‘Which worries you most?’ I said, before I could stop myself. Dave was a Yorkshire man, after all, and didn’t do emotion.
He set down his mug on the little table. ‘Hard to tell. Any road, our Lina, you’d best have those patterns you wanted. Some looked like tat, and no more, to me, but I brought everything anyway, every last scrap. Our recycling bin was full, you see.’
I followed him to the pickup truck he’d left in the street. On impulse, as he passed down a cardboard box, I asked, ‘You keep your ear to the ground, don’t you?’
‘You could say that. But I’m not like yon Titus – hears the rumours before they’ve even happened.’
‘But you might know things – people – he doesn’t. What do you know about some guy called Charles Montaigne?’
He stared. ‘Having me on, aren’t you, lass? More your line than mine. Be seeing you – right? Oh, and the chooks say thank you kindly for their new extension.’
‘Right. And thanks!’ I spoke to a cloud of exhaust fumes – you could almost feel those nasty little particulates hurtling into your lungs – and went back inside, remembering, of course, to lock up, so I could pore over my booty. But what had he meant about Charles Montaigne? I was so puzzled that I stowed the mugs in the dishwasher and washed and drained the now empty cake tin before I opened the goodies.
There were more standard patterns, Simplicity and the like. But then there were some ordinary large envelopes, complete with stamps. My fingers shook. Could these be Spadea patterns? These had never come in the traditional packets that home dressmakers bought at haberdashers (what a lovely word – another to thank Griff for). You had to order them from the factory, which then posted them to you. They consisted of an illustrated instruction sheet (or sheets) and unprinted pattern pieces which were pre-cut at the factory to your exact size. Very rarely, a collector’d get the bonus of the envelope the factory had sent it out in. And here were two. Even though there was no one to hear, I squealed with delight. And then sat down with a bump. One of the patterns was a design by Charles Montaigne. None other than the guy who wanted to seduce me from Tripp and Townend – I don’t think.
Did this sinister man know so much about my tastes that he’d deliberately chosen this name to mess with my head like this? In which case, what else did he know about me I’d rather he didn’t? And where had he got his information from? Before I knew it, I was crouched over the loo losing my breakfast and cake.
I’d done no more than wash my face when I heard Griff’s key in the door.
‘Well?’ I demanded, still only halfway down the stairs.
‘Well, now I’m in their clutches, they’re not going to let me go. They’re talking about yet more tests, would you believe? And the NHS is supposed to be desperately short of funds. Heavens above! Do I smell coffee?’ He looked at me. ‘You look as if you should be the one down at the surgery. My dear one, what’s the matter?’
I ignored the question. ‘What are they looking for, with all these tests?’
‘Who knows? They don’t tell you anything – just that they want one more look at the next thing. They say I’ll get an appointment through the post. Meanwhile,’ he added with a grimace, ‘keep taking the tablets.’
‘But—’
‘Your nagging really is getting more than a little tedious, dear one. Now, let me have my coffee, and you may get on with your work.’ He turned his back on me as if I were an awkward employee.
I was shaking too much with a whole variety of emotions to contemplate the fine restoration I should be doing. Griff had never spoken to me like that before. We might never have shared confessional secrets, but we shared love. We had done ever since we’d walked into each other’s lives. I might have pushed him away once upon a time, but he’d never, ever shut a door in my face like this. Dimly, I think I realized he wasn’t angry with me, but with something else. Possibly himself. Possibly the part of his body that was letting him down.
If only I could have turned to Morris. If only I could have been encircled in nice comforting arms and told everything would be all right, even if it wouldn’t. But that would mean admitting that Griff was ill, maybe very ill, maybe – but he couldn’t die. He couldn’t leave me. He mustn’t. I almost shouted aloud that he must get well. Must.
I don’t know how long I sat on my bed, trying not to cry. Eventually, I thought I’d better do as I was told. Get back to work. Though I couldn’t risk handling china, at least I could deal with any Internet business that had come through. First, however, I idly checked my personal emails – I got so few, I didn’t bother more than a couple of times a week.
