The Last Letter

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Sinclair smiled, the concepts of ‘online’ and ‘flying out’ as foreign to him as her accent. He listened sagely as she recounted the salient facts about the cabinet, the trellis and its gallery. Words like ‘encadrements’ and ‘acanthus swags’ tumbled from her pouty mouth. He watched in amazement as she wrapped her plump lips around the descriptive words which were as comfortable to her as violence was to him. Despite her animated speech, her face barely registered her enthusiasm. A miracle or a curse? Regardless, here was a woman who had no knowledge of who he was, nor what he’d done. It was as if he’d been given a clean slate, albeit one he was about to blot.

  A waitress sailed past, a tray of canapés on one hand. Pausing, she offered them to the distinguished couple nearby; the greying gentleman took one sliver of Canadian salmon laid over a cracker, and consumed it all in one movement. The waitress took in the tight pink dress, and Sinclair’s more casual attire, and by-passed them smoothly, to offer her wares to another couple conversing loudly in Russian on the other side – or she would have, had Sinclair not stopped her with a tight grip on her arm.

  ‘Seems you didn’t offer your fish to my friend. Is it just the old people who get to eat here?’ he asked sarcastically.

  Inclining her head, her training took over. ‘My apologies, sir.’ She couldn’t help but stare at the woman’s immobile face. Even when she placed a cracker in her mouth, the only part of her face which moved was her oversized pink lips.

  The waitress carefully arranged her own facial features until there was nothing but professionalism showing as she waited for these two ‘new money’ guests to stuff themselves. There was a world of difference between old and new money – the staff knew it and the customers knew it. Everyone knew it, except these two.

  When they had finished, she moved off, rolling her eyes as she left.

  ‘Did you see that? She wasn’t even going to serve us. This country, when are they ever going to get in the twenty-first century? Service is a concept they seem to have forgotten.’

  Sinclair looked at her oddly. This world still shocked him. The smallest things tripped him up: coins; banknotes; her ankles. The only ankles he’d been on familiar terms with were those belonging to prostitutes he’d paid at home. But here in England, he could look out his window, at any time of day or night, and see ankles, and more: calves; knees; thighs; breasts barely restrained by singlets. Most of these modern women might as well forego clothes altogether, given how they presented themselves. His companion was no different.

  ‘But you showed her. Silly girl, head so high up in the air you could see up her nose. Half the time, these wait staff think they’re better than us, and we’re the ones with the money, paying their wages.’ Tossing her hair, she cast a grin at him – or what would have passed for a grin had her face had any natural movement at all.

  Sinclair made appropriate murmuring noises, his mind struggling to understand why her face wasn’t moving. Apoplexy perhaps? He didn’t know much about medical stuff, but he knew enough to recognise that she wasn’t well. No one could survive long with that level of paralysis. The perfect partner for him then, and he started to run through the possibilities.

  ‘Were you planning on buying this, then?’ he asked, gesturing at the grand cabinet.

  ‘Could be. Were you?’

  ‘No, I’m here more for the foreign stuff. Also to see if a dealer who robbed me of some stuff was going to be here.’

  ‘Ooh, that sounds fascinating, a story for later’ she enthused, checking her watch. ‘It’s time, let’s go in.’ Taking his arm, she marched forward, passing through the elegant crowd like a bulldozer, before plonking herself down in the middle of the front row. Hardly the circumspect surveillance point he’d imagined. However, being with her seemed to lend him a certain amount of respectability. She seemed well known, and many of the attendees greeted her by name.

  ‘Good evening, Melissa,’ said a sallow-looking man behind them.

  Melissa Crester swung round in her seat. If her face could have fallen, it would have. ‘Hello, Johnson. Can’t say that it’s a pleasure to see you.’ Turning back to face the rostrum, she noticeably prickled at the proximity of the man seated behind him. Sinclair turned to face him.

  ‘Mister, I think it’d be better for you if you moved to another seat.’ Sinclair’s tone was as menacing as a junkie on the streets of Detroit, and Johnson Perry suddenly seemed to spot a friend, moving quickly from his seat to greet a frankly astonished acquaintance like a long-lost friend on the other side of the room.

