‘Seems they must have done somehow,’ I said. ‘And they’ve got a lot of stock to put in it.’ Time for my story now.
‘Twelve cases of china?’ he repeated.
‘Full-size packing cases,’ I nodded. ‘After all, they’ve got a lot of space to fill. What does it look like? Hard to make a garage look like anything except a garage, surely.’
‘They’ve managed it. OK, it’s only hardboard, I should imagine, but they’ve faked panelled rooms and low ceilings, and laminated old oak floorboards are going down even as we speak. Everything genuine fake,’ he concluded bitterly.
‘I wonder if the stuff they sell will be too.’
‘If anyone can tell that, it’s you, my love. Oh, and they’re going to run a tea room and sell plants.’ He sat down hard, as if his legs had given way. ‘So they plan to ruin us and Sally Haskin and Midge Poulter. Antique shop, café and flower shop, just like that!’ He snapped his fingers.
‘Only if we let them,’ I said grimly.
THREE
People acting on their own would probably be no more than flea bites, so I suggested group action, although it would be like trying to herd cats: Sally Haskin and Midge Poulter had had an argument years back, before I even came to the village, and had never spoken since. Wisely, Griff set off to talk to them separately. Knowing I wouldn’t see him for some time, I resigned myself to further work in the shop: not on the counter, altogether too public, but on a small side-table that folded away when not in use. The light wasn’t anything like as good as in my workroom, and I didn’t have everything I needed within reach. But I made progress.
I was just wondering whether I dared flip over the ‘Closed’ sign and nip and get a coffee when we had one of those rare birds, a customer. He seemed impatient at even the few seconds’ delay between his ringing our bell and my unlocking the door, but I didn’t take it personally. His face had seen a lot of impatience, to judge by the pinch of frown lines round his mouth.
‘Lina Townsend?’ he asked, with what could have been a slight French accent, though I couldn’t be sure. He laid a stylish black leather case on the counter. It might be just a computer bag, but it wouldn’t have looked out of place being carried into the Ritz. Even so, I didn’t like things being slung on the counter like that, so I raised a cool eyebrow. Without looking abashed, he opened it long enough to fish out a business card, before closing it and putting it on the floor. He pulled down the cuffs of his elegant suit, then dropped the card on the square of green baize we use to protect the counter from hard objects and vice versa.
‘Lina Townend. That’s me.’ I wished it had been a better-dressed me, because though my T-shirt was clean, it was only workwear, after all. And you don’t posh up when you’re dealing with paint and adhesive.
He looked down at the Worcester figurine. ‘Of course it is.’ His smile took ten years off him; if I’d seen him like this the first time I might have thought him charming. As it was, I reserved judgement. ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ he added, his face softening still more. ‘And now I can see you in action.’
I smiled too, but regretfully. ‘I’m afraid restoration isn’t a spectator sport. It has to be done in decent privacy.’
‘So no one sees what you’ve done?’
‘Not unless it’s work on your own property. But even then you don’t get to watch – it’d be like having a patient’s relative in an operating theatre,’ I added. Surely, it was time for him to explain why he was here? I didn’t have all day to waste on verbal sparring. ‘How can I help you?’ That was blunt enough.
‘It’s how I can help you.’ He turned the card round so if I wanted I could read it.
‘Help me?’ Griff could have warned him that when I rounded my eyes and sounded little-girly, I was actually getting angry. Approaching furious, actually, when, the side of one lip curled, he looked round the shop as if it was some junk shop.
‘I should imagine your workload is pretty patchy – heavy one week, then nothing for ages.’
He could imagine what he liked. Most weeks I had more than I could handle. For people who weren’t my regular clients, there was a wait of a month or more. Which of them might have sent this guy here? Or was it a fellow dealer, genuinely impressed by the quality of my work?
‘All self-employed craftspeople have good times and bad times,’ I said, still managing to sound mild.
‘How would you like to have good times all the time – a properly managed work flow, regular hours, paid holidays?’
