by Anne Weale
“Good morning, Mr. Wingfield. I always mean what I say. Don’t you?”
“Yes, but I am past the age of biting off more than I can comfortably chew.”
“How dull for you,” said Imelda. “I hope I shall always be ready to accept a challenging opportunity.” And she turned away to drop her letters through the mouth of the posting box.
But as she walked up the street to her house she thought, I should have made an effort to be pleasant. I can’t be on good terms with Mrs. Wingfield, and bad ones with him. I need friends here, not enemies - and especially not an influential enemy like Charles Wingfield. He is probably on the local council, and could make life awkward for me, if he chose.
Her first task at the house had been to tear down the filthy lace curtains which were obscuring more than half the light. Now the windows were washed and whitewashed which made the rooms much brighter, but preserved their privacy from the eyes of inquisitive passers-by.
Since it would be weeks, if not months, before she could live in the house, Imelda had decided to make one room presentable, and to start trading from it immediately. The room she had chosen was the parlour, not the original shop across the hall which was fitted with a counter and shelves. These might come in useful later, but for the present they were merely obstacles to the type of display she had in mind. According to old Mrs. Medlar, it was seven or eight years since anyone had bought anything from Miss Partridge, and Imelda had not yet had time to go through all the dusty boxes of haberdashery.
On the afternoon following her brief exchange with Charles Wingfield, she was on top of a step-ladder, painting the parlour ceiling, when from the back of the house came a shout - “Anyone about?”
Flexing her aching right arm, she went to answer the call and found Sam Mutford.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you?”
Imelda was pleased to see him. He was her first contact with “the trade” in the locality, and she knew he could give her some useful tips about other dealers, particularly about the local “ring”.
“I’m fine. How are you? Come inside. I’m just about to have my coffee break. Would you like a cup?” She led the way back to the parlour.
She had two vacuum flasks to keep her supplied with hot drinks, and the cup on the second flask was unused. She gave it to Sam, and filled the cup from the morning flask for herself.
“How’s business?” she asked.
“Up and down. Made up your mind what you want to sell yet?”
“As a matter of fact I’m setting up in business myself. If you come round next week, this room will be full of things for sale, and I shall be ready to buy from you,” she told him.
He drank some coffee, and gave her a speculative look. “Are you on your own?”
“Not entirely. I’ll have someone to mind the shop when I’m out buying.”
“Have you been in the trade somewhere else?”
“Not as the boss,” she said, with a smile. It was an evasion of the question, but she did not want him to spread the word that she was a novice.
Sam said, “I’ve some stuff on the van which might suit you if you’d like to come outside and have a look.”
He had several things which she liked including two framed prints of Victorian oil paintings, The Awakening Conscience and Broken Vows.
“But I haven’t enough cash on me,” she said, when they had agreed a price. “I wasn’t expecting to do any buying yet.”
“That’s okay. You can have them on tick until my next call.” He carried the pictures indoors for her.
Some rolls of Art Nouveau wallpaper which Imelda had chosen in Norwich the day before were on the table in the passage. Noticing them, Sam said, “I’m a pretty good paper-hanger. Do you want me to came round one or two evenings and put that up for you?” When she hesitated, he added, “Just to help you get straight a bit quicker. I wouldn’t charge you.”
“It’s very kind of you, Sam. I’d be glad of your help. But there isn’t any electricity yet.”
“That’s no problem. I know where I can borrow a portable generator.”
Again Imelda hesitated. Sam said shrewdly, “If you’re worried about being alone with me here after dark, you needn’t be. You can ask Diane at the hairdresser’s if you want to check. She used to be my girl until her mother decided a dealer wasn’t good enough for her daughter, and nagged Di to break it off. Di’s not independent like you. Her mother could make her do anything.”
“What makes you think I’m independent?”
“You must be to leave home and start a business on your own. If Di had to sleep in this old place, she’d be scared silly.”
“So would I, in its present state,” admitted Imelda. “It won’t be so creepy when it’s decorated, and there’s electricity and a telephone. For the time being, I’m living in digs. If you’re sure you can spare the time, Sam, I’d be glad of some help.”
