Chapter 3
WEDNESDAY, 15 AUGUST
The next morning Bill woke with a hangover, which was only made worse by remembering the previous night’s visit. He fed Bess, the smell of the dog food making him even queasier. Then he went to his bookshelves. He knew what he was looking for, but as he searched through his vast collection, the pile beside him grew and grew. There were books he hadn’t looked through in years. Books, though, are like old friends; they never let you down. He selected the most relevant ones, then sat at the kitchen table drinking strong coffee and refreshing his memory.
The Blakeney Chairs had a unique provenance. Made of oak in 1560 by an unknown master craftsman, they were a set of four wainscots owned by Sir Edmund Blakeney of Darrington Hall in Somerset. Oak chairs of this quality were not so rare as to be of enormous value, but what made these so special was who had used them and when.
During the summer of 1560, Queen Elizabeth I and her huge entourage of courtiers, favourites, hangers-on, and servants were making their way from Bristol to the hall of Sir John Thynne at Longleat. It was an extensive journey on bad, almost non-existent roads during particularly foul weather. There came a point when the going got so bad that the Queen sent a courtier off to find a place of shelter with words to the effect that ‘be it hovel or castle, I heed not, just find it!’
From the old Roman road where the mud had been churned into a foul soup by the horses and carts that made up the convoy, a track had been found that led to a former abbey set in a small valley half a mile away. This ancient building had been turned into a comfortable home after the Dissolution of the Monasteries and was owned by a man of some substance but no standing at court. In fact, his neighbours barely counted him a gentleman.
The records do not tell of the confusion that must have reigned when a soaked, worried nobleman rode into the courtyard of this house. All that is recorded is that one Edmund Blakeney did provide such victuals and refreshments as could be wished for by a drenched and exhausted monarch. She stayed the night, with only her close companions sharing the accommodation, the rest making what shift they could in the farm buildings.
Before leaving the next day, with the sun shining after a dry and comfortable night’s rest, the Queen knighted Edmund and gave him the title Lord of the Manor. From then on Sir Edmund Blakeney’s fortunes were assured, and to commemorate the event he had the ‘four great chairs that seated the Queen of our realm and her noble lords carved anew with the rose of her father she so proudly bears’. So reads an entry in the accounts book kept by the new knight.
The same chairs figured in Sir Edmund’s will in 1602 and were part of the estate of his heirs who lived in Darrington Hall in an unbroken line until the 1920s. The chairs were included in photographs of the hall and, because of their quality, history, and unique decoration, featured in various books and journals about Tudor and Elizabethan furniture.
Unfortunately, the set was broken up when the last of the family died in 1925. His only son had been killed on the Somme in 1916, and his wife had died in the flu epidemic of 1918, after which Sir Fredrick Blakeney became a recluse and lived in genteel but grinding poverty. With the mansion falling down around his ears, the lonely old man was forced to sell off part of his estate and such possessions as would fetch any money. Upon his death, a local house-clearance firm was called in, and in due course a few items found their way to a small auction house. The lots included a pair of Elizabethan chairs that were purchased by Simon Morse, a well-known collector and dealer in antique oak furniture. He identified the chairs as being part of the original Blakeney set, and they were catalogued as being in his possession in 1935. No trace was ever found of the other two chairs, however, and it was assumed they had been sold during Sir Frederick’s lifetime, or possibly even burned as firewood, things having become that desperate.
When Simon Morse died in 1960, his records showed that the two Blakeneys he owned had been sold to a private collector in 1953. Neither the name of the purchaser nor the price paid was recorded, suggesting it was likely to have been a cash sale.
Bill closed his books, sighed, and took Bess outside. While she trotted about on her own business, he looked around at the stone walls of the sheds and barns that were grey and pitted by time and lichen. It had started to rain, and the damp, colourless surroundings matched his mood. After a bit he called Bess and, walking across the yard to the barn, opened up his workshop.
