity shop, and throw out. They allocated the back room for things needing repair, and it was easy to see where Flora would be spending most of her working days for many weeks to come. There was so much in the “throw out” pile that Xanthe pushed open the back door and began stacking less important items in the garden. Trips in and out at least gave her brief moments of respite from the dust. The weather continued to be warm and sunny, and she could see that the walled garden, though neglected, could be something quite lovely with a modicum of time and care spent on it. Every now and again, as they worked, she would experience a little jolt, or hear a little buzz and know that there was something else among the muddle of collectibles that was singing softly to her. It was inevitable, with so many objects, connected to so many lives lived long ago, that there should be several pieces to which she would be sensitive. The modern name for her rare gift was psychometry. To some the term meant nothing significant, simply a label given to a fanciful, unproven ability to discern details about those who had made, owned, or held things simply by touching them. But to others, to Xanthe, it meant listening to the whispers of ghosts, to the echo of their voices, held in the fragile porcelain, or glass, or silver of something special. As they worked on, each time she felt a connection, however slight, she separated those things into a new pile, which Flora immediately called Xanthe’s Stuff. The sight of so many curios wanting to speak to her made her feel dizzy, but however tempting they were she knew they would have to wait. As soon as she was free to go to it, the chatelaine would demand all of her attention.
* * *
As they worked, Margaret Merton looked on, biding her time. She had waited so very long, she was well trained in patience. God had seen fit to send the chatelaine. Soon, they could begin.
* * *
Later Xanthe and Flora had a supper of more cake and hot chocolate. In an effort to force her mother to slow down and rest, Xanthe had pushed the packing cases that were in the sitting room out of the way and cleared a path to the shabby, green-velvet sofa. The two of them flopped onto the soft, welcoming cushions and sipped in silence. This in itself was worrying, for her mother was rarely without something to say. By the time they had finished their little meal Xanthe was deeply concerned about Flora’s condition, which was evidently deteriorating.
“Come on, Mum. Time to get you to your bed,” she insisted, helping her from the sofa and up the second flight of stairs. She could not recall seeing her look so exhausted, and decided that the next day she would make time to go shopping. A diet of cake and biscuits would do little to help Flora’s already compromised health. Once in her own room she found the sight of the unpacked cases and general chaos dispiriting, but was beyond caring sufficiently to do anything about it. She had brought the carefully wrapped chatelaine up to her room earlier, and it was all she had energy left for. In the shadowy little attic space, with only the light of a dim, bare bulb by which to study it, Xanthe folded back the layers of tissue paper and laid the silver pieces on the bed. The metal had been worn and polished by use and cleaning over many years, acquiring a particular luster that cannot be obtained any other way. The humming in her head started up immediately, though she noticed she was less fearful near the chatelaine now. There remained a tension, a sadness, but the fear and sense of doom had receded. Even so, when she touched the clasp the heat was tremendous, and again she saw a sudden image of dense woodland, of impenetrable ivy and brambles and plants twisting and climbing up the trunks of impossibly tall trees. The vision was fleeting but clear. Where was it? The hallmark on the clasp was that of a Bristol silversmith, but the chatelaine could have passed through many hands, been in the possession of a number of owners, throughout its long life.
“Who did you belong to?” she asked it gently. “Who is it who wants to tell me their story, hmm?”
Although she was no longer overwhelmed by the strong emotional vibrations connected to the piece, she was still all too aware that there was something extra special about it. Something urgent it had to tell her. But what? She felt near overcome by a tiredness she could no longer fight, and the light was so poor in her bedroom that she was unable to properly see what she was looking at. She knew that there was scant possibility of her finding a magnifying glass or loupe in the confusion of cases and boxes that surrounded her. There was nothing for it but to wait until daylight and take her new treasure out into the sunshine where she could investigate every detail, every clue that was worked into its intricate chains and attachments. She was hopeful that there might perhaps be words she could make out in the silver-backed notebook. She had at least found her sketch pad, so she made a swift drawing of the chatelaine, noting the parts she thought were older and recording which bits were hallmarked. The picture was a poor second to the real thing, but as a record it would serve.