‘Self-employed people don’t have lives like that,’ I pointed out. So I was about to be offered some sort of a contract: the only question was who was offering it. At least one top-of-the-range dealer had already approached me, as had two museums. I’d turned down their offers and would do the same to any others. My place was here with Griff.
‘But you could still call yourself self-employed. In fact, it might be advantageous were you to do so.’
Were I to do so! Any moment now I could be getting very bored with this smooth-talking city type.
‘I like to call myself what I am. It’s often easier to tell the truth.’ I looked at my watch. I’d prefer to get rid of this man – Charles Montaigne, according to his card – before Griff returned. Why didn’t the card give more detail, not just his name and a mobile number? Like what his business was? I was sure it was business. Curators of cash-strapped museums didn’t run to suits like that. ‘Being self-employed doesn’t mean working part-time, however. And it doesn’t mean you don’t have to meet deadlines.’ Charles Montaigne. How did I know that name?
‘Cheap fifties Royal Worcester,’ he said, pointing to the figure on my side table.
‘Not so very cheap – a Freda Doughty. “The First Cuckoo”.’ I wished I didn’t sound so defensive.
‘Three or four hundred at most. You’re better than that.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Harvey Sanditon says you’re the best.’
I’d been wondering when his name would crop up. He was far further up the food chain than Griff and me, but had taken a shine to us – OK, to me in particular – and put a lot of work my way. He’d once tried to lure me down to Devon, but when he’d been knocked back hadn’t seemed to bear a grudge. In fact, I sometimes wondered if all the work he put my way from other dealers might be a sop to his conscience for flirting so thoroughly when he was married. But, hey, it was work, and who was arguing?
‘He’s a friend of Griff’s.’ That was the way Harvey preferred to play it, once his wife had found out he had feelings for me – which was well after I’d sent him packing, incidentally.
Montaigne’s eyebrows rose, then dipped. ‘Of course. So you don’t want extra work put your way?’
‘I’m always happy to consider work,’ I said. ‘But on an individual basis. And I do ask owners to agree a pretty tight contract – would you believe that some dealers try to pass restored work off as perfect?’ I added sunnily. I reached a copy from a drawer under the counter.
He ignored it. ‘How wicked of them,’ he said ironically. ‘Well, if you change your mind, all you have to do is call this number.’ He touched the card again. With a final look round the shop, a bit of a sneer and something of a shrug, he went out, leaving me in peace.
Actually, I felt far from peaceful. Angry, patronized and – yes – rather intimidated, though I couldn’t for the life of me have explained why.
But that was something I could keep to myself, I told the little figurine, apologizing for the shakiness of my hands. Griff was horribly quick at picking up my changes of mood, so I decided to pre . . . pre . . . One problem of having no schooling to speak of is forgetting useful words. I had to get my question in first – pre-empt him, that was it. ‘How’s the campaign going?’ I asked, the moment he appeared, only half an hour late.
He rubbed his hands with glee. ‘In train already. To my absolute amazement, the two old witches – and were it after six o’clock I might use a stronger vari
ant of the word – are prepared to join a little action committee, together with the people from Spar and the pharmacy. Revolution! Tariq Ali, eat your heart out.’
I’d no idea who Tariq Ali might be, but to look at gentle Griff now, pumping his right fist in the air, I was sure he would.
‘Oh, it’ll be like when I was a young man, awash with the testosterone of rebellion! We may not tear up the cobblestones of Paris, but we might manage a protest in the market square,’ he added with a self-mocking smile. ‘We meet tonight. Watch this space. Meanwhile, my love, the items we took to Hythe – was it only yesterday? – are still in their packing cases. I suggest that since your morning’s work was sadly interrupted by our pantechnicon friend, you leave that to me.’
He could see how little I’d achieved, couldn’t he? Was this the moment to tell him about the other visitor? No, it’d only worry him to think I was turning down what he’d see as a good career move.
