‘Well,’ said Sid, ‘I’d best go home tonight and pack up some things to bring with me tomorrow, always assuming Philip’s okay with me staying here for a while.’
‘He’ll breathe a sigh of relief,’ said Bill. ‘And you can sort out the workshop for him while you’re here.’
‘What about the chairs?’ asked Lucy.
‘Ah, the chairs,’ said Bill with a crafty smile that was immediately ruined by a spectacular coughing session. When he got his breath back, he took a sip of port and continued.
‘They can’t be sold anytime soon without attracting attention. They’re far too valuable and well known. If anything was going to provide a link between me and Skates, it would be those bloody chairs. But, like all antiques, time is on their side. We’ll tuck ’em away here where they won’t be noticed and when enough tempus has fugited, they can be slipped out into the big wide world again.’
‘Hide them here for your boy to find in a few years, you mean?’ asked Sid. ‘That makes sense.’
‘Yes, and as the best place to hide anything is in plain sight, we’ll move them into the kitchen where they’ll get normal wear and tear, and I’ll let Philip and Gloria know they’re worth a bob or two. I’ll say they’re for young Jack and to put them on the market when he’s 21.’ Bill smiled at the thought of that.
Lucy was thrilled with the idea. The fact that it would be Jack Sawyer who inherited their work seemed right and proper in her mind. Sid was happy with whatever Bill wanted.
Then Bill’s crafty look returned, and he asked Lucy to get him the big envelope he had left on the side table in the front room. From this he took out a yellowed piece of paper with faded writing and one corner torn off. He placed this rather dramatically on the table in front of Lucy and asked her to read it.
She picked it up and examined it. ‘It’s a sales receipt from Simon Morse dated 24th June 1953. It says he sold two Elizabethan chairs to the value of three hundred guineas to Mr Abraham Tollis of Tollis Antiques, London Road, Bath.’
‘I really did know old Abraham, and did some work for him back in the day,’ said Bill. ‘He moved a lot of antique oak in his time and he was slapdash in the paperwork department, which is what made me think of him. Caused headaches for collectors ever since. Anyway, he died and his son Lionel took over, but he was useless and the business went bust in 1961. Lionel Tollis sold the property to a developer and quickly drank himself to death with the proceeds, so the shop doesn’t even exist anymore.’
Bill’s face was grey with strain, but his eyes gleamed and there was a smile on his lips as he prepared to anoint the chairs with a history that would stand the future’s scrutiny.
‘So the story for posterity is this: After the father died, the son got me in to look at a couple of old chairs. He thought they were Jacobean with Victorian over-carving, nothing too special, but he wanted me to give them the once-over and see if they were worth anything and, if they were, a repair and re-polish where necessary. When I went to see them, there was a third chair in bits next to them. I asked if he had any paperwork on them to give me a clue. He was pissed and just waved me over to a filing cabinet and said ‘sort out what you can’. I did and came across the Morse receipt. So I took the two-and-a-bit chairs and the receipt.’
Bill delved into the big brown envelope and put another piece of paper down on top of the Morse receipt.
‘Here’s a note in my handwriting torn from a receipt book that has a date in 1960. It’s the real thing, apart from what’s written on it.’ This was ‘£250 quote for restoration’, the word ‘Blakeney?’, and under that ‘Offered £500 for the lot’, followed by several exclamation marks and doodles. All made with a strong and vigorous hand in the soft, wedge-shaped graphite of a carpenter’s pencil.
The next thing Bill took out of the envelope was a battered, red, common or garden-variety duplicate book bearing dates from 1959 to 1961. It was grubby, carbon-soiled, and dog-eared. A few pages had been torn out, while odd pieces of paper had been added and were held in with rusty staples or pins. He opened it to a page marked with an ancient cigarette packet. This page was numbered and in sequence with the ones on either side. It was the carbon imprint of an invoice, dated 11th June 1960. It showed ‘£250 owed by Lionel Tollis, Tollis Antiques, London Road, Bath’ and the words ‘Pay on Collect’.
‘But the chairs were never collected, see? So they got moved into the house here and have been sitting around this table ever since. Why did I never sell them? Look around you! People like me hoard all sorts of things or just plain forget about them when they move onto other projects. A small enough mystery amongst the others of life.’ Then he put all the bits of paper back in the big brown envelope, sat back, and smiled at them both.