Lighting first the huge stove and then his pipe, Bill pulled up a chair near the growing warmth. Bess lay looking up at him from her basket beside the stove. It was at times like this that Bess really proved her worth. Talking through a problem with yourself may help sort things out in your head, but the dialogue is all one-way. Talk to your dog, however, and you get sage advice with no interruptions, deviations, or repetitions.
‘No doubt about it, Bess, darling, that bastard Skates is not going to leave us alone unless we can come up with a bloody good reason for him to.’
Bess said nothing, but wagged her tale a fraction to let him he was not alone in this.
Bill sat back and enjoyed Bess’s company and his pipe of tobacco. Eventually he found his hands needed something to do, so he got up and fetched his current project, a Windsor chair he was doing up for an old mate of his, Jerry Sparks.
Bill had first met Jerry years ago when he still worked the auctions himself. Going into the big Illminster antique auction held in the town hall, he’d spotted the usual suspects of dealers and traders weaving their wicked ways through the punters like sharks through shoals of minnows. The thing about antique auctions in those far-off days was that they were invariably bent. Those in the know, such as dealers, had the objects of their interest marked well before the auction started, even if they hadn’t attended the preview. They knew what was on offer from their contacts in the auction house itself. Never mind the man with the gavel, who often was not only the boss but usually did a bit of collecting on the side, too. The porters were always good for a tip if you looked after them regularly.
Dealers in the same locality tried not to step on each other’s toes too much. If you were after a nice bit of Spode that had surfaced and it didn’t cut across anyone else’s plans, then on a nod and a wink the other members of this magic circle would not bid against you when it came under the hammer. If, on the other hand, there was something two or three of the circle were after, then only one of them would bid at the auction, thus keeping the price as low as possible. After the main auction had finished, there would be a subsequent private auction held around a table of the favoured pub where the object in question would be sold to the one most determined to possess same.
The fly in the auction ointment was, of course, the general public. These people had a nasty habit of bidding through the roof on something that took their fancy, with absolutely no consideration for the real value of the piece and the fact that there were poor sods out there who were scratching a living buying and selling these little bits of yesterday. No consideration, some people. Jerry Sparks had stood out from the crowd because, for one thing, he dressed in the loudest check suiting Bill had ever seen outside a circus. He also had a booming voice so rich in aristocratic tone that he was almost unintelligible. His tall, slim frame was invariably topped by a battered Fedora, and his sartorial elegance was marred only by a constant fall of ash from the Turkish cigarettes he smoked. Bill had bumped into him, literally, in the gents at the Bull Inn in Watchett. A small auction was taking place in the old reading rooms next door. Jerry was drunk, as he often was, and his aim wandered as he stood at the urinal, loudly declaiming in his Etonian drawl, ‘For this relief, Horatio, we thank you!’
His aim was so bad that a stream of urine went all over Bill’s shoes. Bill was not amused, but seeing no malice aforethought in the action, and softened by the anguished apologies of the perpetrator, he allowed himself to be taken into the bar to dry off one end and wet the other. When Jerry found out Bill’s trade he was beside himself with gl
ee and bought another round—doubles and chasers. They both missed the auction but struck up a firm friendship. Jerry, it turned out, was a dealer in fine antique furniture with good connections in America. He took container loads from his warehouse in Bath to the USA where he sold it on to top-end antique furniture shops. Always on the lookout for some tasty item that might have owed some part of its past to that nice Mr Chippindale or his ilk, Bill was able to conjure up some very fine mostly antique items to their mutual advantage.
These days, the whole American bubble had all but burst, and Jerry kept a shop in Bath whilst getting old disgracefully. His trade was still upper-end but now catered for the home decorator rather than the serious collector. Windsor chairs for big new kitchens and chaise longue for loft apartments. He never quibbled over Bill’s charges, and when they went out for a drink after Bill had delivered a piece, they drank little and smoked less amidst the gaggle of tourists that now infected every pub in Bath. How times had changed.
Bill finished the work around five, phoned Jerry, and told him he wouldn’t be able to deliver the chair himself, which Jerry said was not a problem. He gave Jerry the price and received a raspberry down the line.