I nodded. ‘Aren’t we off to Sevenoaks this weekend? So I wouldn’t bother taking the stuff out. We can just pack everything back into the van.’
He stared. ‘Sevenoaks? But the play . . .!’
‘No problem. We can both work on Saturday, and I can go on my own on Sunday. Titus will be there so you needn’t worry about me.’
‘All the more reason to worry about you, loathsome man. No, to do him justice I suppose he believes there’s honour amongst thieves. He’ll provide muscle in both senses – probably more useful than me,’ he added plaintively.
I didn’t bite, largely because what he’d said was true. These days anything in the way of heavy lifting left him pale and breathless. So far I’d not been able to frogmarch him to see Dr Chapman, but any day now I’d make an appointment in my own name and simply grass him up. ‘I need better light, so I’ll take this little lady upstairs and work on her there.’ Half-true, anyway – and the best I could manage. I slipped the business card in with all the others in a wicker basket Griff meant to sort out one day.
In the quiet of the garden, over lunch – some of the scrumptious end-dated goodies Griff had picked up yesterday – I asked him about his campaign. Ours, really, of course.
‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘it’s a case of David and Gollum.’ When he looked puzzled, I added, ‘You know, that guy with his Precious.’
‘I think you mean the guy that David slew with a stone from his sling. Goliath, sweet one.’
‘Goliath. And though David didn’t exactly fight dirty, he had the . . . the element of surprise,’ I said in a rush, quoting one of the BBC’s Afghanistan reporters. ‘Now, whoever set up this here centre will assume we’re going to fight, but he’ll also assume that we’re going to fight clean. What he won’t expect is a little stone from our sling.’
‘And what little stone would that be?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I admitted with a grin. ‘But I know a man who might help find it. Titus Oates, of course.’
Predictably, Griff winced. ‘A man so hard to like, dear one.’
In the past I’d had to walk down the village street to phone him. This time I was going to be upfront. I smiled grimly. ‘But such a useful one.’
I waited till Griff had gone to mind the shop before dialling. Titus answered first ring.
With Titus, you didn’t bother with all those polite things that usually start phone conversations. ‘Who’s behind the big antiques centre on the A road between here and Ashford?’
There was a silence. ‘What antiques centre?’
‘Arrived last night, courtesy of some shopfitters working overtime. And their stock arrived here a couple of hours ago. A big van, full of furniture and china.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. Plus it’s got a tea room and plant centre.’
‘Fucking hell.’ The line went dead.
While I had the phone in my hand, I might make another call. For someone who made money with international transactions Harvey Sanditon was very slow at dealing with emails. He hardly touched texts at all. So it was a good old-fashioned bit of communication, especially as Harvey did like all the curtsies. No, not curtsies. Courtesies. That was the word.
‘My dear Lina, what an unexpected pleasure. How are you? And dear Griff?’
Knowing he’d be interested, I told him about Griff’s new campaign against the antiques centre. Only then did I lead into what I really wanted to know. ‘Harvey, you know how generous you are putting work my way—’
‘I put it your way not because I’m generous, but because you do such good work, Lina.’
Whatever. But I didn’t say it out loud. ‘I’ve been approached by someone who said you spoke highly of me—’
‘Which I do to everyone.’
‘Thank you. I was wondering what you know about this particular guy. Charles Montaigne.’ At least, thanks to my trips to France, I managed not to mangle the surname too badly.
‘Charles Montaigne? Never heard of him. No, actually, I have, but I’ve no idea where or in what context. I’ve certainly not spoken to a man with that name about you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Yes, actually. Why should he suggest he’s best mates with you?’ I answered the question myself. ‘He was trying to sweet-talk me into working for him – full-time, by the sound of it.’
‘Which you declined to do.’
‘If I was ever going to work full-time for anyone, Harvey, you’d have first claim,’ I said. ‘Because I know you’re honest. And this guy was somehow suggesting that I’d still call myself self-employed when I wasn’t. He looked absolutely loaded.’
‘Which could have been window dressing, of course. Did you check his car registration and so on?’