Lucy’s eyes shone as she watched this remarkable man play his last trick.
‘So that’s what you were doing with all the inks and stuff that day,’ she said. ‘Laying a paper trail!’
‘I just dovetailed a little diversion into the story of the chairs,’ said Bill. ‘First Blakeney, and then Morse. The paper trail there is good enough, and now we have a paper trail from Morse to Tollis to me. We know they really went from Morse to Deverill and then to Skates, but there is nothing to show that and no one left to talk about it. No, I fancy these little scraps will do the trick. Not too many details, impossible to disprove, and looking absolutely kosher. And by the time my boy flogs the chairs, they’ll have aged a bit more, the inks will have faded even further, and the dust will be real. Then some clever expert will declare, ‘Well, gracious me, I think these are the long-lost Blakeney Elizabethans! Gosh, what a find!’
‘You devious old bugger!’ said Sid with a huge grin. ‘It couldn’t be better, mate.’
‘What about the new chair?’ Lucy asked. ‘The one you made from scratch.’
‘The one we made, you mean. The three of us. Well, that must never go on the market. The real three can be pored over by experts, no problem at all, and if the restored chair is labelled as such from the start, that’s even better. But the one we made, well, I think that should be given a new home.’
He looked meaningfully at Lucy and added ‘When you have one to put it in.’
‘How do you know I ever will?’ asked Lucy.
But Bill only smiled and said nothing. He was exhausted and feeling really ill again now that the big reveal was over. He struggled to his feet, grasped Sid’s hand as firmly as he could for a few moments, then, with Lucy’s help, went up to bed.
When she came back down, Sid was preparing to drive home. Seeing him standing there, wearing his dreadful anorak and his sad smile, she felt again how much he meant to her. He was made of strength and dependability. She adored his wonderfully rude sense of humour, and she guessed few people, if any, had witnessed the man’s courage, compassion, and kindness the way she had. What she really wanted to do, right now, in this kitchen, was to reach out in some way and let him know how much she loved him, and to thank him for all he had done for Bill.
So she took his big, work-worn, oil-stained hands in hers and looked up into his eyes. ‘I’ve never had an uncle,’ she told him. ‘But if I could have one, you’d be the uncle I’d wish for.’
The moment she said that she wished she hadn’t. Was it too soppy? Would he be offended by the uncle bit?
But Sid just laughed and said, ‘That’s it, girl, I’m yer wicked uncle!’ And even though his arm was still very sore, he hugged her tightly to him. He knew he would see her again, but for all his bluff he still found her leaving a wrench. He had said a lot of goodbyes in his life, and so many of them had been forever that he never took tomorrow for granted. But after a while he kissed her, told her to take care of herself, and walked outside to his van.
Sid carried the guns away with him in an old cricket case they had found in Bill’s workshop. He would use his skills in the black arts along with his extensive local knowledge to ensure the weapons were never seen again. Lucy watched as her wicked uncle turned his t
ransit van into the lane and drove away.
Clive was wandering about on his final business of the night, so she just stood there in the gloom of the evening for a bit. So much had happened here – happiness and sorrow, life lived and death dealt out. She looked to see if there was a light on in Miss Templeton’s cottage, but it was just a dark shape amongst the trees. Suddenly she felt she really did need to be away, to take stock and see new horizons. Well, tomorrow would be the start of all that.
She called Clive and they went back inside. Then she locked the door, took a last long look around the kitchen, and went to bed.
Chapter 45
WEDNESDAY, 7 NOVEMBER
The next morning, Lucy packed her clothes. There were more of them than she had arrived with, plus all those precious gifts from Miss Templeton. She looked around the small bedroom and marvelled at how short a time it had been hers, yet how much had changed during that time! Then she carried her bags down the stairs, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of the perfume she sometimes wore.
In the kitchen she wound up the old clock on the wall, removed the ashes from the grate of the stove, and made tea and toast. Things she had done for months now and would never do again. Other chores in other places, but not these ones and not here.
She put a letter she had written to Gloria and Philip on the mantelpiece. It wasn’t long. Basically it said how privileged she felt to have been part of their family, even for such a short time. She would be in touch in the future, and please give her love to Jack. There wasn’t much more she could say without writing a novel, so she didn’t try. She thought of leaving a note for Hugh as well, but decided now was not the time. One day soon, perhaps, but not now.