There was the usual rubbish wanting details of my bank account – as if – and nothing much else. I nearly deleted the one from New Zealand on the grounds I knew no one from there. But I opened it – to find it was from Aidan. I might have known he wouldn’t do email talk.
My dearest Lina,
I trust you will forgive me for intruding on your valuable time. However, when you know the reason I’m sure you will understand my reasons.
Though Griff is usually the most regular of correspondents, I have hardly heard from him recently. Any communications have been terse to the point of abrupt. I wonder if you might tell me if I have offended him in some way. As you can imagine, this is not a request I make lightly, as I suspect that even if I had, he would be unlikely to confide in anyone, even – or perhaps especially – in you, whom he loves so devotedly. Furthermore, I would not wish you to break any confidences you may have shared.
As you can imagine, life here is not easy: the delight of seeing spring arrive is more than tempered by the knowledge that my sister is entering prematurely into the winter of her life, and not enjoying the companionship I have relished for more years than you can imagine is making life even less bearable.
I would be grateful, more than grateful, if you can cast light on the situation in Bredeham.
Your affectionate friend,
Aidan
It must have cost him so much not to be able to reach for his favourite pen and sign with a flourish. But this time I didn’t take any joy in mocking his pretentiousness. If it was possible, I felt sorrier for him than for myself.
So what did I say in reply? Griff was still holding forth to Mrs Walker, no doubt, but I guessed the subject was more likely to be her wedding than his health.
Dear Aidan,
I’m so sorry you’re having such a bad time. I wish I had some hard news for you, but I haven’t. Griff’s never said anything to suggest any problems between you. He does seem . . .
The first sentence might have taken a couple of minutes to type, but then I slowed down.
. . . to be suffering a lot from indigestion recently. Maybe he’s stressed out after the arrival of another antiques shop in the village. It’s not just any shop, it’s a huge affair, with more stock than we could imagine handling and a tea room and plant centre. Griff’s joined an action committee to get it shut down. He’s also joined an am-dram group with really poor amateur actors. There have been troubles with people parking there – slashed tyres and so on.
I wish I could tell you more. Why not organize some Skype time and try to pin him down yourself?
Love,
Lina
Phew. Half an hour of head scratching just to write a couple of short paragraphs. Somehow I’d have to tell Griff that he was treating Aidan badly without letting on we’d been in touch. Hell, more pretending, but from me this time.
TEN
Chichester was a bit of a schlep for a one-day event, but we had promised the organizer, one of Griff’s old theatrical friends, a long time ago, and Griff simply refused to consider pulling out. It was an early start, so we packed the large van on the Monday evening. He’d shown the barest interest in the dress patterns, although I’d have expected him to be as delighted as I was. So I’d not told him about the dresses, still lurking in their cupboard. I might sell them as a lot to a specialist dealer, or see what I could do onli
ne. As for Ulysses S. Grant, although he looked very good after his thorough dusting, Griff hadn’t reported on progress selling him and, in his current mood, reminding him wasn’t an option.
I relied on the satnav for the journey, switching it on without bothering to consult Griff. Really, this was the weirdest behaviour for both of us. All I wanted him to do was let me hug him and comfort him, in the face of whatever illness he was afraid of, and if I knew anything about him, what he really wanted was a good cosset. Well, he had the cosset, in that I’d done all the lifting and packing, but it was a cold, silent one, because he simply didn’t respond when I tried to be my usual self. Clearly, we needed a miracle.
What we got was the usual crowd of dealers, which was much more comfortable for Griff than the newcomers we’d met in Hythe. Without a backward glance, he left me to set up our table while he went round meeting and greeting as if he was royalty.
Eventually, I too was greeted by Mrs Crews, a woman who Griff insisted was in her eighties but looked a spry seventy. She had a small but good collection of Meissen figures and always made a beeline for us. I was just about to say we’d nothing of interest for her this time, but, almost in tears, she produced a shoebox.
