by Susan Lewis
Lucy’s eyes were glittering as Michael straightened up, and seeing how bright his own were she almost let out a squeal of excitement.
‘Obviously, I’m no expert,’ he said, looking from her to Sarah and back again, ‘but if Margie does confirm it’s genuine, I’m guessing it could be worth somewhere in the region of twenty thousand.’
Lucy almost gasped.
Sarah did.
John said, ‘And its list price in the catalogue is how much?’
‘Between two and three hundred,’ Michael told him. To Lucy he said, ‘We have no way of knowing this for certain, but by listing it as “in the manner of Peter Kinley” there’s a good chance that we are looking at something the ring had in their sights for tomorrow.’
Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. Had her mother been the one to list it, knowing its value? Surely not. It must have been Maureen.
‘Is there a way of finding out for certain if the ring is targeting it?’ Philippa wanted to know, speaking in unison with Simon who was asking the same thing.
‘We’ll only know that once we have an idea of its true value,’ Michael replied, ‘but it’ll be interesting to see if anyone makes enquiries tomorrow as to why it’s no longer in the sale.’
‘One last question,’ John said, ‘if the painting’s so valuable, where should we keep it until we know for certain what it’s worth?’
Lucy turned back to Michael.
‘Your insurance should cover it,’ he told her.
‘Yes, but if it does get stolen we won’t have any idea how much to claim – apart from the list price.’
‘There’s a large unused strongbox at the Lodge,’ Philippa said. ‘I’m sure it’ll fit in. It’ll probably be safer than keeping it here.’
As Lucy nodded she tried not to notice the mistrustful look Simon was giving John, as though John had somehow contrived all this in order to make off with the piece.
‘If it does turn out to be the real McCoy,’ Michael was saying, ‘you’re going to have some fun marketing it when the time comes. I’d like to be around when it goes under the hammer.’
‘If it actually fetched twenty thousand,’ Sarah said, ‘it would make us something in the region of … four hundred and fifty quid on just one item.’
‘Great! We can all retire,’ Lucy cried, clapping her hands.
‘Don’t mock,’ Michael advised, ‘because the publicity could turn out to be worth ten times that.’
‘I should bring the owner up to speed,’ Lucy said, going to answer a knock on the door. ‘This’ll be the pizzas.’
It was, and as they sat down to tuck in, with glasses of wine filled to the brim and the auspices looking so good for the next two days, Lucy felt so excited she was almost afraid.
‘There’s no way it’s all going to fall apart,’ John assured her, when she murmured her misgivings as he was leaving with the carefully packaged painting under his arm. ‘You’ve worked damned hard to pull this together under difficult circumstances, and I, for one, feel very proud to be a part of it.’
Loving his kindness, Lucy gave him a hug. ‘It’s all thanks to you,’ she said generously, ‘because if you hadn’t stepped in when you did I dread to think where we’d be now.’
‘It’s been a team effort and you’re a pleasure to work for, lassie. Now, I should get the jolly pirate home before she sinks any more of that wine.’
‘Oh look,’ Philippa hiccuped as she came to join them, ‘it’s still raining. Always a good sign, I think.’
Lucy laughed. ‘Thanks for everything, Pippa,’ she said, the familiar name coming as naturally as if she’d always used it. ‘I’m so glad you’re going to be with us tomorrow.’
‘And the next day,’ Pippa reminded her. ‘Now, let’s be off, brother dearest, I need to decide on my wardrobe for the morning.’
Going back to the others, Lucy sat down next to Hanna who’d just returned from her fashion-show rehearsal.
‘What gets me,’ Simon said, ‘is how ready you all are to trust that man. Off he goes with a painting that could be worth thousands, and none of you bats an eye.’
‘We have no reason to,’ Sarah replied, ‘and if you’re going to be like that I shall take you home.’
Picking up his glass, he took a large sip of wine and sank into a moody silence.
‘You did a great job today,’ Lucy told Hanna, giving her a hug.
‘Am I going to get paid?’ Hanna wanted to know.
