by Anne Weale
“That’s why it’s so cheap,” said Imelda. “Some collectors don’t mind slight damage if the price is reduced accordingly. Do you stock only perfect pieces, Mrs. Otley?”
“The porcelain I sell is worth expert restoration when it’s been damaged. The cost of repairing this would be more than its value as a perfect piece, I should imagine.” Beatrix replaced the figure, and turned her attention to a fruit dish of purple carnival glass. “This is collected in America, I’m told.”
“Yes, although I agree with you that it’s hard to see why,” said Imelda, saving Mrs. Oxley the trouble of saying something disdainful about the dish.
Beatrix flickered a glance at her. Presently, after looking at several other objects, she startled Imelda by buying a trinket box made of porcupine quills. It seemed an odd choice in view of her expressed contempt for the more attractive examples of Victorian taste.
“What will you do with yourself in the evening, once you’ve finished putting the place in order?” she asked, while Imelda was wrapping the box. “Apart from some evening classes at the Secondary Modern School, and such things as bingo and whist, there’s very little to do here Won’t you find it dull after London?”
“Life isn’t a continuous whirl of gaiety in our suburb,” Imelda said dryly.
“But you did have your family behind you, and you made contacts at work, I expect”
“Not as many as I hope to make as a dealer.”
“I meant social contacts,” said Beatrix.
“So did I. Surely a strong mutual interest is the best kind of social contact? Don’t you find that some of your customers gradually become friends as well?”
“Occasionally,” Beatrix agreed. "But I wouldn’t have thought that many young men were interested in ... er ... curios, and at your age it’s natural to want plenty of boy-friends.”
Imelda fastened the parcel with sticky tape. “Would you like a receipt, Mrs. Otley?”
Beatrix shook her head, and looked in her bag for some money. “Have the Wingfields been down to see you since Sunday?”
“Mrs. Wingfield has.”
“As she is a collector, I expect you will see her from time to time. The Wingfields are very kind in the way they try to make welcome any newcomers they hear of. They were charming to me when I arrived. But one has to remember that they do have their own private circle of people with the same background, the same interests ...”
At this point another customer came in, and Beatrix paid for the box and left.
On Friday, leaving Mrs. Walsham in charge of the shop for half an hour, Imelda went to a jumble sale where she bought two pots of home-made jam for her future store cupboard, a potted plant, several books, and a pair of ivory glove-stretchers with carved handles.
When she returned to the shop, she was surprised to find Mrs. Walsham in conversation with Charles Wingfield.
“I’ll be off, dear, now that you’re back. Did you buy anything nice at the sale?”
“There were no unrecognised treasures. Don’t rush away, Mrs. Walsham.”
“I mustn’t stop. I’ve some shopping to do. See you later, dear.”
As her landlady left, the doorbell jangling in her wake, Imelda began to unpack her basket. Among the books she had bought was an early edition of Little Lord Fauntleroy which she thought might appeal to the schoolmistress who had followed Beatrix into the shop yesterday, and whose interest lay in old-fashioned books for children.
“Did you buy this at the jumble sale?” asked Charles, picking up the new-looking copy of Bayard by D. G. Hepburn which she had just placed on the table.
“Yes, but it’s not for sale, I’m afraid. I bought it to keep for myself. Are you a Hepburn fan, too?”
“I have all his books.”
“Two guineas was too expensive for me. I had to wait for the paperback. I couldn’t believe my luck when I spotted that copy for twenty-five pence. Can you understand anyone giving it to a jumble sale? Perhaps the person who owned it has died.”
“Possibly.” Charles put the volume on the table. “My grandmother bought a stuffed owl from you for Henry’s birthday.”
“Yes ... is there something the matter with it?”
“I haven’t seen the bird yet. She has it secreted somewhere. What I came to ask is if you would keep an eye open for a suitable present for her own birthday in July.” “Certainly,” said Imelda. “I’ve already promised her an option on any needlework tools which pass through my hands, and if anything special turns up - a really fine workbox, for example - I can let you see it before she does. The only snag is that nothing good in her line may come in between now and July.”