He was not certain that he could borrow the generator immediately, but, if he could, he would fetch Imelda from Mrs. Walsham’s house at half past seven that evening, and he would start papering the parlour while she did the ceiling in the hall.
A short time after his departure she had a visit from Mrs. Wingfield.
“How are you, my dear? Charles told me he met you this morning, and I came to give you this.” She opened her bag and took out something wrapped in tissue paper.
It was a buttonhook with a handle of ivory inlaid with the pinpoints of gold known as pique d’or.
“It was with a jumble of things, all very dirty, in a lacquer workbox which I bought at an auction some time ago,” explained Mrs. Wingfield. “I cleaned it, and put it away, and forgot about it until a few days after your return to London. If you hadn’t come back, I meant to ask Sergeant Saxtead for your address, and post it to you. Now you’re back, I want you to have it as a small ‘good luck’ present.”
Imelda was delighted. The hook was a rare one, and by far the most beautiful she had seen. She thanked Mrs. Wingfield warmly. “Do you think I’m crazy to open a junk shop?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, I envy you. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do myself,” said Mrs. Wingfield. “I agree with Beatrix that Victorian furniture is not to be compared with the lovely furniture of the eighteenth century, and the Regency. But I have a weakness for the bits and pieces of Victoriana which Beatrix regards as rubbish. Things like scrapwork screens, and sand pictures, and shell bouquets in glass domes. After my husband died, and I moved to the Lodge, and had less to do, I did toy with the idea of opening a shop myself. But Piers and Rowena were horrified, so I gave it up. Piers was always rather a stickler for the done thing, unlike Charles, who has never given a hoot for public or family opinion as long as his principles are satisfied. Had you known them both, you would never have taken them for brothers.”
“I can see that the children aren’t like him, at least not in looks,” said Imelda.
“Ah, the children take after their mother,” explained Mrs. Wingfield. “Rowena was a lovely blonde creature. She was a stickler, too, but I don’t think she was inherently super-conventional. It was the result of her upbringing. Her father is a retired General, and a more stuffy old warhorse I have yet to meet. He runs his family like a regiment. When Rowena married Piers who, in some ways, was very like her father, her girlhood and married life merged with no break in the pattern. Had she chosen Charles, who knew her first, she might have developed quite differently.”
Her glance fell on Broken Vows, propped against the wall. “Now that appeals to me very much. I like all the Pre-Raphaelite artists, but my favourite Victorian painter is Tissot. If you should ever come across a Tissot print, I wish you would put it aside for me.”
Walking to Mrs. Walsham’s bungalow for the evening meal which would be waiting for her, Imelda found herself puzzling over Mrs. Wingfield’s reference to the difference in character of her two grandsons.
Imelda’s impression of Charles was that he fitted his present posit
ion perfectly. When she had met him that morning, in his old but once expensive country clothes, with the labrador loping behind him, he had looked every inch a landowner. To hear him called unconventional did not accord with her picture of him, although it tallied with Sergeant Saxtead’s description - “a bit of a rolling stone”.
The only disadvantage of lodging with Mrs. Walsham was that the meals she provided, although delicious, were extremely fattening. Imelda hoped that the exercise involved in putting the house to rights would counteract the calories in Mrs. Walsham’s home-made meat pies and feather-light steamed puddings. Her landlady was one of those people who refused to accept the connection between food and fatness, and Imelda was reluctant to hurt her feelings by not eating heartily. But she had been a plump adolescent, and was loath to risk her present slenderness.
About a quarter past seven, as Imelda was helping Mrs. Walsham to do the dishes, Sam’s battered blue van drew up outside.
Imelda introduced him to Mrs. Walsham, who eyed his hair, and his brigand’s moustache, with ill-concealed disapproval.
“Your landlady is a bit like Di’s mum,” said Sam, as they set off for the house. “Spends half her life worrying whether her neighbour’s got a bigger and better telly, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Oh, I don’t think Mrs. Walsham is too bothered about keeping up with the Joneses,” said Imelda mildly.
