Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

  One thing was decided: Bill would have to purchase a mobile phone. He hated the idea and had always resisted getting one no matter how hard his daughter-in-law had pressed him to do so. He had one phone that was at the end of a perfectly serviceable landline, and from this he and Sid had run an extension into the workshop. That was as mobile as he ever wanted to be, and the last thing he needed was some bloody instrument squawking at him when he was out and about, invading his privacy and probably souring his beer. Lucy told him there was no way she was going through that ordeal again, however, so he caved in.

  It was late afternoon by the time they got home, and they were both exhausted from the strain. After collecting Clive from Miss Templeton’s, they took a bottle of wine and some sandwiches and picnicked on the field’s edge. Clive enjoyed a manic half hour in the pasture before coming back to the pair of them to see if he could cadge a snack, which of course he did.

  On Friday they made the trip into Yeovil and found a shop that sold mobile phones and other mysterious devices. They purchased a simple phone for each of them and all the arcane paraphernalia necessary to keep them working. Bill paid cash and asked for a discount, which was politely refused. When they were back home, Lucy showed Bill how to work the thing, and he slipped it into his top jacket pocket.

  ‘Not in the same pocket as your pipe, Bill, dear,’ said Lucy.

  That afternoon they started sorting through the wood Bill had culled from his collection as being suitable for Skates’s chairs. Lucy held a piece of the badly damaged chair in her hands. It was an armrest that Bill would have to rebuild. She felt the smooth, silky surface that had been created by countless hands and arms rubbing against it for hundreds of years.

  ‘Look at that wood,’ said Bill. ‘See the long, dark grain? That’s English oak, and from a good-sized branch, too. The wood in your hand now was a sapling when Henry IV was king about fourteen hundred and something. The tree this came from grew for at least 130 years before it was cut down.’

  Lucy watched Bill as he told her about the way such oaks were felled and then cut up for use, and how his own name, Sawyer, came from one who had done such tasks. Talking about his craft, sharing his knowledge, the years didn’t exactly drop away from him, but his illness did, and Lucy caught a glimpse of the man Bill had been before sickness and Skates had invaded his life.

  He leaned against the stone wall, smoking his pipe and musing. ‘Now, whoever made these chairs knew his joints and how to cut them right; the sort of skills only a good craftsman would have. But not top drawer. Local man, local timber. Whoever made these chairs would have used whatever wood of the right sort he could get his hands on. Just like we’re going to do.’

  Chapter 19

  SATURDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER

  Saturday morning was bright and full of sunshine. Lucy took Clive up to his ‘dacha’, as Miss Templeton called it, then she and Bill set off for the Snelling Brothers auction. They arrived early enough to see the wares stacked in the yard of the so-called showroom. It was, in fact, a former garage on the outskirts of Taunton set amidst dodgy double glazers and other businesses that relied on gullible customers seeking cheap deals.

  The showroom’s wide glass doors were rolled back, and the big forecourt was being used as the sales floor. The auctioneer’s podium was set just inside the showroom where it could be seen above the crowd and yet remain dry if it rained. Just like the ‘Smellings’, thought Bill: they stay dry while their punters get soaked. Well, being punters of the Smellings, they were in for a soaking, anyway, if they weren’t careful.

  Lucy was well dressed, but not as expensively as for the previous auction, and she had added a large, wide-brimmed straw hat. The plan was for Bill to go in a little while after her and do a wander round in a leisurely, disinterested sort of way. If he saw anyone he knew or was accosted by either of the brothers Snelling, he would say he was just there to get a feel on prices as he was planning to shift some stuff he had accumulated over the years.

  All the larger lots, including the chest they had come for, were in rows near the auctioneer’s podium. Bill noted some more modern pieces of furniture and a nice set of 19th-century mahogany dining chairs. The smaller stuff was piled here and there on trestle tables. The way Snelling Brothers auctions worked was that numbers were chalked on the lots, and as the numbers were called, a porter would go around and, if he felt like it, hold up the small items so they could be seen by the bidders at the back. Larger lots would be pointed at, sometimes.