‘It’s far too much, you old fraud, but I’ll beggar myself and pay it anyway.’
He laughed as he said it, though, because they both knew Bill was charging yesterday’s prices for today’s work.
As Bill covered the lovely chair in a blanket for the journey, he thought to himself that this might be one of the last he did. He was comforted in the knowledge that this old Windsor, made by some forgotten craftsman two hundred years or more ago, would live again in someone’s life. He hoped they would cherish it and enjoy the skill that had gone into making it back then, and making it better now. He had not signed the work; the man who had bent the yew back rail centuries before had not, so what right had he?
Chapter 4
THURSDAY, 16 AUGUST
It was not long into the next morning when the phone rang. Skates imperiously informed Bill he would be dropping in sometime late afternoon to deliver the chairs. Time dragged after this, and Bill found it hard to concentrate. He did things about the workshop in a half-hearted way, and then, of course, the unexpected happened, because it always does at times like this.
Bill was sitting at his bench, smoking and moodily staring into time and space when he heard a car drive up. His heart sank; it was only eleven. They were hours early, the bastards! But it turned out to be his daughter-in-law, Gloria, and his one and only grandchild, Jack, who was nine years old and the light of his grandfather’s life. Gloria was a lovely woman who always reminded Bill of summer days and gymkhanas. From an old, local farming family, she had gently defied her parents and married Bill’s son, Philip, a chartered accountant ten years her senior with no interest in hunting, shooting, or fishing, and who regarded horses as something to be avoided at all costs and never, ever climbed on as a means of transport, let alone recreation.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he asked Gloria. Philip and Gloria lived in Dorchester, about an hour’s drive away.
‘Daddy’s not well again,’ she explained, ‘so I brought Jack over to see him, and I stopped by to share some news with you.’
A small, tousle-haired boy threw himself into Bill’s arms. Bill held the squirming child close to his chest and gave him a huge whiskery raspberry on his exposed neck, just as he always did, and as always the boy gave a laugh that was more of a tonic to Bill than any medicine on earth. Jack got down and ran off to explore the workshop, kicking up clouds of wood shavings as he went.
‘Stop that!’ scolded his mother. ‘Poor granddad will have to clear that up after you, you horror.’
Bill caught his grandson under his arms and carried him out of the workshop into the yard.
‘Let’s all have a cup of tea and then you can tell me your news. Would you like some lunch? We could go down the road.’
That meant the pub, of course, but Gloria said a cup of tea would be fine and she had brought lunch with them. The fact was she hadn’t wanted to embarrass her father-in-law, who, she guessed rightly, did not have enough food in the house for three.
‘Oh, a picnic!’ said Bill, relieved not to have to do anything other than enjoy time with his family. ‘What a great idea, eh, Jack?’
‘Can I take Bess for a walk, Granddad?’
‘If you like,’ said Bill, ‘but come in first and have some lunch and, if you can find it, a little treat because you’re such a jolly rotter.’ This was another ritual. Bill had an old ginger jar in which he kept sweets for his grandson. The game was for Jack to close his eyes while Bill moved the jar from its regular place on the dresser to somewhere else in the room. Then there would be a game of ‘Am I warmer or colder?’ as the child got nearer or further away from the jar. For many years Bill had been an absent father to his only son, and not a terribly good one at that. You can’t turn back the clock, but you can do things better next time, given the chance.
And this precious child was Bill’s chance of doing things better. The game began. Starting in one corner, Jack moved away, asking if he was warmer or colder. He knew he would eventually get the treat, but enjoyed both the anticipation and the fun with his grandfather, so he entered into the spirit of the thing with laughs and giggles.
Bill started to laugh along with Jack, but the laugh turned into a bout of coughing that got worse and worse until he was completely bent over and shaking with the effort. Jack stopped what he was doing and looked horrified. Gloria just stared.