“Di’s mum is. ‘What will the neighbours say?’ is her thought for the day - every day!” Sam said scathingly.
Imelda glanced at his scowling profile. “Has Di found another boy-friend now?”
“Yes, some weed in the Income Tax Office,” he said, with a snort.
During the evening, Imelda asked him what other antique shops there were in the area, and mentioned that she had already met one of the city dealers, Mrs. Otley.
“Oh, her.” He grinned reminiscently. “I don’t often come across anything good enough for her. She’s at the top end of the trade. She’s also the kind of person who thinks someone like me must be dead ignorant. She was talking to me once, and she said, ‘I have a customer who collects white china discs with children’s names on them in blue, and sometimes a date. If you can find any for me, I’ll give you two pounds each for them.’ ” He finished pasting a length of paper. “Do you know what she was talking about?”
“Lowestoft birth plaques?”
“That’s right. I don’t know exactly what they’re worth, but I know it’s a ruddy sight more than two quid. My mother is pally with a woman up the street who cleans for Mrs. Otley. The gossip is that Mrs. O. is hoping to move from the Lodge to the Hall before long. There’s no Mr. Otley, you see, and the bloke at the Hall is a bachelor, and she fancies her chances there. Maybe you’ve met him yourself. Now I come to think of it, old Mrs. Wingfield came round here the same day that I did.”
Imelda explained her acquaintance with Mrs. Wingfield. “It was she who introduced me to Mrs. Otley. What happened to Mr. Otley?”
“Haven’t a clue. Maybe he died, maybe they didn’t get on. I —”
A rap at the front door interrupted him.
“Oh, Sergeant Saxtead - good evening. Come in,” said Imelda, when she saw who was outside.
“I saw the light and thought I’d check it was someone who ought to be in here,” said the Sergeant, following her into the parlour.
“Do you know Mr. Mutford who’s helping me to redecorate?”
“Yes, we’ve met,” said the Sergeant, nodding to Sam.
Imelda said, “I’ve been meaning to call at the Police Station to thank you again for putting me in touch with Mrs. Walsham. I’m staying with her until this place is organised. I’m opening a shop called Victoriana.”
The Sergeant did not stay long, and when he had gone neither Beatrix or Charles came into the conversation again.
“How about a quick drink at the Unicorn before I run you home?” suggested Sam, when they had finished work for the night.
Imelda was longing for a hot bath to ease her aching arm and shoulder, but she felt she owed it to Sam to be sociable.
“Yes, but only on condition that you’ll let me buy you a drink as a token ‘thank you’ for your help.”
“Listen,” said Sam, rather curtly, “I wasn’t hinting for free beer. I don’t agree with all this Women’s Lib. stuff. If you’re so independent that you want to go Dutch, let’s forget the whole idea.”
“Okay, you pay for the drinks,” said Imelda mildly. She wondered if it was only his pride which had been stung by the break with Diane, or if the injury went deeper.
The last bus back from the city was setting down passengers as Sam and Imelda crossed the road to the Unicorn. The lounge bar was not very crowded. Several people greeted Sam, and looked with curiosity at Imelda.
Sam introduced her to the landlord, who said, “Very pleased to meet you, miss. We’ve been wondering what was going to happen to old Miss Partridge’s place. It being over a month since she passed away, and no Sale board going up, it was a bit of a puzzle to us. So you’re opening an antique shop, eh?”
Sam didn’t ask what she would like to drink. Perhaps he was astute enough to guess that she was not a beer-drinking girl, and she wouldn’t ask for a short drink. He said, “You’ve been on your feet for a long time. Have a brandy and soda ... a pint of keg bitter for me, George.”
Presently some more customers came in, and George moved away to attend to them.
“You know what you ought to do, Imelda,” said Sam, “You ought to put a Wanted card in the Post Office window. It would only cost sixpence a week, and it might bring in some good stuff.”