‘I broke the poor girl’s arm last week,’ she said, unwrapping a figure of a woman feeding birds and a separate, smaller package containing half a tiny arm. ‘I was going to contact you, but I thought you’d be here and you’d be able to save her. See, it broke just below this flounce.’
I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘That’ll make it easier to hide the repair. I’m afraid she’ll never be perfect, Mrs Crews, but she won’t have to keep her arm in a sling for the rest of her life. Do you want a written estimate for your insurance company? It’s done serious damage to the value, after all.’
‘It’s all done by phone, Lina. But they say they’ll want the paperwork later.’
‘They’ll get a fully itemized account of the damage, my work and the new retail value,’ I promised her, adding doubtfully, ‘but I’ve got a stack of work already in the queue.’
‘Your house must be like A and E, all these bodies wanting treatment,’ she said. ‘And how is dear Griff? Oh, my dear, have I said something I shouldn’t? I have, haven’t I?’ She fished in her bag, a jolly Radley, which I’d always coveted, and produced a tissue.
It was easier to take it than to make a fuss.
Putting her hand on mine, she asked, ‘Have you two had a falling out?’
‘No. Absolutely not. It’s just he’s not well, and he won’t tell me what’s the matter.’ There! All blurted out. To someone I hardly knew. A friend of his. The ultimate betrayal.
‘And he gets horribly tetchy when you press him? My husband’s the same. A little head cold and it’s man flu, but something that could be serious, and you have to drag him to the doctor. Do you want me to have a word?’
I shook my head so hard my hair flew. ‘Absolutely not. Please, please, please. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it. He’d be furious. And that seems to make whatever it is worse,’ I added, in for a penny and in for a pound.
She nodded slowly, as if working out the implications. But then Griff headed closer, so she said clearly, ‘I’ll entrust her to you, then, Lina. Though I don’t know whether to hope that triage means she needs early and immediate treatment or if she can wait her turn. It’s not as if she needed brain surgery, is it, Griff?’ She held up the figure with a whimsical smile. ‘And how are you? Would you take pity on an old woman and take her for a proper cup of coffee? I can’t bear these paper cups, can you?’ Taking him by the arm, she drew him away.
As I packed the Meissen, I became aware of eyes on me. Just like I had at that industrial estate by the oast house. But I couldn’t see anyone obviously trying to catch my eye, or even, if you see what I mean, obviously trying not to. I exchanged a flicker of an eyelid with Titus, who seemed to be coming towards me. He changed his mind, however, as a customer approached. A sale must always come before a gossip, even the silent sort Titus sometimes indulged in.
And it was a good sale. I don’t really like the texture of Wedgwood, but I can see how people might like the colour and the little classical figures. And I certainly liked the cash price this punter paid for a blue Jasper ware cheese bell and stand. He was surprised when I gave discount for cash and insisted on having our card and giving me his in case we came across anything else he might like.
As I waved him from the room, I realized who’d been watching me earlier.
Charles Montaigne was on the far side of the stall.
He smiled as he approached. Not a smile I liked or responded to. ‘You’re a good woman, aren’t you, Lina? Honest to a fault. Loyal, too. Loyal to shits like Harvey. Loyal to an old codger like Griff, whose business is going nowhere. Loyal to an alcoholic father. Loyal to a guy with whom you’re stuck in a long-distance relationship, even though he thinks more of his daughter than he does of you. Isn’t it time to break out?’
Refusing to be scared that he knew so much about me, I smiled as I parried his words back. ‘If you want to make a purchase, Monsieur Montaigne, I’ll be happy to attend to you. But I tell you, I should want cash. I don’t like dealing with people who hide behind . . .’ The bloody word went. I dived in for another: ‘Behind other people’s names.’ Suddenly, it came back. ‘And you might want to try a more original alias next time.’
His face told me that the joke was on me. He knew not just about my friends, but about the clothes on my back. I refused to let my voice shake. ‘Good day, Monsieur Montaigne.’