As she fell into bed she was relieved to feel herself quickly floating toward sleep. She had spent so many nights in the past year laying wakeful and anxious, her mind churning over the events that had so changed everything. It would be bliss to sleep deeply and dreamless
ly. Alas, her own past was not yet prepared to release her, it seemed, for even as her limbs grew heavy Marcus came into her mind. He had no business being there anymore, but Flora had been right about Xanthe missing her singing. It was her joy, her release, her other gift, and it was because of Marcus that she no longer sang. The two things could not be separated. It had been Marcus who had persuaded her to join the band, he who had persuaded her that she could sing well enough. Marcus who had written the words and music specifically for her voice. And when it all went wrong, when Marcus broke what they had beyond any hope of mending, he had ended everything. The two of them. Their future. The band. Xanthe’s singing. And at that moment, as she toppled into an uneasy slumber, she could see no way in which she could ever hope to find her voice again.
4
The next morning Xanthe woke with the dawn, serenaded by the song of garden birds. In her still-packed suitcase she found a pair of cutoff jeans and a seventies cheesecloth blouse that tied in a knot at the waist. Hastily coaxing her unruly curls into a low ponytail, she pushed her feet into her boots and took the paper-wrapped chatelaine downstairs. On her way to the garden she paused in the stock room, filling a bowl with hot, soapy water and finding some small rags for cleaning and drying. She disliked using polish on silver until it had been carefully washed, and even then hated the way some solutions clogged into carvings or engravings. Better to use liberal quantities of both water and elbow grease.
Outside the day was already bright. The garden was formed of a long rectangle of grass, edged with what would have once been flower beds but now more closely resembled mini-wildernesses. Behind these, on all three sides, were high walls of faded red brick, affording both shelter and privacy. In the far left corner there was a small stone building set into the wall and almost entirely engulfed by ivy and rampant shrubs. Xanthe was dimly aware of the sounds of Marlborough waking up, but the garden felt separate, secure, and peaceful.
Unaware that her every move was being keenly observed by Margaret Merton, she set the bowl of water down upon the flagstones of the small patio area at the house end of the unmowed lawn. The sunshine fell upon this part of the garden early, so that the stones felt warm beneath her bare knees as she knelt. With great care, she removed the chatelaine from its wrapping and immersed it in the water, making sure to keep the notebook out; the paper between its silver covers was so old and frail it would dissolve in an instant if it came into contact with the hot water. The chatelaine felt almost as though it were trembling in her hands, and despite the suds that covered it, the silver began to shine ever more brightly as she cleaned. Soon the birdsong was drowned out by the high-pitched buzzing and the jumbled whispers clamoring for attention inside her head. She strained to make out words, but the sounds were too confused. Again she had a clear sight of woodland undergrowth, and this time she saw that there were small birds among it. As she cleaned the clasp, the details of the design were better revealed, showing acorns and leaves and twining plants. Was this what was sparking the glimpses of that past? Somehow, she did not think so. She was aware of an underlying sensation of fear, but it was more controlled now. With the grime of ages removed, she could see the chatelaine’s details more clearly and noticed that the silver of some of the attachments was not an exact match for the clasp and chains. The coin purse, for one, was made of a mesh that was of a harder, brighter form of the metal. The scent bottle looked simpler, almost clumsy. The notebook holder was considerably finer and more carefully worked than the main part of the piece. It was not uncommon for antiques of all kinds to be added to or altered over the years, but it made her question whether the description of the things as being mostly Victorian was accurate. The buttonhook could well have been older. And what was missing? What had once hung from those empty chains?
She lifted the chatelaine out of the dirty water and rinsed it beneath the outside tap. A paving stone in the sunlight seemed the perfect place to set it out to dry before polishing it later. She was relieved that the reaction it provoked was no longer so intense, but at the same time she was a little confused. Why had it had such a powerful effect on her earlier? And why could she not read more from it? In the past, she had quickly been able to draw stories from pieces that had not stirred her so profoundly. It was curious. Xanthe decided that as soon as the internet connection was set up she would do some research and see if it was possible to unearth answers that way, even if that did feel a poor substitute for her more usual, visceral connection.
After taking a cup of tea to Flora she forced herself to go shopping. Her mother still looked fatigued from the day before, and Xanthe had seen what could happen if she pushed herself beyond her sensible limits. She needed hearty food, regular meals, and more painkillers. Xanthe fetched her bag. For a moment she considered putting on something less scruffy but did not, deciding that the good people of Marlborough might as well get used to her as she truly was.
