‘Are these your husband’s? Are you selling them to spite him?’
I shouldn’t have said it. The dam burst. ‘My husband is dead,’ she said, with a chalk-white stretched face. ‘Do you want to see his death certificate? Do you want to see his grave?’ Then she dropped her whisky-glass on the floor, and put her head in her hands, sitting on the doll-littered bed. The whisky spilled across the carpet; other drops spattered down beside it, tears falling through the cracks in her hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, wanting to put an arm round her shoulders and not able to dare. So instead I added, ‘I’ll give you two fifty.’
In a second her head was up, and she was smiling radiantly through her tears in a childlike, affectionate way that was truly horrifying. I’d have paid a thousand quid to get out of that house then, let alone two fifty. But my troubles seemed to be over. She got up and began packing the dolls in the trunk, interleaving the delicate limbs between the layers of velvet and brocade with a deftness I couldn’t have equalled. Instead I sat on the bed, with that craven gratitude you feel when the mad leave you alone; and wrote my cheque with fingers that trembled so much that I wondered whether the bank manager would recognize my signature.
Then I just sat and watched her finish, full of that limp relaxed warmth that creeps over you after stress; I hadn’t felt that way since the bombing runs we made in 1940, when people fell fatally asleep on the way home.
In the end, there was just one doll left lying on the bed; a very odd doll indeed. For one thing, it was the only one that hadn’t been pulled to pieces. It was quite whole and undamaged. For another, it seemed to represent some kind of negro child. It had a moulded china head, like all the rest, but covered closely with warm brown velvet, the kind you sometimes find on old armchairs. Its hair, long and frizzy, looked like real human hair, nearly the same colour as the velvet, but a tinge redder. The eyes were nearly closed, under puffy velvet lids, but you could see the slitted glint of eyes. And lower down, inside the slitted mouth, the glint of little browned ivory teeth. The body seemed clumsily made and looked like a well-stuffed velvet bolster; the arms and legs were chains of little brown bolsters, like a string of sausages.
I knew instantly that this was one I didn’t want. But she looked up at me, impatiently, and said, ‘Bring that last one over and pop it in. Then we’re finished, and you can get to bed. The trunk won’t take much carrying downstairs – it’s an awkward size, but it’s not heavy.’
‘I don’t want that one,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll leave that with you.’
Her face, which had become reassuringly sensible, began to fall apart again. I remembered the storm I’d just suffered; I remembered, cruelly, the phrase about humouring lunatics. I could always throw the brown thing in the bin when I got home. Or maybe sell it to Tyzack . . . I picked it up, walked over and threw it into the trunk on top of the rest. She clicked the clasps of the trunk shut with three resounding snaps and said briskly, ‘Let’s go. I’ll write you your receipt downstairs. I’ll go first.’
We got the trunk into the back of the Merc. She seemed to relax all of a sudden, and offered me another whisky while she wrote the receipt in businesslike fashion. Then stretched out her legs, without much regard for her skirt. She had good legs, neat plump knees. And she didn’t look insane any more, just terribly, terribly tired. Irrationally, I felt a twinge of desire. Perhaps she spotted it. It didn’t displease her. But she only stretched, yawned, and said, ‘I think I shall sleep tonight. Can you let yourself out?’
I drove home slowly and carefully; but it was late, and I met nothing but signposts.
I had another whisky and went to bed, but I was a long time in sleeping. My head was still in a whirl; I didn’t know what to make of any of it. I dozed once or twice, and dreamt I was still in that house, by that bed, sorting dolls’ arms and legs endlessly. The last time, I jolted awake; something was different, something was not quite as it should be, in my bedroom. For a long time I lay, mind half awake, body nearly asleep, sluggish, unmoving, wondering what it could be. Then I realized it was the bright light coming round the edges of the curtains. Dawn? I looked at my watch. Five a.m. No way. Besides, the light was too artificial, a piercing grey-blue. That got me out of bed, and to the window.
Outside, nothing stirred. My Merc was still parked on the gravel, facing the house.