‘Of course. As will Juliette.’ She tilted Hanna’s face so she could see it more clearly. ‘You look tired,’ she told her. ‘Why don’t you go on up to bed? I can clear away here.’
‘It’s OK, I’ll stay up with you.’
Realising she didn’t want to leave her mother in what might appear to be a foursome, Lucy pressed a kiss to her head and said, ‘Then why don’t you text Granny to tell her we’ve had over three hundred people for the viewings?’
‘Cool,’ Hanna responded, reaching for her phone. ‘I’ve already texted Dad and Ben, they were like, no way!’
Smiling, Lucy began stacking the plates while Sarah rinsed them and Michael and Simon poured themselves more wine.
‘You don’t have to be typical men,’ Sarah informed them.
Michael laughed, and stretching out his legs he folded his hands behind his head as he said, ‘I have to admit I’m looking forward to the next couple of days.’
Lucy glanced over at him. ‘Are you going to be here the whole time?’
‘That’s my intention. I’ll be at the end of the phone if anyone from the office needs me.’
‘Speaking of mothers,’ Lucy said, turning to Sarah, ‘which I know we weren’t, do you know if yours has …’
Sarah quickly shook her head.
Remembering Simon didn’t know that Rose was going to call John, Lucy could have kicked herself. ‘Uh, has she, um, asked to see a catalogue?’ she quickly improvised. ‘I thought she might want to see how we’ve listed some of her worldly goods.’
‘She’s been checking us out online,’ Sarah answered, ‘and so far she seems to approve.’
‘Sorry,’ Lucy mouthed when she was sure Simon wasn’t looking.
‘It’s OK,’ Sarah mouthed back, ‘and no, she hasn’t called him yet.’
John was still smiling as he walked away from the stairs, having stood guard at the bottom watching Pippa weaving her way up to bed.
‘Good night,’ she called out again.
‘Good night,’ he called back.
It had never taken much to make her tipsy, and though he couldn’t help fearing that too much alcohol might bring on another seizure, surely the couple of glasses she’d downed wouldn’t have done any harm. What really mattered was how happy she’d seemed since they’d come to Cromstone, because more than anything she deserved that. In fact, seeing her so buoyant was helping him deal with his own feelings about being here, which weren’t always good, though he was careful to hide his misgivings. He wanted this time to be as special for Pippa as she hoped it would be, since no one in the world had ever meant as much to him as she did. That was with the exception of Rose and his children, of course, and the fact that they were strangers to him now would have easily broken his heart, had it not already been broken a long time ago.
If it weren’t for Pippa he might well have put an end to it all during his time in prison. The closest he’d come was when he’d agreed to let Douglas adopt his children. Giving up all rights to them, knowing he’d probably never see them again, had been worse than death; it had been like entering a living hell, a dimension of cruelty and injustice that had no equal; an eternity of longing and loving with nothing in return. The father in him, the husband, the man who adored his family, had been buried that day, taking his belief in God, righteousness and redemption along with him. Now, because of Pippa, that man was being carefully resurrected. Like an avenging angel she wanted the wrongs put right and the healing to begin before she was no longer around to make it happen, and he couldn’t deny her that
even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. Douglas had gone now, Becky and Simon were grown up, and the missing link, the link that had held them all together until it had been snatched from the heart of them, would never be found. That break to his heart would never be healed.
After locking the painting in the strongbox he went to pour himself a Scotch. Perhaps the nightcap would drive away the demons that kept him awake at night, or help him deal with his son’s hostility. As he sat down heavily at the kitchen table, he was thinking with great tenderness of Sarah and Lucy, and how warmly they had welcomed him and Pippa into their lives. Since Rose, only Pippa had ever given him a sense of belonging, or a feeling of worth. Lucy and Sarah were doing it now. Sarah, Douglas’s daughter. How Douglas must have loved her. There was no doubt in John’s mind that Douglas had loved Becky and Simon too, because Douglas was that sort of man.