  The place was filling up quickly, and with so many people milling about it was easy for Bill to stand in the lee of the wall nearest the chest and, lighting his pipe, become just another onlooker. Then, puffing away and trying not to cough his lungs up, he wandered over to the chest.

  As he went forward to have a look, so did a grey-haired man in a battered pork pie hat. Next to the chest was a wooden crate containing a pile of ancient hand tools. The man picked up a rusted old G-clamp and showed it to Bill, who now stood opposite him. ‘Look at that,’ said the man in disgust. ‘Makes my heart bleed to see a useful bit of kit allowed to get into this state.’

  Bill agreed and, taking the clamp, looked at it and then absent-mindedly placed it on the lid of the chest. The man continued to root around, so Bill asked him if there were any spoke shaves in the box.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, and delved further.

  This gave Bill a chance to lift the lid of the chest and peer inside as if he was more interested in what it might contain than the chest itself. He had a very good visual memory and studied his quarry as well as he could in the few seconds he had. There was some carving to the front, but the lid was plain and appeared to be made from a single piece of timber. Whether the chest was true Jacobean or a Victorian copy, however, it was impossible to tell based on such a cursory examination. One good thing was that the bottom of the chest had small feet (and they had been knocked about, which should reduce its value to anyone else), but the floor itself looked reasonable. The size was right, and the two planks that made up the back looked like they were still almost rough-sawn on the inner side, which meant they had been handmade rather than machined. ‘Nah,’ said the old boy, emerging from the box and rubbing red muck from his hands. ‘A couple of claw hammers and a load of drill bits all stuck together. Nothing but scrap iron now,’ he added sadly. Bill threw the old G-clamp back into the box, nodded to the man, and walked away. He went right round the other side of the yard and nestled up close to a drainpipe in a shadowy place on the wall, the most inconspicuous spot he could find. He was almost out of sight of the auctioneer’s podium, and there were any number of people in between. All he wanted now was to be able to see Lucy. Based on the information he had been able to glean, they needed that chest.

  The auction started, and the big stuff was going through much more quickly than Bill had thought it would. The only long bidding joust was over the nice set of chairs, and he was able to see the bidders from where he stood. One was a probable dealer and the other a punter on a mission. The latter was a big woman with a helmet of tightly permed hair under a headscarf. Bill thought she looked a bit ‘horsey’. After each bid she glared around like a bulldog with a bone, daring anyone to bid against her.

  There was still no sign of Lucy. Bill kept looking out for the big straw hat among the throng and was therefore surprised to have it suddenly materialize right in front of him. Lucy had meandered up to stand with her back to him as she looked into the sales area. There were a few other people in their vicinity, all with their faces turned like sunflowers to where Harry Snelling was doing his stuff. Lucy turned around with a cigarette in her hand as if to ask him for a light. Bloody hell, he thought, she’s really living her part today!

  As he proffered her a light, she asked him quietly, ‘Yes or no?’ He nodded yes.

  ‘How far?’ she murmured through the smoke, all calm, cool, and lovely.

  ‘As far as it takes,’ he replied softly, relighting his pipe.

  L
ucy turned away and moved to the middle of the sales floor, where it would be easy to make eye contact with the auctioneer. Bill stayed where he was, nervously watching the show and trying to spot other bidders who might damage their chances of winning the chest.

  Gradually, the lots were whittled away. Nothing was making really big money, which pleased Bill. Then the chest was up at last, and because there were no photographs in the catalogue, Snelling described it for those too far away to see the thing for themselves. ‘An antique chest, possibly early, possibly not, but a nice chest all the same, and we all like a nice chest, don’t we?’ he tittered and smirked. ‘The size being three feet by two feet six inches and some eighteen inches high. With some very fine rustic carving to the front panel and, ladies and gentlemen, a beautifully polished surface that with just a little TLC will render this piece an heirloom to cherish. Probably oak with only the merest hint of wear and tear as is often found on a piece of furniture of this age.’