With its headlights on. I cursed myself for a drunken sot. The battery must be nearly flat. I never left my headlights on . . . I pulled on a dressing-gown and stumbled downstairs. When I got the front door unbolted and unbarred, I found it was raining lightly. The cold wet gravel stuck up into my bare feet as I limped towards the car. What a cock-up! None of the doors locked, ignition key still in. I must have been more drunk, or upset, than I thought. And with dolls worth ten thousand quid in the back, waiting for the first light-fingered johnny. I glanced nervously at the trunk of dolls. In the glow from the courtesy-light, I could’ve sworn the trunk lid was open. Oh, God, thieves. And I wasn’t at all certain the insurance covered stuff left in the car overnight. I hobbled round to the tailgate. That wasn’t locked either. And it had sprung slightly open.
But the charnel-house of dolls was still inside; their glass eyes stared up at me, in mute, plump appeal. The woman hadn’t fastened the trunk properly . . . she’d been drunk as well. Or else it was an old trunk, and the catches had sprung under the pressure of the bulk inside. Anyway, relieved, I re-fastened the trunk. Then locked the tailgate. As I did so, my bare foot came in contact with something furry, flabby, soft and wet. Looking down, I saw it was the brown velvet doll. Must have fallen out of the sprung trunk and then out of the car when I opened the tailgate. I considered unlocking the tailgate again, but I was too tired. I picked up the wet body, and as I was passing through the shop I threw it on to the sofa where Rosebud had once lain. I remember my hand didn’t like it; it felt . . . unpleasant. But what else could you expect of wet velvet?
I walked upstairs congratulating myself on a lucky escape.
Strangely enough, I wakened in a good mood, though pretty late. But that didn’t matter; it was Sunday, blessed Sunday. I listened to the bells of the parish church, ringing for eleven o’clock matins. I never go to church, but I like the bells and the idea of other people going to church, while I slump around in my dressing-gown.
After a good breakfast, I dressed in my oldest sweater and jeans, dragged the trunk into my living-room, and began to try to sort out the dolls.
It was hopeless. I managed to get together the bits of the big Jumeau, because she’d packed those close to one another. But otherwise, all I could manage was to sort out bodies, arms, heads and legs separately in descending order of size, pairing off the arms and legs where I could. By lunch, after a lot of sweat, I had four neat rows of arms, legs, heads and bodies stretching right across my lounge carpet, where they certainly couldn’t remain for ever. The clothes were just a heap of pointless jumble.
Exasperated, I rang Tony Blackbarrow, who earns an idle penny lounging about Christie’s at Chester most of the week.
‘Tony . . . cheers . . . do Christie’s have such a thing as a dolls expert?’
‘We have someone who knows a bit about dolls,’ he said primly, leaving me suitably crushed. Dolls weren’t antiques, weren’t worth an expert. But there was money in them, so somebody would know something about them . . . typical Christie’s.
‘Actually,’ he added, ‘you may be in luck. We had a rave-up in the Chester saleroom yesterday – some of the London top brass up before the sale Tuesday week. Most of them are still scattered round the Cheshire countryside enjoying your local dolce vita. Point-to-point at Tarporley, matins at St Matthew’s, Wilmslow.’ He yawned. He was only out here in the sticks with us because he’d said something rude to a boss-man in London. To Christie’s lot, Cheshire is Siberia. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring you back.’
He didn’t, actually. Instead, it was a very brisk young female voice. ‘I hear you hav
e a doll problem?’
I explained. ‘Sorry to bother you – a bit of a drag on Sunday.’
‘Not so bad as an outing to Hilbre Island to watch the damned seagulls, with my cousin’s four sticky toddlers. Where do you live?’
Which was how I came across the first great love of my life, Ursula Spilberg. She was on the doorstep within half an hour. Tall, and about twenty-seven, but with a figure like a teenager. Black polo-neck sweater, black skirt, black nylons, black flat-heeled shoes – her only concession to her height. Black hair worn long and dead straight; said she always washed it herself, and it was true. Not a trace of make-up, and an olive skin clear as a pearl. An imperious but delicate nose, and eyes . . . brown, but otherwise, words fail me . . .
‘Where are the dolls?’ she said. And brushed past me and went to find them herself.
I showed her into the lounge, and watched her reaction.