In her eagerness to get on with the day she had not taken into account the early hour. The high street was slowly coming to life, but the supermarket’s doors were firmly shut. She was not in the habit of wearing a watch, but the clock on top of the old town hall informed her it was half past seven. Another hour until opening time. She was on the point of returning home when she noticed the pub that Gerri had mentioned. The Feathers was a splendid example of a black-and-white timbered building, with a low, sagging stone-tiled roof, small windows, with overflowing window boxes of cheerful late summer flowers. She walked along its high street frontage until she came to the narrow lane that twisted away between the buildings. She could not see the river, but she remembered Gerri saying it was behind the inn. A walk beside gently flowing water seemed like a pleasant way to pass the time until she could do her shopping. The road followed the side of the pub and its small beer garden at the rear. Beyond that was a large stone building that resembled an old warehouse of some sort. Xanthe heard the river before she saw it. The Kennet was not a broad sweep of majestic water like the Thames, but little more than a chalk stream, shallow and perfectly clear, showing the reeds beneath the surface waving in the easeful current like mermaid hair under the sea. The water was fenced off with old metal railings, and the banks had been planted with bulbs. To the left was an antiques market, which Xanthe knew she should investigate soon. They had chosen Marlborough largely because it was a place known for its antiques, and people would travel for a day’s browsing. There was definitely room for their own little shop, but they needed to make sure there was not too great an overlap in the type of things the competition stocked. To the right was a slender bridge that led to a cluster of houses on the other side of the river. It was an altogether wonderfully English and peaceful and old-fashioned part of the town. Half of Xanthe was charmed by it, while the other half felt a twinge of panic that she might have hop-skipped the rest of her youth and landed firmly in middle age if she found such a setting and such comfortable tranquility so appealing.
“Thinking about an early morning swim?”
The voice behind her was familiar, but only vaguely so. She turned to find the man who had taken her parking space at the auction the day before. He was dressed in overalls and was wiping his hands on an oily rag. Looking beyond him she could now see that the building she had passed was a workshop. The sign above it read CLASSIC SPARES AND REPAIRS. There appeared to be a small apartment on the first floor.
“Your business?” she asked, nodding past him.
“That’s right. Any classic. I buy ’em, restore ’em, and sell the ones I can force myself to part with. Couldn’t resist the sale at Great Chalfield yesterday. There was a cracking collection of cars going, as well as quite a hoard of parts.”
“Ah. I didn’t notice.”
“I’m surprised, you owning such a gem of a taxi.”
“I love my car,” she confessed, “but that’s as far as my fascination for classic vehicles goes. Actually, I was told you were the man I needed to find. Liam, is it?”
He grinned. “Good
to know somebody thinks I’m useful.”
“I need a new wing mirror.”
“Driving too close to the hedges? Takes a while to get used to the lanes around here.”
“On the driver’s side,” she told him firmly, not enjoying the implied criticism of her driving. “I had it removed for me by a boy racer. Can you find me another one?”
“Let me write down the make and model, and I’ll see what I can do.”
He led her into the tiny room that served as an office at the front of his workshop. In the larger space she could see two gleaming cars, all shiny body work and polished chrome, and another under a cover. There was a radio playing somewhere. If the workshop was orderly, the office was a chaotic collection of papers and coffee mugs. Liam found a notepad with surprising ease. The third pen he unearthed actually worked.
“Yours is an Austin Fairway, that right?” he asked.
“Yes. An FX 1. 1986.”
“Ooh, first to have power steering. Bet you’re glad about that. Hard work turning one of those beauties around otherwise,” he added, glancing at her as if to assess her strength.
Xanthe narrowed her eyes at him. She repeated to herself her little mantra that not every good-looking man was trouble, but in truth it was still too soon for her to believe it.
“Can you get me the mirror?”
“Leave it with me, and I’ll need your phone number, too.”
She gave him the one for their landline, thinking her mobile number somehow too much of a personal connection. She explained about the shop and that they had only recently moved in.
“If you’re in need of refreshment you could do a lot worse than The Feathers,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the pub. “They do a seriously good veggie lasagna, and they have live music on Friday nights.”
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 4