  Melissa put her bejewelled hand on Sinclair’s thigh, and whispered her thanks. ‘Every time I’m here, he bloody well bids against me. I’m sure it’s because I turned him down the one time he asked me out. As if anyone would want to go out with a stiff like that. He must have cost me at least sixty or seventy grand in the last few months, bidding the price up just because he knows I’m interested in something.’

  Sinclair followed her gaze, taking in the bluesuit, the slip on leather loafers, and the ostentatious watch which took up his entire left wrist. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He fancies himself an interior decorator.’

  ‘Interior decorator? Someone who paints inside a house? Sounds like a real nancy boy if you ask me.’

  Melissa threw back her head and laughed raucously, earning her a chorus of frowns and tutting from those seated around them. ‘You do have a way of hitting the nail on the head, don’t you. You’re probably not far off the money, you know.’

  ‘He does building too?’ Sinclair asked, puzzled over her terminology.

  That question left Melissa in gales of laughter, until the auctioneer stepped up to the microphone to begin that night’s auction.

  THE AUCTION

  As the auction progressed, Sinclair silently took in the room, the bidders, the money flowing freely from their pockets. Never in his life had he heard such sums as the ones pouring forth from the auctioneer’s mouth. Hundreds of thousands of pounds were being bid for fanciful pieces of furniture, trinkets to adorn the mantelpiece, and silverware he’d have given his eye teeth to be able to flog off. And no one seemed to care about the cost, least of all his companion. Melissa’s paddle went up with gay abandon, for anything decorated with the slightest bit of gilt, or with a hint of belle epoch glamour. She was nothing but consistent in her bidding. At one point, she turned to Sinclair, ‘Are you not bidding on anything tonight?’

  ‘There’s nothing here I want, save the candlesticks that were stolen from me.’

  She smiled, as if his reply was completely understandable, and turned her attention back to the auctioneer, eyes gleaming, hand clenched tightly to her numbered paddle.

  ‘Lot 193, a pair of French ormolu and painted metal five-light candelabra. Louis VXI style, by Emmanuel-Alfred Beurdeley. Bidding set to start at twenty thousand pounds. Do I hear twenty? Yes, madam, twenty from you ...twenty-five, sir ... thirty, madam ... I have a phone bid for thirty-five. Forty, do I have any bids for forty thousand pounds? ... yes, sir, thank you. Madam?’

  Looking to Melissa, the auctioneer paused. She wasn’t looking at him. She was, instead, scowling at Johnson Perry, whose paddle was dangling effeminately over his crossed knee, a sly smile on his face as he absorbed Melissa’s gaze.

  Turning back to the auctioneer, Melissa called out ‘Forty-five thousand.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. Do I hear any further bids? Sir? No? Thank you. Final call. We are at forty-five thousand pounds for this beautiful pair of Beurdeley candelabra. Going once. Going twice. Sold.’

  His gavel hit the hardwood sound block, and the room erupted into amused applause. Many of the attendees had seen these two battle it out in the sale room before, and were not disappointed tonight.

  As the auction wound up, and the room emptied of unsuccessful bidders, Melissa stood and stretched like a cat.

  ‘Come with me while I settle my account, then we can go find something to eat, and you can tell me all about the dealer who
robbed you. I am starving. They never feed you very well at these things. They’ll drown you in champagne, but they give you almost nothing to line your stomach. They think if you’re tipsy, you’re likely to bid more.’ She laughed at herself, ‘I guess it works. Come on then.’ Tugging on Sinclair’s arm, they made their way to the business end of the auction process, the exchange of money for goods.

  Sinclair hung back as Melissa made arrangements for the larger pieces to be shipped back to America. He was so busy watching for any sign of Sarah, that he was caught unaware as Melissa thrust a large cardboard box into his arms.

  ‘For you,’ she beamed, her pouty lips going so far as to upturn at their edges.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Those Beurdeley candelabra. No one should go through life hankering after something that’s gone. Think of it as a gift to celebrate our new friendship. Come on, we’ll catch a cab and find some food. I’ve finished here now.’

