He didn’t blame her, really. When their boy, Philip, was just thirteen she had told Bill she was off to ‘find herself ’, and, to be honest, it had been a relief. That was over thirty years ago, and he didn’t know if she had ever found herself, but she had found financial security with an estate agent named Stanley. There were no hard feelings, though, and he had sent them a rather nice Victorian money box as a wedding present.
The Packing of the Pockets always acted as a signal for his dog and sole companion, Bess, who rose from her basket next to the stove and gazed up at him with pure love in her liquid brown eyes. She was a small lurcher Bill had acquired from a gypsy as part payment for a Welsh dresser he had fitted into the traveller’s caravan. The dresser had been nothing special, at least not until he had incorporated into it a very secret compartment lined with steel and made fireproof with asbestos. Bill had done a lot of work for the travelling community, one way and another. He liked them. He didn’t entirely trust them, of course, but he liked them. They put two grubby fingers up to society and got on with their lives, just like he did.
Bess had been a puppy then, the last of a litter of whippet and bearded collie crosses, with long hair like grey and black clouds breaking into white over her chest, a long snout, and big eyes under a tuft of soft fur. He fell in love with her at first sight, and she with him. It was the only relationship in Bill’s life that was totally without an edge.
‘The only time you buy love is when you buy a dog,’ the gypsy had said to him. ‘But to you, Bill, I give her out of friendship and, say, £20 off the price, eh?’
Bill didn’t even haggle. The two men shook hands on the deal, and Bill reckoned it was the best one he had ever made. Bess took to training like a professional athlete and after a while could catch rabbits on the run, break their necks, and bring them back unmarked to Bill’s feet without ever making a sound. A true gypsy dog.
He turned off the power, locked up, and headed to the house. Previously part of a large farm, it had been bought it as an investment. Bill had told his wife they could make a packet when it was done up and resold, persuading her that moving from the small bungalow she had inherited from her mother to this rambling heap would be the opportunity of a lifetime. It wasn’t, of course. It could have been, but there was so much to do that when they had the time they didn’t have the money, and whenever they did have any money, Bill put it back into his business.
No wonder his son had become an accountant. He’d seen the arse hanging out of his father’s trousers all his life and knew that wasn’t for him. Philip was better with his brains than his hands, anyway, which disappointed Bill in one respect but comforted him in another. On the whole, he was glad his son had an indoor job with no heavy lifting.
Crossing the yard and passing through a small porch, he entered a large kitchen that had once been part of the buttery when the house was young. This room was really all he used now. A vast, black, iron kitchen range took up the whole of the wide fireplace. On the mantle above was an ornate 18th-century French clock he had restored as a wedding present for his wife. She never liked it and he never wound it; that said it all, really. Time was actually kept by a large, round, wall-mounted railway clock whose ticking was sometimes the only sound Bill heard. A pine Welsh dresser bore a few fine china plates like medals on a war hero. The huge farmhouse table in the middle of the room he had dragged out of a barn in rural Wales; it had taken him weeks to clean off the engine oil and chicken shit, but the wooden top was now beautiful. Around the table were six fine Windsor chairs, all different, their fruitwood frames mellowed by time and his craftsmanship. It was a room full of memories, and not just his. Each piece of furniture, each painting: they all had stories of their own, all had lived in other lives, been useful and loved.
From a large, white, incongruously modern refrigerator (a leftover from the Beryl days), he took out a large piece of cheese and the remnants of a pork pie of indeterminate age. These were his regular rations: cheese, a bit of pie or pasty, and an apple or two to follow. All washed down with the cloudy delights of a straw-coloured cider he got by the barrel from a mate of his who owned a farm nearby. He had helped old Jimmer to repair his cider press and even, in a dark part of the man’s cowshed, build a contraption of copper piping and vessels that distilled the rough cider into a lethal and entirely illegal spirit Bill found invaluable in concocting his own wood stains.