Raising his glass, he drank a silent toast to the friend who’d been like a brother, the loyal and trusted partner who’d so bravely stepped into his shoes. Then he looked at the phone and wondered, as he had so many times over the years, but especially these last few days, when, if, Rose would ever call. More than anyone he knew how hard this would be for her, and more than anything he wanted to lend her his strength. All he could do, however, was let her come to him in her own time, and on her own terms. When, if, that happened, he’d want her to know that all he regretted about the decision he’d made over thirty years ago was the fact that he’d ever had to make it at all.
This was the hour Lucy had been waiting for. Her mother had always come over to the barn very early on the first morning of the auction, and Lucy wanted to carry on the tradition, not only out of a sense of loyalty, but to absorb herself in the strange tranquillity of so much history before it passed on its way.
As she wandered along the outer aisles of the barn, passing walnut commodes and Georgian chests, French armoires, Victorian bureaux, Edwardian tables and Russian chairs, she could easily have been a traveller in time moving back and forth through the last four centuries. Virtually everything fascinated her, whether a chesterfield sofa that could once have belonged to a duke, a pair of carved elephants possibly created for a maharaja, an ornate lady’s compact from a film star’s handbag, or a three-baguette diamond ring thrown overboard after a broken engagement. Everything had a story, a past, a secret that made it as individual as if it were a living thing. She wondered who’d made the glass vase with its hand-painted orange flowers and foliage: what had inspired it, who’d been the first to buy it, how many shelves had it decorated since? Where might it end up after today? Had the Pendelfin rabbit figures brought joy to a child, or many children? What triumphs and sadness had the silver trophy seen? Where were the winners and losers now? How many pagodas had been lit by the Japanese lanterns, and where were the people who’d sat under them today? Who had been present at the dinner parties that had gathered around the brass candlesticks? Which directions had those diners taken since? Did they ever wonder what had happened to their old treasures? Did they care? Were they even still around to know?
Feeling as though a thousand or more ghosts were watching, breathlessly, invitingly, as she came to stand at the centre of the barn she put her head back to look up at the mezzanine. Carpets and rugs were draped like proud flags over the railings, and three dozen or more paintings hung on the walls. There were mirrors and panels too, tapestries and sketches. Everything had had a previous life, or lives, and was now en route to another. Cromstone Auctions was like a crossroads at the heart of twelve hundred journeys – the number of lots they were auctioning today and tomorrow. No matter where something had started, how many shores it might have crossed, or roads it had travelled, for the moment it was pausing here with her, waiting to find out which wall or floor or dressing table it might find itself on next. New environments, new owners, new families, none of whom would know about, or perhaps even think about, where it might have been before.
She walked on slowly. The still, dank air was alive with a hundred scents, lavender flirting with tobacco, must smothering pine, paraffin wafting around wax. She could almost hear the music of old-fashioned balls tinkling in the chandeliers and blending with the clatter of rolling dice; a cacophony of voices, some raised in anger, others in joy, or laughter, or grief. There were so many worlds here, more than she could name, and in a strange sort of way she felt a part of each one, as though she too was on a journey, bound by a secret she could never reveal. Her secret had no words, nor shapes, only an instinct gathered around a feeling that she’d done something wrong in her life and couldn’t go back.
As she climbed to the upper level and strolled along her newly devised art gallery, past the jewellery cases and shelves of stacked glassware, she found herself imagining what all these orphaned objects might get up to at night when the doors were closed and no one was watching. She smiled to think of walking sticks fencing with garden hoes, while mirrors went in search of new reflections. How many china dolls gathered around the books who were telling stories of their creation, instead of those set out between their covers? Did the teapot sitting proudly on its silver platter, keeping its brood of teacups close by, ever tell how one had been lost? Did it mind? Was it like a family trying to get along without a missing loved one?
As the sun began finding its way in through the skylights, painting the Aladdin’s cave of secrets in a crimson-honey glow, she wandered down the spiral staircase, passing a gramophone cabinet with a collection of LPs appearing a little forlorn in their tattered sleeves. There were boxes and boxes of trinkets and ornaments, old games and toys, match-stick people and clockwork cars.