  ‘You bought them for me?’ Sinclair stood in the middle of the foyer, shock etched on his face. No one had ever given him a gift. Not his parents, nor his friends, who had been few and far between. There was no point in his past where he could recall being given anything, other than a clip round the head. He’d had to fight for everything. Food, clothing, shelter. Nothing in his life had been easy. This woman had just spent forty-five thousand pounds on the ugliest pair of candelabra he’d ever seen in his life, and he’d never been happier.

  ‘Of course, silly. Come on now, there’s a taxi waiting for us.’

  THE FAMILY

  Annwr Lloyd wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders. Standing outside the pub, she kept watch for her son, missing these last two nights. She stood in the shadows, so as to not attract attention from the sort of man who might mistake her as a ‘lower’ sort of woman.

  They were so distant from the ports of London and Glasgow, but that hadn’t stopped the sinking feeling in her stomach when she considered her second son may have gone off on a grand adventure to join his brother in the colonies.

  She cursed herself time and again for keeping the letters from her eldest son. Isaac had learnt his writing from the minister, who’d made sure all the boys under his care could pen their names, and those of their families. Not in Welsh, of course. In English. It seemed young Colin had learnt his too.

  Three days ago she’d come home from the factory to find Colin gone, and her pile of letters from Isaac scattered on the kitchen table. She knew in her heart Colin had gone to find his eldest brother. There was no bond as strong as the hero-worship a younger brother has for an elder one.

  Now she waited, in the slender hope Colin would get a cuff round the ear from the nearest sailor, and be sent home to his mam. And she waited. Her two smallest ones were inside, grumbling about getting supper ready. Seven, and nine, not so little any more, almost old enough to start earning their keep, which would barely put them back where they had been when Colin was home and working at the mines. If he didn’t come home soon, they’d lose their room at The Sailors Return, and be out on the street before they knew it. She shivered. Hope was a powerfully warming drug, but it could only warm you for so long.

  THE STAFFROOM

  Eliza Broadhead slowed her breathing. No piece of tapestry was worth another heart attack. For the hundredth time that morning, she wished she’d chosen a different career; a simpler career, teaching young girls the basics of sewing. Darning, gathering, pleating. Simpler things, easier things. But the die had been cast, and her role in life was as the head curator of Textiles and Fashion at the Victoria and Albert Museum – the V & A. Working there had been a dream come true. But, as is the way with dreams, they can turn into nightmares.

  She wiped the perspiration from her face and adjusted the long strands of jet beads around her neck. As her heart rate slowed, she mentally composed the scathing email she was going to send those thieves at Christie’s. She wished she could tell the world how many of their treasures had been sold through the outwardly illustrious rooms of both Christie’s and Sotheby’s. It made her sick to her stomach to think of the pieces the public would never get to enjoy, probably stored in damp cupboards or attics, rotting away.

  She tried to calm herself, as her heart rate escalated again, fingers poised over her keyboard. How does one address the head of an organisation complicit in stealing the treasures of a nation? It was only through sheer luck that she’d rescued that sampler from the slimy hands of Andrew Harvard, and he’d assaulted her.

  Logically, she knew it had been an accident, which was why she hadn’t insisted on calling the police yesterday, but she wasn’t above milking the situation for all it was worth. And if that resulted in never having a representative from the auction house at any needlework event again, then she’d be happy with that outcome.

  Turning away from her laptop, she unpacked the boxes from the lecture series. Placing the other articles to one side, she reverently laid the sampler out in the middle of oak drafting table. Deep drawers, reminiscent of old fashioned map drawers filled one side; a huge flat expanse on the top existed for cutting out fabric and patterns – not that she did that any more. Now it was used for laying out new acquisitions while she and her team decided on a course of action for each piece – restoration, storage or display, or a mixture of all three. As with any museum, her role at the V & A was a fine line between presenting the exhibits as antiques or presenting them as part of an ‘experience’. The world wanted to be entertained. They weren’t satisfied just viewing a piece of fabric behind glass with a card proclaiming its origins and composition. The viewing public, the great unwashed, demanded to be entertained. She suspected many of them couldn’t actually read the information cards presented with the exhibits. The uneducated hoi polloi were the bane of her life, second only to the auction houses.