‘How long has this been going on?’ she asked as she walked over and gently rubbed his back. Her warm touch gave Bill real comfort; the hacking subsided, but once again he felt completely drained by the experience.
‘Not long,’ he lied. ‘It’s just the dust. Just a bit of dust I must have breathed in. Find the jar, Jack, you’re very warm now.’
Gloria was not to be fobbed off, however, and as she busied herself unpacking the sandwiches and making the tea she asked Bill if he had seen the doctor.
‘Going to,’ said Bill. ‘But it’s just the dust. That’s all it is, dust.’ Jack had found the jar and Bill lifted it out of its hiding place and got out a tube of chocolate buttons for the boy. Jack was delighted and sat at the table with a glass of milk and the sweets. ‘How’s my wicked son?’ Bill asked Gloria.
When Beryl had left him, she had taken Philip with her. It was only when the lad was in his late teens that Bill really got to know his son, and it came as a surprise to them both that they got on so well. Since then all his hopes of what the future might hold revolved around Philip and his family.
‘Oh, he’s fine,’ Gloria said, sitting down next to him and pouring the tea. ‘Working as hard as ever. Must be in his genes; he never stops.’
‘But otherwise things are fine?’
‘Yes,’ she said, a brief shadow crossing her face. ‘He would really like to have his own practice, of course. They keep promising him a partnership but nothing ever comes of it. He could go out on his own, he has enough clients who would follow him, but that takes money.’
She shrugged, then, with a look of concern, asked Bill, ‘What’s wrong?’
Bill played down the coughing episode and blamed the dust again, saying nothing of Skates and his damned chairs. Instead he turned the conversation back to his son’s problems.
‘How much money does he need to go out on his own?’ he asked.
‘Oh, lots,’ replied Gloria with a rueful laugh. Then her face lit up. ‘And we have an added extra on the way.’
‘Wonderful news!’ Bill cried. ‘Wonderful! When?’
‘February.’
Bill was overjoyed. This news quite eclipsed any thoughts of his dealings with Skates.
Lunch over – and it really had been a picnic, so Bill had no washing up to do – they followed Jack and Bess into the yard. Of course Jack wanted to explore his grandfather’s workshop, which was for him a place of magic and dusty myst
ery.
‘You will phone the doctor,’ Gloria told Bill, the tone of her voice brooking no argument.
‘I’ll do it from the workshop phone right now. There’s a calendar in there so I can fix a date and everything.’
They went into the workshop, and even before Bill had put on all the lights, young Jack scooted inside.
Bill called out to his grandson, ‘No climbing! Remember what happened last time, right?’
Turning to Gloria, he said, ‘Same as his dad, never could resist a pile of chairs’, and started to laugh.
This time the coughing fit brought on by the laughter was not as bad, but it was enough to send him over to a dusty, wall-mounted phone next to which hung a battered address book on a string.
He looked up his doctor’s number and was soon talking to someone in the surgery. During the conversation another coughing fit came on, and he was put in as an emergency with an appointment for the following Monday. With the call made, it seemed to Bill he had made a start at sorting out at least one of his problems.
He sat down. Gloria sat opposite him on a wheelback chair and rubbed her hands over the beautiful polished wood of the arms.
‘Is this very old?’ she asked.
‘Older than me by a couple of centuries,’ said Bill, somewhat absently. He looked everywhere but at Gloria.
‘Bill, is there anything bothering you apart from the cough?’
He looked at her. There was, of course, and he suddenly found he wanted to talk to her about it. Gloria was clever, and he really needed someone else’s opinion, a fresh pair of eyes on the problem. ‘The fact is,’ he said, ‘I’ve been asked to do a job for a right villain. I don’t trust the…’ He was going to say ‘bastard’ but measured his language in case small ears were flapping. ‘…swine, and it’s a real moody job he wants done.’
He got up, put a piece of soft wood in a vice on his bench, took out a small hammer and a tin of wire nails, called Jack over, and showed him what awaited. With a huge smile the boy picked up the hammer and started to bang in the nails in a line along the wood.
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