His home, a manor in centuries past, sat behind a bulwark of hedges and old stone walls hard against the road itself. This minor road joined up the hamlet of Ayleham via tiny lanes and narrow ways to the village of Brewton. Slap bang in the middle of the county of Somerset amidst gentle hills, fields, and meadows, and occasional woodland, it was as remote as you could get in this part of England.
The front of the house was simple and geometric, with a Georgian façade behind which it rambled away to itself in a muttering of stone walls and lathe and plaster. It was old, very old – parts of it medieval, probably – but with 17th–19th century additions, subtractions, and general mucking about. There was a front door, but it was never used. The path to it from the road was completely overgrown, which was fine because the wrought-iron gate was so rusted it wouldn’t open in any case. And even if it had, Bill would probably have padlocked it, but as it was, Mother Nature had done the job for him.
Privacy was important to him, and it showed in the way he allowed his hedges to grow high and his trees to flourish however they wanted to grow. There was even a small garden on the south side of the house that most people didn’t know existed. It was tucked away in a corner created by one side of the barn and the gable end of the house, its entrance guarded by an old yew and nearly hidden by the ivy-clad walls. Bill was no gardener, but he liked the roses that climbed over the old stones, and the honeysuckle that ran riot in summer. He had planted a couple of fruit trees here, but the only one that had thrived was a cherry. Sometimes he picked the fruit, but mostly he just enjoyed the shade and seclusion it provided.
On the north side of the house was a leafy lane with a ‘No Through Road’ sign almost hidden by undergrowth and saplings. Near the house, the lane was wide due to vehicles and carts turning in and out of the entrance to the farmyard. Once past the farm buildings, however, the lane narrowed until it became a small green drain with hedges either side that led up a gentle hill, the top of which was crowned with a ring of trees. In the middle of the ring, with only the roof showing when the trees were in leaf, was the cottage of Bill’s nearest neighbour, Miss Templeton. Miss Templeton was her name and ‘Miss Templeton’ Bill always called her, with sincere reverence for her advanced years and character. She was stick thin, with grey hair shot with silver that reminded Bill of polished pewter. Always dressed in a mishmash of homemade garments that hung on her in colourful layers, she was a one-off and Bill liked her a lot. On occasions when his business took him away from home, he would leave Bess in her care.
In return he kept her sheds and chicken house in good repair.
Taking up the entire back of Bill’s house was a large, square farmyard. Forming almost one whole side was the barn he used as his workshop. The other buildings – cart shed, stables, grain store, milking parlour – made up the rest of the square. They all faced inwards to the farmyard and most didn’t even have windows. The majority of the buildings were two-storey, but Bill doubted if the upper floors would take so much as the weight of a man now. Wood rot and rain coming in through roofs from which the slates had fallen out ages ago made them more stone shells than buildings. The farm had been almost derelict in parts when he bought it over thirty years before, and the only repairs Bill had made were to those buildings he used regularly; others were just used to store junk.
Around dusk, Bill took Bess outside for a walk. Just as they were returning to the house, the lights of a car turned up the green drain that led to the house, and a shiny, new, white Range Rover turned into the gate and parked. Two men got out and walked to where he and his dog were standing. Oozing the false
bonhomie that politicians and used-car salesmen wear like aftershave, one of them held out a hand for Bill to shake.
‘I’m Darren Skates,’ he said, and Bill got the impression the man thought he was somehow conferring a great honour on him by saying it.
Mr Skates looked to be in his early forties, very tan and extremely well dressed, with dark hair and a widow’s peak that made him look like a character out of a vampire film. This effect was enhanced by small, piercing eyes under highly defined eyebrows that arched across his forehead as if they had been painted on. As Bill moved forward to shake the man’s hand, Bess went to his heel and let out a low growl. Odd, thought Bill, she hardly ever does that.
‘I know you by sight, Mr Skates, but I don’t think we’ve ever met before,’ said Bill.
‘My associate, Richard Warren,’ said Skates, indicating the man at his side.