He nodded. “I realise that. But if it’s possible, the children and I should like to give her something more personal than chocolates or gloves, or any of the commonplace presents.”
For the second time in their acquaintance, Imelda felt herself thawing towards him. “I’m hoping to go to some auctions, when I’m more settled. I might spot something at a sale. What sort of price had you in mind?” Before he could answer, she added quickly, “I wouldn’t take advantage of knowing how much you are willing to spend.”
A quizzical gleam lit his eyes. “On the contrary, I think you’re more likely to do yourself down. It was the obvious softness of your nature which made me doubt your fitness to open this shop.”
“And do you still doubt it?” she asked.
"I think you’re more knowledgeable about your wares than I’d realised. Whether you’re a competent judge of people is another matter.”
“Well, as long as I recognise a treasure or a fake when I see it, I can’t be duped by a phoney person,” she said lightly.
“Not as a dealer. As a girl you might be,” said Charles. “What is this little gadget?” He had picked up a small silver object which, with a silver hunter and a muff chain, had been lying on the blade plush pad of a wooden collecting plate.
“That’s a napkin holder. The hooked end fixes through a waistcoat buttonhole, and the discs grip the edge of the napkin and prevent it from slipping to the floor.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You really do know your stuff.”
“I know a little. I still have a great deal to learn.”
“Who did your decorating? You haven’t done all this yourself?” - with a gesture at the wallpaper and paintwork.
“No, I’ve been very lucky. A man who lives here has helped me. He’s in the trade too, but as a winner.”
“What does that involve?”
“He has no premises. He buys from the trade, or at sales, and sells to the trade. We met when he called to see if I wanted the house cleared.”
"A useful contact in several ways,” Charles remarked, “You say he’s a local chap. What’s his name?”
“Sam ... Sam Mutford. Do you know him?”
To her surprise, for she had expected him to shrug and shake his head, the mention of Sam’s name caused Charles’s dark brows to contract in a frown of disapproval.
When he said nothing, she asked, “Why do you look like that?”
The doorbell jangled. A woman in a camel trouser suit came in. “May I have a look round?”
“Please do.” Imelda’s smile was somewhat distraite. As Charles walked into the hall, she followed him. “Why don’t you like him?” she asked, in a lowered voice.
He looked down at her perplexed face, his own expression enigmatic. "The last time I gave you advice, it wasn’t too well received. This tine I’ll only say that if you value your reputation you won’t encourage a connection with someone who is about as disreputable as they come.” He glanced over her head at the woman hovering in the parlour. “I think your customer needs you. Goodnight, Imelda.’
CHAPTER III
Charles’s admonition, added to her own reservations about becoming too friendly with Sam, caused Imelda to dress for the evening in a mood of considerable uneasiness. Had Mrs. Walsham possessed a telephone, she would have been tempted to ring up Charles and press
him to be specific about his grounds for warning her against Sam.
Had he meant that Sam was dishonest? Surely, if that were the case, Sergeant Saxtead would have put her on her guard?
Perhaps Charles disapproved of Sam for much the same reasons that Diane’s mother had against him, thought Imelda, as she reached into the wardrobe for the dress she was going to wear.
She was ready before Sam arrived.
“I hope that young man doesn’t drink too much,” remarked Mrs. Walsham. She had been animadverting in this fashion ever since Imelda had announced her date.
“I shouldn’t think so. If he lost his driving licence, he would lose his living.”
Her landlady sniffed. “It seems a queer sort of living to me. Can’t he find himself a proper job? — Or doesn’t he want to?”
“That sounds like him now,” said Imelda, hearing a motor slowing down. “Goodnight, Mrs. Walsham. I’ll do my best not to disturb you when I come in. Don’t worry: I shan’t be too late.”
As she opened the front door, Sam was crossing the pavement outside the gate. The vehicle parked at the kerb was not his shabby old van, but a smart blue saloon.