She was asking him if there was driving instructor in the area, when the door of the bar opened again and a very pretty fair girl came in. At the sight of Sam, who was leaning on the bar, facing the door, while Imelda perched on a stool, the girl hesitated, causing the young man behind her to bump against her.
“Oh ... hello, Sam,” she said, in a soft voice, her face turning pink.
“Hello, Di. Hello, Melvyn.” Sam’s manner remained equable. Had he not said the girl’s name, Imelda would have thought their connection was no closer than that of former classmates.
Melvyn’s reaction, however, was markedly hostile. He uttered a brusque “Evening,” and hurried Diane to a vacant table on the other side of the room.
It would not have surprised Imelda if Sam had begun to put on a show of heavy flirting with her. But he continued their conversation without any change of manner, thereby reinforcing her opinion that he was a much more intelligent and subtle person than his appearance might suggest to a casual observer.
“I’ll teach you to drive, if you like,” he said to her, on the way home.
“Thanks, Sam, but I’d rather take lessons from a professional instructor, if you don’t mind. I want to take a crash course. But I expect I’ll be glad of your advice when it comes to buying a second-hand car.”
“I’m glad you’re back, dear,” said Mrs. Walsham, switching off the television as Imelda entered the sitting- room. “I was worried about you being alone in that old house with that young man.”
“Sam isn’t dangerous,” Imelda said, smiling.
Mrs. Walsham bustled to the kitchen to make cocoa. She was wearing a quilted dressing gown, and a ruched net cap over rollers and pin curls. Imelda thought how uncomfortable it must be to sleep in all that headgear. Her mother wore her hair in a bun and when she unpinned it at night, and it fell about her shoulders, she looked oddly girlish. Thinking of her family in London, she felt a twinge of homesickness.
“Well, perhaps not, dear,” said Mrs. Walsham, her mind still on Sam. “But I can’t say I like these long-haired young men, and that long moustache looks horrible, if you ask me.”
“His hair is very clean.” It was no use arguing about hair with people of Mrs. Walsham’s generation, thought Imelda. But it seemed to her that, shorn of his Viking locks, Sam’s face would be indistinguishable from the good-humoured, tough, reliable
faces of the British soldiers whom Mrs. Walsham had been watching admiringly on the television screen a few minutes earlier.
On the second Sunday after her return to Norfolk, Imelda and Mrs. Walsham had lunch at the Hall. Imelda had accepted the invitation partly because she knew it would thrill Mrs. Walsham, and partly because she had found several things in the house which she wanted to show to Mrs. Wingfield, and to discuss with her.
Mrs. Wingfield picked them up in her car on her way home from church. While she was talking about the Women’s Institute to Mrs. Walsham, Imelda sat behind, feasting her eyes on the countryside which, just now, was at the peak of spring perfection, and trying to ignore the butterfly-flutterings inside her at the prospect of another ordeal-by-Charles.
Perhaps he would not be at home today. But if he were, he would not be likely to discompose her in the presence of his grandmother and another guest, she reflected.
Upon their arrival at the Hall, it seemed that he would not be present at the lunch table. The children appeared, their hair brushed, their hands very clean, and were introduced to Mrs. Walsham. The grown-ups sipped sherry and chatted. And then at the very last moment, after Mr. Betts had come to say, “Luncheon is served, madam,” and they were on their way to the dining-room, Charles came hurrying downstairs, apologising for his lateness.
His arrival flustered Mrs. Walsham who had just been starting to relax. Not for the first time, Imelda saw Charles exerting himself to be agreeable. His technique was equally successful with Mrs. Walsham, she observed.
Turning to his grandmother, she said, “I’ve fallen in love with a bracelet which I found at the bottom of a buttonbox, but I’m not at all sure what it’s made of, and I wondered if you might know. It’s jet black, and very light in weight, but it isn’t as glossy as jet.”
“It sounds to me like bois durci, which was the very earliest plastic. It was invented by a Frenchman, and made from ebony dust and albumen,” said Mrs. Wingfield. “Did you bring the bracelet with you?”