‘He’d parked out of sight.’
‘Which, dearest Lina, I hardly need observe, is suspicious in itself. Charles Montaigne . . . I will ask around – discreetly, of course – on your behalf. However, and it pains me to say this, the best source of information is probably that shady and laconic friend of yours.’
I knew shady, but not laconic. But I could have a good guess. ‘Titus Oates?’
‘Does he have a proper first name, or were his parents students of English revolutionary history?’
‘If he has, I’ve never heard it. Thanks for the advice, Harvey. I’ll call him.’ Again, of course.
With Harvey, you couldn’t just get what you needed and cut the call. You had to go through the same routine you’d started with. Or do I mean ritual? Griff always liked it, matching Harvey’s twisting, turning sentences with some of his own, as if they were performing some complicated verbal dance.
If only I could have remembered any of the steps. Usually, I let Harvey get on with it, while I remained laconic. (Was that how you used the word? I must ask Griff.) But at last I was free to decide whether to do what he suggested: phone Titus. Again. On the whole I thought I’d wait for him to call me.
Meanwhile, I had the Worcester to finish.
‘My child, I did hope you’d be coming to the protest meeting this evening,’ Griff said, putting a cup of green tea on my work table. ‘But here you are, still toiling.’
Managing to put the figure down safely, I stretched, hearing and feeling something clunk in the top of my back. ‘What’s the time, then?’
‘Almost six. I popped my head round the door earlier, but you might as well have had a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from your back, so I tiptoed away.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, reaching for the tea. ‘I lost all sense of time.’ Actually, I’d been hoping Morris might phone, as he sometimes did, and suggest a stolen weekend together. My theory was that if I sat and daydreamed, he wouldn’t, but if I really got stuck into a job, he would. Sometimes it worked; sometimes, like today, it didn’t. ‘But of course I’m coming to your meeting. After all, it involves me as much as it involves you.’ I cleaned away the adhesives and paint. I liked a nice clean space to start the next day.
‘Almost but not qui
te, my love. After all, you could always earn a living with your hands.’ He pointed to ‘The First Cuckoo’.
Had he seen that business card? ‘Could. But I’d rather do it as part of Tripp and Townend than on my own. And I don’t like people who bend the rules others like us have to obey,’ I added firmly, but under my breath.
The village hall was packed. Maybe some villagers had turned up because there was nothing worth watching on TV, but most seemed really keen to protect the shopkeepers who gave Bredeham what they called its ‘character’. They passed a vague resolution promising not to patronize the new centre and to eat and buy more locally. I could see how that might help Spar, but there was a limit to the number of Doulton vases a family might want. And Griff would fall at the first hurdle. Spar had a wonderful range of cakes, but these barely crossed his radar, not while he could cook his own. As for the cheeses they stocked, they weren’t much use to an unpasteurized man.
Perhaps that’s why he didn’t make the Shakespeare-laced speech I’d expected, but he did raise a little dust when he asked why none of our parish councillors was in attendance, as he quaintly put it. They’d not even sent their apologies, which made the handsome law-student son of the Bangladeshi takeaway owner declare that they’d all been bribed by the owners of the new centre. The vicar’s wife insisted on adding all sorts of words like conceivably and not impossible as she minuted his allegation. The pharmacist, much more down to earth, said that the meeting was being held at very short notice, and we should hold another to which they were specifically invited. The motion was passed without argument.
All of which left us feeling rather flat. Me, at least. I wanted action, and I wanted it now. Specifically, I wanted action from Morris, of course, but there was no point in taking out my grumpiness on Griff. So when he suggested a late drink in the garden, so we could watch the overhead display by the birds and bats, I agreed.
‘You’re very quiet, my dear one,’ he said as he brought out ice-cold Moselle and some posh nibbles. ‘Light that candle, would you? We don’t want bugs to drive us back in. An evening like this we should cherish – autumn will soon be upon us, after all. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,’ he added sadly.
Guilt Trip Page 3