Stillness. That’s always the way with the real experts. Lesser men like Tyzack will poke, pry, turn things upside-down, wave their arms, go on at great length to impress. But when an expert’s with an object, you don’t really exist. They’re like a worshipper with a god. At last she said, ‘Are all the clothes complete?’
‘I was assured they were.’ That’s something else; her kind of expert makes you careful what you say, like having dinner in a Cambridge college.
‘A great collection, once. You may have twenty thousand pounds here; if we can get it together.’
And again, she lost all interest in me, kneeling on the floor, moving about on her knees along the pale pink, shining rows of limbs, her hands busy sorting, mostly as quick as a typist’s, but sometimes pausing so long, considering, that I thought she’d gone to sleep. At last she got up and stretched, long slim olive hands pressed in to the small of her narrow black back. Now, the room was scattered with individual dolls, still in pieces, but complete. I moved myself from where I’d been sitting in a chair, and found I could hardly stand for stiffness and tension. I looked at my watch and discovered, amazed, that nearly two hours had passed.
‘All complete except one,’ she said. ‘This Jumeau is beyond saving.’ It was only a small one, thank God. But rather frightening. The top of the skull was caved in like a breakfast egg, but still attached to half the body. The other half of the body was still attached to a leg and a broken stump. The rest was missing.
‘Vandalism,’ she said. ‘Someone has torn it apart. Why should anyone do that?’
‘A child?’
‘That is not the work of a child.’
For some reason, I shivered; perhaps I’d just got cold, sitting so still. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
She relaxed, stretching her arms above her head with the carefree grace of a handsome boy. ‘A lot of coffee – not Nescafé, I hope. And scissors and glue and elastic – you have elastic? – dressmaker’s elastic? – yards and yards. It isn’t perfect, but it will do. We have a long day ahead of us, Geoff.’
‘I can get you elastic – but – we’d better come to some financial arrangement . . .’ I felt things were getting out of hand – she looked a pretty expensive lady.
She looked at me, one eyebrow cocked. ‘Dealer!’ she said.
‘I’ve got overheads,’ I said. ‘You look a pretty massive overhead.’
She looked down at her own slimness. ‘Massive?’
‘Sorry. I mean . . .’ I hated talking money with her, and she knew it.
‘Look, Geoff, you will let Christie’s sell these for you? Very well, then, Christie’s will get their usual commission off you, and then they can pay me for working on Sunday. Go and get coffee and elastic and leave me in peace.’
‘What about a bite to eat?’
‘When I have finished – not while I’m working.’ And she began to sort out the dolls’ clothes.
I went down and knocked up Mrs Turton, who runs the village general store, and bought a lot of ground coffee and all types of elastic, which caused her to give me a very funny look. On the way home, I kept an eye open for Mirabelle. Mirabelle is my cat, or rather the cat that drifted in and took me over. Large, fat, tabby, middle-aged and utterly determined, she just wore me down with persistent sitting on my doorstep. When I discovered she didn’t claw the antiques, or disgrace the fitted carpets, I let her stay. I suppose that sometime in her life she must have been neutered; she was certainly a female, and hadn’t yet produced kittens.
I was a bit worried about her; I’d never known her miss a meal, but she’d missed one that morning. And cars come very fast through our village.
Anyway, there was no sign of her.
I worried about Mirabelle all day, off and on; there wasn’t much else to do, except brew endless pots of black coffee and wash up, and watch. Ursula had an insatiable appetite for work, and no time for clumsy apprentices. Occasionally I was summoned to hand her a tool out of reach, or put my finger on a knot while she tied it. She’d indicate what she wanted with a nod and a mumble, because she had some tool or material held in her mouth most of the time. Half-cups of cold coffee proliferated along the lines of dolls, but when she happened across one, in the course of her travels, she drank it, hot or cold, regardless. I tried her with chocolate biscuits which she left half eaten inside their red and blue wrappers; I tried her with ham sandwiches, which she left to curl up and go brown.
So mostly I sat, feeling cold. I wanted to light the log fire, but the way was barred with recumbent, shiny pink bodies, and when I tried to cross them, I was instantly, malely and clumsily, in the way of important work.