Warren said nothing. Though not large, he was the most intimidating man Bill had ever seen, and he had seen a few in his long life. This bloke, though, was in a league of his own, with a face like a scar under a head completely devoid of hair. His thin lips were a bloodless cut line under his nose. Muscular in a very compact way, he held himself like a man ready for a fight anytime with anyone.
Bill did not know Skates, but he had heard of him. He was one of those people who dabbled in antiques, and his mansion was reportedly stuffed with all sorts of treasures. He wasn’t a dealer, though; more of a fixer who was none too worried about provenance or recent ownership issues. He was reputed to have contacts in all the dark corners of the antiques trade, in which lurked some very nasty villains, as Bill was well aware – people he avoided like the plague.
Skates had money and liked to show it off, but quite where the money came from no one seemed to know. His voice was cultured, with a veneer of public school under which Bill thought he heard just a hint of South London. Bill had seen him at a couple of big auctions around the area, and once in London at Christies. He never seemed to be bidding, yet was treated with oily deference by the auction house staff, which indicated he was worth money to them. Quite a lot of money, judging by the level of grovelling. The only insight Bill had to the man himself was a scene he had witnessed about three years back in a car park at an auction in Taunton, one of the last he had attended. Bill had gone outside for a smoke, and from the shelter of the doorway in which he was standing, he saw Skates on the other side of the car park talking to a tall, well-dressed young woman with red hair. They were a few dozen yards away, and he could hear Skates raving at the girl, but not what he was saying. Warren was there, too, leaning over the poor woman, who had her back against a parked car. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, if anything, but the way she was standing looked as if she was certainly on the defensive. Then they had all got into the car and driven away at breakneck speed, scattering gravel and pedestrians as they left.
Now the two men stood silently in his yard, just looking at him. Not examining the surroundings, the weather, or anything else, just looking at him.
Wishing to end this strange vigil, Bill said, ‘Come into the workshop and I’ll make us a cup of tea. Or I have some cider if you prefer it.’
‘No, thank you, to the drinks, but I would be happy to see your workshop,’ said Skates with great condescension. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Bill. I’m told you’re a very clever man.’
Bill led them the short distance to the barn. There was a small deal table and two chairs in front of the cast-iron stove, and Bill directed them to these. Pulling out the two chairs and getting another from nearby, he invited them to sit down. Skates sat in the chair opposite Bill’s, but Warren stood just behind Skates, hands in pockets, no discernible expression on his face.
Bill filled his pipe, and Bess, instead of going to her basket as usual, laid down at his side as if on guard.
Skates sat back in his chair looking relaxed and self-assured. His mouth was formed into a smile, but his eyes were cold and his manner patronising.
‘I’m told you can work wonders, Bill. That you’re a real miracle worker with wood.’
Bill made no reply, just smoked his pipe.
‘Do you know anything about Elizabethan furniture?’ asked Skates.
‘I’ve worked on a few pieces in my time,’ said Bill. ‘I’ve worked on a lot more Jacobean, though. It’s much more common.’
‘But you can turn your hand to some Elizabethan if you have to, am I right?’ asked Skates.
‘Yes,’ said Bill, ‘but I have all the work I want right now.’
Skates ignored this. ‘My sources tell me you did a nice little job for the V&A a while back. A Tudor chest that had taken a battering during a move? No one else would touch it, but you had the thing right as rain in the end.’
‘I can’t comment on that,’ said Bill, smiling. ‘Those kinds of jobs come with a vow of silence.’
It was true. ‘Trappist jobs’ they were called in the trade, and no matter how good you were, you wouldn’t get any more work from a really big museum if they heard you’d bandied their name about. ‘Have you ever heard of the Blakeney Chairs?’ asked Skates.
He took a cigarette from a gold case and lit it with a gold lighter the size of a small brick.
‘I’ve heard of them, of course,’ said Bill, ‘but they’ve not been seen in years, decades even. They’re a bit like the holy grail to the right collector, and just as elusive.’