“I’ve borrowed my brother’s car. It’s more comfortable than the van,” he explained, smiling at her.
Seeing how he was dressed, Imelda wished she had waited for him to ring the bell. Sam in a suit, with a patterned shirt and plain tie, looked very different from Sam in jeans and a leather jacket. She would have liked Mrs., Walsham to see him. But although it was not quite dusk, her landlady had already drawn the curtains. The moment a light was switched on in the bungalows, the picture windows so beloved by estate builders gave the sitting-rooms as little privacy as goldfish bowls.
“We shall have to get a move on. The second film starts at seven-thirty. How are your driving lessons going?” he asked, as he set the car in motion.
“Pretty well, I think. But I’ve no experience of city driving yet. I’m still chugging round country lanes, practising gear changes.”
They arrived at the cinema in Norwich with seven minutes to spare before the last performance started. Sam had driven fast, but never recklessly. He bought two Front Circle tickets, and a box of chocolates from the kiosk.
The film had attracted a large audience, and the house lights were on as they edged their way along a row towards two vacant seats in the centre.
Murmuring, “Excuse me ... thank you,” to the people who had risen to let them pass, Imelda found herself wondering if, by an unlucky chance, Charles had also chosen tonight to see the film.
Why would it be unlucky? she asked herself, as she sat down. Why should I mind if Charles did see me out with Sam?
Although, once the main feature had started, the boy in the seat in front of her spent most of the film nuzzling his girl’s ear, to Imelda’s relief Sam’s arms remained folded across his chest, and his attention concentrated on the screen.
Only when the programme was over, and the audience streamed out of the building, did he take her hand to steer her through the crowd to the car park.
In the car, they discussed the film, and were still talking about it when Sam pushed open the door of the restaurant. It was not until the Chinese waiter had taken their order for honey barbecued spare ribs to be followed by sweet and sour prawn balls, and had hurried away to fetch lager for Sam and ginger beer for Imelda, that it seemed the right moment for her to delve in her bag and produce a small, neatly wrapped package.
“I know you would be offended if I attempted to pay you for everything you’ve done at the shop,” she began, “so this is a very small present in appreciation of your kindness.”
He opened the package in silence, and Imelda wondered nervously if a nineteenth-century cravat pin made of a small cabochon garnet set in gold was a wildly unsuitable present. She had found it in a papier-mâché box in a drawer in the best bedroom, and concluded that it had belonged to Miss Florence’s father, Isaiah Partridge.
“You didn’t have to give me anything,” said Sam, rather gruffly. He stuck the pin in his tie. Looking down at his chest, he said, “I’ve always fancied one of these. It looks great. Thanks, Imelda.”
Seeing that his pleasure was genuine, she relaxed. “By the way, Sam, have you seen any boot-scrapers lately? A woman came in today who’s looking for one. She bought the cast iron brolly stand, and the curtain poles with the wooden rings, and I think she may become a regular.”
“I have seen a scraper somewhere. Can’t remember where,” he said thoughtfully.
They began to talk shop.
This was a pleasure which Imelda had experienced only with Sebastian Ellough, and then in a somewhat different form because Sebastian had known so much more than she did. With Sam she was on an equal footing. In some fields, she was the wiser; in others, he was.
Watching him as he dealt with the bill, she realised he was the first young man with whom she had ever had something in common. With all the others there had been nothing but a mutual attraction, which was enough to launch a relationship, but not enough to sustain it for more than a month or two.
Several times, in the past, she had thought how pleasant it would be to meet someone who was like Sebastian, but forty years younger. There were young men in the antique trade, but the only ones she had encountered had been patently uninterested in girls. There was nothing effeminate about Sam. He was as masculine as ... Charles Wingfield.
Thinking of Charles - twice in one evening! - made her frown. How aggravating it was to be attracted to a man whom she disliked, and not attracted to Sam who, in all ways, she liked immensely.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, noticing her expression.