I kept my ear cocked for the return of Mirabelle, feeling oddly disorientated, a stranger in my own lounge. Once or twice I thought I heard her upstairs, the soft tread and leap of velvet paws on carpets and furniture. But when I went to look, there was no sign. The door to the shop was open, and I looked in there; but she wasn’t there, either. As time went by, and I fell into a cold daze, I thought I heard her upstairs more and more often. Except it seemed to my drifting mind that there was only half a cat upstairs, or a cat that ran on two legs, like Puss-in-Boots. But every time I went upstairs, looked, called, no Mirabelle.
Finally, I heard not just the velvet footsteps, but a gentle, sharp tapping, slowly diminishing. I knew what that was, all right. She’d done that before; rubbed in passing against a big Greek vase I keep at the top of the stairs, and set it rocking. I rushed out to greet her, with the kind of chiding a lonely man gives his cat.
Nothing. Except the pad of paws retreating along the upstairs corridor to the back of the house. At least I had her cornered now; no way she could nip out through the cat-flap in the back door.
‘Mirabelle, you naughty girl. Where’ve you been? You’ve missed your breakfast.’ If I had any worry in my mind, it was that Ursula might think me mad, talking to a cat.
At the top of the stairs, I stopped, listened.
‘Mirabelle?’
A soft thump from the smaller spare bedroom.
‘All right, all right, I’ll come and fetch you, if that’s what you want.’
The room was empty; I looked in every place a large, fat cat might get herself. Nothing.
Then I looked out of the closed lattice window. And there was Mirabelle sitting on the roof of my garage opposite, as large as life, washing her tail in the last rays of the sunset. I called to her, and she looked at me, inscrutably. I could tell she wasn’t purring.
At the same moment, something soft-footed slipped out of the bedroom door behind me . . .
I rushed in pursuit, but the hallway was full of shadows, and my eyes were full of sunset, and I couldn’t see much. I nearly fell downstairs in my pursuit of the strange cat. I knew it hadn’t left the house; I’d have heard the bang of the cat-flap.
But the strange cat was nowhere downstairs, either. I thought for a moment I’d caught it in the shop; there was a dark bump on the top of the Regency sofa against the outside light, that hadn’t been there before. But when I reached out in the gloom it didn’t mov
e. It was only the head of the brown velvet doll . . .
‘Such a fuss about a cat,’ observed Ursula from the floor. ‘Like an old maid. You ought to get married, Geoff; give yourself people to worry about.’
‘You offering?’ I snapped. I was a bit put out about the strange cat; my sense of humour had suffered.
‘Me? You couldn’t afford me. You have me for a day and you’re worrying about becoming bankrupt! Anyway . . . look!’
She indicated the floor with a sweep of her arm. Not only were all the dolls whole again, but one was actually dressed in black bombazine, with lace at the throat, and a little black straw hat pinned to her golden curls. ‘Most of the clothes carry the maker’s mark, thank God. The end is in sight.’
‘Well done. Come and eat. Can I do you a mushroom omelette?’
‘I could eat a horse.’
I cooked; Mirabelle glowered at me through the kitchen window from the garage roof, making no attempt to come down; Ursula prattled about how brilliant she’d been at sorting various dolls – a Heubach Koppelsdorf, an SFBJ with hand-painted eyes – mainly in technical terms that were Greek to me. She was sitting at the kitchen table, still working at dressing another doll. ‘Hey, that smells good. But listen, is that your prodigal Mirabelle returning? She must be wearing clogs.’
Well, it certainly wasn’t Mirabelle, who was still glowering down outside. But there was a tapping of something hard on wood, coming from the lounge. I thought of every possible house-noise I could remember, and it was none of them. It was like some heavy-footed, uneven clock ticking . . . or something walking on two legs.
I ran to the half-open door to the lounge. Behind me, the kitchen lights were on; but the lounge was in shadow, now the sun had set. I have a low line of oak cupboards along one wall, on which I keep the antiques I want to live with before I sell them. Along that ledge a little figure in black was walking, with her back to me, and a black straw hat still perched on her golden tresses. The movements were jerky, not like real life, the arm movements small . . . but without doubt, in a mechanical way, the doll was walking. As I watched, she reached the end of the cupboards and stopped.
Antique Dust Page 7