‘Yes, just like the holy grail,’ smiled Skates, ‘but no longer quite so elusive. I’ve got them. Three of them, anyway.’
Bill sat back, surprised. These things happened in the antiques trade, of course, but not often.
‘How?’
‘That’s not something with which you need concern yourself,’ answered Skates loftily.
Bill had heard enough. Such high-profile pieces came with all sorts of trouble. He thought it was time to bring this conversation to a close and began to rise from his chair to see this man out of his workshop and his life.
At nearly seventy years of age it’s an affront to be manhandled, especially in your own workshop. But it wasn’t so much the act itself that took Bill’s breath away; it was the speed with which it was done. Skates must have made some sign because in the blink of an eye Bill went from almost standing to being pinned in his chair, his shoulders gripped by hands of steel. It was as if two huge vices had him in their grasp. He could no more have struggled out of that grip than fly. Warren had him pinned like he was nothing. That was the frightening thing; like he was nothing. Just an old man too slow and frail to defend himself.
Warren let go, and Bill resisted the urge to rub some life back into his shoulders. Skates had not moved. He now made a motion with one carefully manicured hand, and Warren walked back to where he had been standing prior to assaulting Bill.
Skates smiled and said, ‘Let’s not get off on the wrong foot, Bill. I have a very special commission for a very special craftsman, and you are that craftsman. There is no one else capable that I know of. And you will be well paid, I assure you.’
Bill left his face in neutral, but his mind was racing. ‘What is it you want me to do?’
‘I have a set of chairs so famous and so valuable they would form the pinnacle of anyone’s collection. They are also of great historical importance. You, Bill, will use your talents to create for me a set of four museum-quality chairs.’
‘Four chairs,’ said Bill. ‘I thought you only had three?’
‘Well, to be absolutely truthful, I have two in good condition and one that is, oh, let’s say, past its prime. What I want is to have four Elizabethan chairs, all genuine, but with ‘some restoration’.’
‘So you want me to do a shuffle, then. A mix and match.’
‘Exactly,’ said Skates, ‘but one that only you and I will know about. And Mr Warren here, of course, but he can be as silent as the grave when he needs to be.’
The thought went through Bill’s mind that if Mr Warren stayed silent it was probably only so he could
more easily appreciate the screams of his victims.
Bill leaned back in his seat. ‘Without seeing the chairs I have no idea if what you’re asking is even possible. The older the piece, the more difficult it is to make the components good enough to match.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Skates, without any real interest in the answer.
‘Making good and making more is fine for anything 18th century and beyond. All the components were much the same. There are slight differences, of course, because they’re handmade, but nothing like with really early stuff that is all to pot, no two legs being the same, let alone any carvings or decoration.’
Skates remained silent.
‘Mr Skates, I have been in this game all my working life and I do know what I’m talking about. If you want four museum-quality chairs made from two-and-a-bit old wainscots, then you need a fucking magician, not a furniture restorer.’
‘Let’s not be hasty,’ purred Skates, uncurling himself from his chair. ‘I shall bring you the chairs and then we can decide how to proceed. I’ll give you a call in the next day or two and fix a time to come over.’
It wasn’t a question, so there was no answer for Bill to make. He supposed he could at least look at the job before deciding it couldn’t be done.
Skates walked to the door followed by Warren. He turned just before he left and said, ‘Not a word about this to anyone, Bill, is that clear?’
Bill said nothing, but nodded his head.
The door closed behind them. As he heard the car drive away, Bill collapsed into his chair and started to cough – long, hacking coughs that racked his whole body. At last, taking a wad of tissue from his pocket, he slowly wiped his mouth, drained by this and by them.
Eventually, Bill rose and locked up, then he and Bess went back into the house. He ate some supper, not because he was hungry but because he felt he must. He also drank far more than he should have done. When he eventually reached his bed, his sleep was patterned with dreams, none of them very nice.
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