  The majority of the crowd took no more notice of this item than they had of the other lots, but Bill saw a few stiffen and adjust their stance to get a sight line on the auctioneer. From where he stood he counted five possibles, including Mrs Bulldog.

  Standing near her, Bill saw the man in the tweed cap, the one who had looked at the tools with him. He pushed his way to the man’s side and nodded a greeting.

  Snelling beamed down at the crowd in front of his podium. ‘Let’s start the bidding with two hundred pounds, then.’

  No response.

  ‘One hundred, then. This really is a nice chest and would make a good blanket box.’

  Still nothing.

  Undeterred, Snelling grinned like a loon and suggested fifty pounds.

  At that, several hands went up.

  Smelling, seeing a number of bids at fifty, started going up in twenties. Eventually he reached £210, and at this point only two people were still bidding: some punter well down in front and Mrs Bulldog. Bill had told Lucy to hold fire until only one bidder remained.

  Bill turned to his neighbour and, in a louder voice than he would normally use in such a place, said to him, ‘Bloody hell, that’s a lot of money for a worm-eaten old box, ain’t it?’

  The man in the pork pie hat was still thinking of the box of tools they had been examining and obviously had not been paying attention to what was being bid on.

  ‘Damn right,’ he said. ‘Full of worm and falling apart! Anybody’d be daft to give more than a fiver for the thing!’

  Bill saw the headscarf turn slightly in their direction.

  ‘Full of worm, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Get that in yer house and you’ll be infested in no time.’

  ‘Two hundred and ten pounds I have, ladies and gentleman, two hundred and ten pounds, any advance on two hundred and ten pounds?’

  Whoever had been bidding down in front must have dropped out, leaving Mrs Bulldog in the lead and looking very uncomfortable.

  Come on Lucy, thought Bill, get in there.

  ‘Two hundred ten pounds once,’ said Snelling and raised his gavel. Bill couldn’t see Lucy from where he stood now, but Snelling must have done.

  ‘New bid, two hundred and thirty?’ Lucy must have agreed because he went on, ‘Two hundred and thirty now, any advance on two hundred and thirty pounds for this nice old chest?’

  Bill’s heart was thumping. He saw Mrs Bulldog stir as if it required a physical effort for her to let someone else win an item she had shown interest in, but then the seed of doubt planted by Bill’s remarks took root, and she stood stock still and silent.

  ‘Two hundred and thirty pounds it is, then. Two hundred and thirty going once, going twice, sold!’

  And bang went the gavel on the podium top. Bill breathed out, then slid away through the crowds and outside of the yard, where he lit his pipe and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.

  It was another hour before he saw Lucy, followed by a weedy porter and some other minion carrying the chest to her car. She looked triumphant and oh so ladylike. With a gracious smile, she tipped the two men. Bill waited until they had gone, then walked to the car and got into the passenger side.

  Lucy, her big straw hat now in the back on top of the chest, put her arms around Bill’s neck and gave him a huge, smacking kiss.

  ‘We’ve done it! We’ve bloody well done it!’ she exclaimed, then started the engine and drove away at such a speed that Bill was pushed back into his seat.

  They stopped in a layby outside of Taunton and covered the chest with blankets. Bill didn’t dare look too hard at their prize yet just in case it was a dud, so they drove straight home and carried it into the workshop, where he could examine it properly.

  Lucy walked up to Miss Templeton’s and collected Clive, then returned to the farm and made a pot of tea. She brought two mugs and a plate of biscuits out to the workshop, where Bill was busy with a magnifying glass. Every now and again he would point something out to Lucy, puff on his pipe, cough a little, and get close in again. Finally, he sat back and said, ‘It’s old, but probably not Elizabethan. More like Jacobean, which is a good bit later. The bottom is rough and has had some damage a while back. There are stains on the wood that look like it could have had a soaking donkey’s years ago.’

  ‘But is it any good? Can we use it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all here. Enough good wood to make two chair backs if we need to, especially with what we’ve already got in the workshop. Now all we have to do is make the damned things.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘A month; possibly a bit less, probably a bit more. A lot depends on how quickly we can get the back panels carved.’