Imelda smiled at him. “Nothing. It’s been the nicest evening I’ve had for ages, Sam.”
Perhaps she infused a little too much warmth into her tone, for, when they had left the restaurant, again he held her hand on the way to where the car was parked; and there, for an apprehensive moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Perhaps he changed his mind, or perhaps the thought had not been in his mind, only in hers. To her relief, he released her and unlocked the car, and soon they were on the road home.
For a mile or two Sam was silent, which seemed to confirm her intuition. Oh, lord - I hope he isn’t planning to follow their example, she thought, as the headlamps scanned a layby and lit up a parked car with two people in it.
Although by now she had made a good many bus journeys to the city and back, it was the first time she had noticed the large number of laybys on the way. Each time they approached one, she could not help tensing a little in case Sam should ease his foot off the accelerator and flick on the nearside winker.
“I know where it was I saw that scraper!” he exclaimed suddenly. “It was out at the back of old Oulton’s place. Next time I’m over that way, I’ll see if he’ll take fifty pence for it. He’s a cross-grained old devil sometimes, but - What’s the joke?” - glancing at Imelda, and seeing that she was smiling to herself.
“No joke. Just a passing thought. Is old Oulton a dealer?” she enquired.
He shook his head. “He’s a pensioner now. Used to be a coachman in his young days. Still wears those thick leather gaiters.”
He was talking about the old countryman, and the strange assortment of bygones to be found in the sheds behind his cottage, when they reached Mrs. Walsham’s darkened bungalow.
“Not exactly night owls, your neighbours,” Sam remarked, noticing the absence of any lights other than street lamps and the dipped beam of the car’s headlights.
“No, and we mustn’t disturb them or there may be complaints to Mrs. Walsham about my late hours,” said Imelda, undoing the lock on her safety belt.
Sam stretched his left arm along the back of her seat, but only to pull up the safety catch on the door. "You’ll be more of a free agent when you’re in your own place. Can you cook?”
“Well, I’m no Margaret Costa, but I can knock up a reasonable meal.”
“
Right: you can cook one for me. Roast pork with plenty of crackling, and apple pie.”
“I’ll make a note of it. Goodnight, Sam - and thanks again for a super evening.” She opened the door and climbed out on to the pavement. Although it was not yet midnight, the noise as she closed the door behind her seemed very loud in the silence which shrouded the estate.
She had no sooner opened the front door than the light went on in Mrs. Walsham’s bedroom. The door was half open. Her landlady’s voice called nervously, “Is that you, Imelda?”
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry. I was as quiet as I could be,” said Imelda, putting her head round the door.
Mrs. Walsham was sitting up, and reaching for her bed- jacket.
“Yes, you were very quiet, but I wasn’t asleep. Would you like a cup of tea? I made a flask before I came to bed. I knew I shouldn’t be able to settle until you were safely back, dear.”
“You make it sound as if I’d been on a dangerous mission,” Imelda said, smiling. She wanted to take off her make-up and go to bed, not to sip tea and submit to a cross-examination. But she knew she was lucky to have found such comfortable temporary lodgings, and if some unnecessary fussing was part of the price, she must bear it with a good grace.
It was a quarter of an hour later before, on the pretext of tiredness, she was able to escape to her own room. Actually she was not sleepy, and spent some time thinking over the evening, and admonishing herself for her conceit in assuming that because he had asked her out Sam must find her attractive. There were several possible motives for his invitation; the urge to show Diane she was not the only pebble on the beach, the impulse to be kind to a stranger, his own loneliness, combined with a wish to cement a useful business connection.
One morning the following week, Imelda left Mrs. Walsham in charge of the shop, and caught the bus to Norwich. There were a number of reference works which she could no longer do without, but before she ordered new copies - one of the books she needed cost more than ten pounds — she intended to try her luck at the second-hand and antiquarian bookshops. The yellow pages of the telephone directory had aided her in making a list of the city’s bookdealers, for Sam never dabbled in books beyond checking that any old albums he came across did not incorporate musical boxes.