  The sampler spread out on the well-used table was irresistible. The stitching was beautifully rendered and vaguely familiar – she waddled around the table, her critical eye taking in every detail.

  There was the date, picked out in faded green thread, 1728. The sampler was filled with flora and fauna, stunningly lifelike, their colours sadly faded over time – undoubtedly the sampler had been hung up in direct light. Although England’s sun was weak compared with the harshness of the Southern Hemisphere, it still had the capability to fade fabrics. She was lucky – it didn’t appear to be suffering from dry rot. Fingering the sampler, she could tell the base fabric was pure linen, with the threads a mixture of silk and cotton. The silk threads were close to disintegrating, as was the wont with silk suffering from sun damage. The cotton threads, used for the larger sections looked to be in good repair, apart from the fading. But all of that was by-the-by – it was the name embroidered on the sampler which had given her more of a shock than Andrew Harvard’s push. “R. J. Williams” – the exact same name as the one she’d purchased through Christie’s for an indecent sum of money. Merely thinking about the chances of owning two pieces by the same woman, but from two different sources, was enough to send her heart rate stratospheric again.

  ‘Breathe,’ she said aloud, sitting heavily on her work stool, panting. It was all too fantastical, and undoubtedly the museum director would be more enthusiastic than he was when she’d spent half a year’s budget on the purchase of the last sampler. This one had been free. Ah, the joys of the altruistic. There was a place in heaven for them, that was certain.

  Her ample stomach rumbling, she left her office in search of a soothing cup of tea, and some shortbread from the staffroom. There was a firm rule at the V & A, at least in the Textile and Fashion Department – no liquids or foods were allowed in offices or workrooms. The risk they posed to the collections was too high.

  The staffroom was lightly populated this early in the day, and was filled with the overpowering scent of brewing coffee. Eliza took her mug of fragrant Earl Grey tea, plunged her hand into the biscuit barrel, withdrew three sugary treats, and sat down next to a colleague.

  ‘Go
od morning, Brenda.’

  The slightly older Brenda Smith looked up from her toast and paper, ‘Morning, Eliza. How was the lecture yesterday?’

  ‘Brilliant this time. We had a full house – they’d really marketed it well.’

  ‘Makes it easier doesn’t it, having a full room.’

  ‘Only thing that marred it was they’d let one of the auction houses have a table there, so he was touting for business like a pimp at a plumber’s convention. I’m going to make it clear to the School of Needlework that I won’t be available for any more of their lectures if they insist on allowing those bloodsuckers to attend.’

  Brenda raised her painted eyebrows, the victims of over-zealous plucking when she was a teenager, consigning her to a lifetime of artistic pencilling.

  ‘Never, Eliza?’

  Eliza harrumphed, vigorously stirring sugar into her tea.

  ‘Did anyone donate anything good, then?’

  Eliza brightened considerably, ‘Oh, absolutely. But if I never see another embroidered handkerchief, it will be too soon.’

  Both women laughed, knowing full well that the basement of the V & A held the largest collection of embroidered handkerchiefs in the world. The Cooper Hewitt Museum in New York had a comparable collection, but the ones held by the V & A were eons older, and dwarfed the American set.

  Eliza’s laugh turned into a breathless wheeze, her beads rattling dangerously as the wheezing escalated into a hacking cough.

  With the best of English manners, Brenda ignored her colleague’s coughing fit, choosing to sip her coffee until Eliza had it under control, before questioning her, ‘So tell me, other than handkerchiefs, what did you get?’

  ‘You’ll never believe it, and I still have to work through its provenance with the family, but I truly believe it’s the sister sampler to the one I bought the other month.’

  ‘No! Really?’ Her curiosity piqued, she went as far as lowering her mug, a sure sign she was interested.