  ‘So, October if all goes well.’

  ‘I’d say more early November, just to build in a bit of buggerage, but we’ll get it done as soon as we can, that’s for sure. I want this job out of the way and those bastards out of our lives just as soon as possible.’

  After supper that night, Bill lit his pipe and took Clive for a walk. They made the now-traditional circuit around the field at the back of the barn, then Clive was allowed to sniff round the yard on his own while Bill made a stop at Bess’s grave under the old cherry tree.

  As he stood there, he contemplated a plan that had been growing in his mind these last few days. A plan that Lucy would probably not like one little bit, but one that, for her sake, might just have to be put into play. Finally, having made his decision, he heaved a sigh, said goodnight to Bess, rounded up Clive, and went inside.

  Chapter 20

  SUNDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER

  The weather was not quite as good the next day, but it was good enough that Lucy was not made suspicious by Bill’s suggestion that they take a trip to the seaside to celebrate their triumph at the auction and recruit their strength before starting work on the chairs. He had told Lucy about his visit to Seaton with his family earlier that summer and now, he said, he wanted to show it to her. They went in Lucy’s Volvo, which was much more comfortable than Bill’s old van. This he hid up in the dark depths of one of the cow sheds with a tarpaulin over it. He reckoned if he wasn’t at home, his van shouldn’t be, either.

  They reached Seaton before lunch and did an explore. It was the first time Lucy had been to the seaside in years. She seemed to like the place, and the fact that she could let Clive off his lead to make an arse of himself chasing the waves was a real bonus. No big hotel, no big pubs, and no big crowds. Just a few flocks of old biddies hobbling around like penguins in woollen cardigans clutching enormous handbags. It would do, thought Bill. Skates would no more visit this place than he would a church hall jumble sale.

  Bill and Lucy mooched around, looked in some of the junk shops, and strolled along the prom. Lucy was back in jeans but wearing a new waxed jacket. Bill wore his usual tweed one. Some people took them for father and daughter, but others assumed they were husband and wife. All Bill and Lucy knew was that they were enjoying this time together in a place where they didn’t have to worry about pryin
g eyes.

  Lucy found a fossil and Clive found a friend. The latter was a small, delicate, well-manicured poodle that was whisked away by a stern-looking matron as soon as she determined that Clive’s intentions were definitely not honourable. Lucy dragged Clive back, apologising as she did so.

  Bill asked her if Clive had been ‘done’. Lucy said yes, certainly he had been ‘done’. ‘Shame no one told him.’

  After a pub lunch, Bill suggested a drive to the caravan park that was halfway up the headland on the only bit of level ground before the summit, ostensibly to look at the view. At the entrance to the site was a large wooden building with a sign over its brightly painted door that read ‘Harmony Caravans and Camping’, under which, in rainbow letters, was written ‘Peace and Harmony’. Under that, in much smaller black letters, was printed ‘All Dogs On Leads’.

  Bill parked as far away from the wooden building as he could, near a wide footpath marked with a sign saying ‘Solstice Walk and Headland’. He suggested Lucy take Clive for a jaunt along this path while he saved his breath for his pipe. He would admire the view from here.

  As soon as she was out of sight, Bill walked across the car park to the building at the entrance. Behind and slightly to one side of the wooden building was a long brick one with its own concrete footpath that was well signed as being ‘showers’. It had a strong, municipal smell and a small copse of Tibetan prayer flags planted to one side. As he watched them flutter in the breeze, Bill hoped some of them represented prayers for the prevention or healing of verrucas and other such blocks to spiritual enlightenment.

  There was no one else about, and the warm sea breeze rustled the long, dry grasses that grew up all around. A sort of street lamp stood opposite the brightly painted door and bore a hand-painted sign advertising ‘Tarot Readings’. In the big window that looked out onto the car park was another sign, this one letting people know there was ‘Crystal Healing’ on offer.