With an exceptionally graceful bow, he scooped up his case, looking at the box with Bridget Crews’ Meissen in it and then at me. ‘It’s a shame when pretty arms get broken, isn’t it? And hands,’ he added regretfully, looking at mine and turning away to merge with the punters as effectively as if he were Titus.
All I could manage was to lean on the counter, trying to steady the pounding of my heart as I did my best to think.
How much of this conversation should Griff know? None, if I could manage it. It would leave him as it had left me: clammy-handed and stiff-faced. Why should anyone want to go to all that trouble to find out about a china and porcelain restorer?
Sitting watching my hands tremble – they had my permission now – wasn’t the answer to anything, was it? I needed to consult someone. The obvious person was Morris, who was one of the people the so-called Montaigne had clocked, after all. But there had to be other ways of killing cats. I didn’t even have time to break a china kitten now, however, as we had a little knot of customers all eager for service.
I might have smiled and talked a lot, but I still managed to work out a plan, and by the time Griff drifted back, with the sort of wordy apology I’d have expected of Aidan, was ready to put it into operation.
Heading off, apparently to the loo, I caught Titus’ eye. He nodded, drifting towards the exit, where we gestured each other through at the same time. As if apologizing, he said, ‘Didn’t see the bugger’s face, but I saw yours. And I didn’t get his car number either, but it was a nice motor – black Seven Series BMW.’ And he was gone.
At least I had a story ready for the security staff, two of which were handy. Which should I approach? The young one with zits or the guy who looked like a fat version of my father? Spreading my hands, I looked helplessly from one to the other and got both. I decided to keep the talk well away from antiques.
‘Look, I know I shouldn’t be asking you this, but I don’t know who else could help me.’ I blinked hard, as if my eyes were smeary with tears. They both seemed to be soft-hearted, so I pressed on. ‘Thing is, some guy backed into my car the other day. It’s only an old banger, so no harm done. But as he got out of his car to grovel he dropped something. I didn’t notice till after he’d gone. A wallet of photos. I bet he’s missing them like hell. And I think I saw him earlier. My friend says he’s already driven off. I don’t suppose you’ve got any CCTV footage of the car park, have you? So
I could check his registration?’ Wide blue eyes. Big innocent smile. What a lying toad.
They even shared a brew of tea with me as they checked the footage.
‘Seven Series?’
‘Yes. Black.’
‘Could that be him?’ A warty finger pointed at a grainy image. Zits and warts: some folk didn’t stand a chance, did they?
His mate zoomed in. ‘There’s the number. But now what’ll you do with it?’
Writing it down, I wrinkled my nose. ‘The police, I suppose,’ I said – truthfully, this time. After all, I had not just Morris to call on, but someone much nearer home, who fancied she owed me a favour.
First of all, I’d got to get through the rest of the day being heart-breakingly polite to Griff, who was even more courteous to me. We might have been strangers meeting up after a long absence neither minded. Even a dreadful tailback on the A27 and the sight of accident wreckage which would normally have had us clutching each other’s hands in horror didn’t do more than have him reach for Classic FM.
ELEVEN
Detective Chief Inspector Freya Webb’s bulge was scarcely visible over her desk. She might not have been pregnant if it hadn’t been for me. Well, that’s claiming a bit too much credit, I suppose. The thing is, I’d been with my vicar friend Robin, a very ex-boyfriend of mine, when they met. When I could see the chemistry between them, I shoved them together a bit. But soon things went pear-shaped, and at one point he spoke about going over to Rome and becoming a celibate priest. A bit late, I told him, for that. She’d actually booked into a clinic for a termination, but he threw himself at her feet in the middle of a police budget meeting, apparently, and told her he adored her. Then these sensible, career-orientated people had decided they didn’t want their baby born out of wedlock, and they’d married by special licence in one of the churches in his parish. Big Aaahs all round. So far, so fairy tale.
Guilt Trip Page 8