When finally she stepped up to the auctioneer’s podium she was feeling both weighted and exhilarated by the sense of something wonderful and sad that seemed to envelop her. It was only here that she ever experienced a sense of belonging, yet even as she tried to hold on to it, it seemed to slip away, leaving her feeling as she had as a child, when she’d arrive at a new school afraid of how long it might take to make a friend. She used to think she was different from everyone else, or that they all knew a secret that they’d never tell her. It was only in later years, when she’d confessed that early paranoia to one of Ben’s teachers, that she’d learned how many children felt that way. So feeling as she did now, that she was with the wrong husband, the wrong children, the wrong parents, even in the wrong skin, meant nothing at all, particularly when she knew very well that her children were hers, and for all their faults and idiosyncrasies she’d never doubted how much her parents loved her. Joe too, in his way.
Looking up, she smiled to see a dream-catcher overhead. If she could dream now and have it come true, what would it be? Possibilities began drifting in and out of focus, until, feeling disloyal and vaguely unnerved by the direction her fancies were taking, she let them go and smiled warmly as John’s familiar silhouette appeared in the open doorway.
‘Ah, it’s you,’ he said, stepping into the shadow. She could see now that he was panting from his early-morning run and coated in sweat. ‘I was passing and saw the doors open. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ she told him, and stepping down from the podium she went to join him outside. ‘It’s going to rain,’ she said, looking up at the sky as a billowing mass of grey cloud drew a veil over the sun.
‘The forecast’s not good,’ he agreed, almost apologetically.
Please don’t let this be a bad omen, she was thinking. ‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed that it doesn’t make everyone stay away,’ she said, and linking his arm she walked him over to the farmhouse where Hanna was already up and making coffee.
Two hours later, at nine o’clock sharp, the bidding got off to a lively start, with over two dozen people seated in the well of the barn on chairs that would later go under the hammer themselves. Ceramics were first on the agenda, and it almost made Lucy’s head spin to see how speedily the auctioneers handled each sale. By nine thirty almost fifty items had gone for more than
the reserve price. Sarah was especially thrilled when one of her pieces – a plaque with a painted decoration of an Elizabethan woman – fetched the grand sum of forty-five pounds.
‘Not bad when we had it listed at thirty,’ she whispered in an aside to Simon.
During the next ten minutes the bids took a downward turn, with a few items receiving no interest at all and several more going for less than the list price. However, things suddenly picked up again when a glazed earthenware charger priced at £300–£400 caused a flurry of excitement by going to five hundred, six, seven, eight, and finally selling for the princely sum of nine hundred pounds.
‘Someone recognised something there that we didn’t,’ Lucy murmured to Michael, who’d come to join her up on the mezzanine.
‘That’s the beauty of what you do,’ he reminded her. ‘There’s always room for pleasant surprises.’
Buoyed by the promising start, she reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. Feeling his fingers curl around hers, she allowed herself to be turned towards him, and seeing the look in his eyes her breath caught on a powerful wave of longing.
‘The paintings are up after the glassware,’ she whispered, hardly aware of what she was saying, ‘so around noon I’d say, at this rate. It’s going to be interesting to see if anyone reacts when we announce that Lot 340 is no longer for sale.’
‘Indeed it will,’ he agreed. His eyes were still on hers, but this was neither the time nor the place, so releasing the pressure on her hand, he said, ‘Have you been able to talk to your mother about it yet?’
As Lucy shook her head she felt as though part of her was unravelling. ‘I thought she’d have been in touch by now,’ she murmured.
‘Maybe she’s tried and couldn’t get through. It’s been pretty hectic from what I hear.’
‘True, but she could at least have sent a text. Even Hanna hasn’t had one and … Oh, look, there she is, holding up the Red Maid. Apparently Red Maids’ is a school in Bristol, so I suppose if you’re someone who went there … Oh my God, did that ghastly thing just sell for eighty pounds?’