Bill came downstairs and pretended to eat his breakfast but spent most of his time ‘secretly’ feeding it to Clive.
At last she couldn’t stand it anymore, so she simply stood up and carried her bags out to the car. Clive and Bill both followed her, Bill so slowly that Clive had plenty of time to water all his usual spots before Lucy put him in the back of the car.
Bill wordlessly opened the door for her. Determined not to cry, she kissed him quickly; said, ‘I love you, Bill’; then got into the car and drove away.
Looking in the rear-view mirror as she passed through the gate, she saw a small, bent old man standing in the yard waving to her.
Then she started to cry.
~~~
After Lucy’s car pulled onto the main road, Bill looked around at all the old buildings of his farm. There was no goodbye in their blank stone eyes, but he was glad he had lived among them. He started for his workshop for one last visit there, but was overtaken by a coughing spasm so bad it bent him double. Dark blood dripped onto the ground at his feet.
Gasping and clutching his chest, he made his way into the kitchen and sat down in his chair next to the stove. When he finally had sufficient breath back, he struggled to his feet and went over the dresser. From his pocket he took out an envelope containing his will and a letter to Philip he had written the night before. It read:
I love you.
There are a set of three chairs, the ones you saw me working on. They are very special and worth a lot of money. I give them to Jack. Sell them when he is 21. Use Christies, if they’re still the best. Let them date and value them first. They have a bit of provenance, it’s in an envelope in my cash box.
I’ve asked Sid to babysit the house till you’re ready to move in. I would hate to leave the place empty and have it get burgled. I’ve paid him so you don’t have to worry about that. He’ll get rid of the woodworking machinery and the workshop equipment. Keep a few hand tools for the boy, just in case. I’ve packed my old apprentice box with the best. There’s a bit of money in the bank and you know where I keep my flute money, so you should be all right for ready cash.
No flowers, no funeral, just the crem and a meal afterwards for those who might like to come. Sid will know who they are. Lucy, bless her, won’t be here, so wait for her to contact you. Sid will explain.
Kiss that wife of yours for me and your lovely son. I hope when he grows up you will be as proud of him as I am of you.
Dad
He placed his envelope beside the one Lucy had left, then walked back outside and into his little garden, to the cherry tree under which Bess was buried. He stood there in the cold and wished he could see her, feel her, just one more time. Leaving her behind would be the hardest part of going into that hospice.
The cold got to him very quickly, though, and he returned the kitchen, chilled to the bone, and collapsed into his chair. By hell, he felt tired. So bloody tired… but as he closed his eyes, the pain in his chest seemed to ease.
A little while later he heard a joyful bark, the sort that meant ‘It’s time for a walk! It’s time for the pub! It’s time to go, Bill!’
He got up out of his chair. Surprisingly, it took no effort and he felt no pain.
Patting Bess, he took up the lead she had dropped at his feet and together they walked towards the light.
Chapter 46
EPILOGUE
Western Daily Times, August 2008
Marriages: Mr Hugh Dawlish and Ms Lucy Marshall at Wintern Registry office. The Bride was given away by Mr S. J. Mellow. The reception was held at Blackwoods Farm, Flyton, Somerset.
* * *
2019 Autumn Sale, Christies Fine Art and Antique Furniture
Property of a Gentleman
A set of three Elizabethan carved oak and inlaid panel back armchairs bearing the arms of Elizabeth the first. These are believed to have been made for the visit of Queen Elizabeth to Darrington Hall on her royal progress through Somerset in 1574.
Guide price £250,000–£300,000
Bernard Pearson was born on a Friday the 13th in 1946. His father said he was the result of a forty-eight hour leave, his mother made no comment. In his past he has been at times a soldier, village policeman, door to door salesman, potter, sculptor and painter. If there is any theme through these career changes it is the quest to find a job that is indoors and no heavy lifting. Taking the advice from his good friend Terry Pratchett, that writing is the most fun anyone can have with their clothes on, that’s what he does now. ‘Dovetail’ is his first novel and it is believed others are being writ. It’s difficult to tell however for the man is a prodigious pipe smoker and the place he works from so filled with smoke it’s like a kipper shed. He lives in Wincanton, Somerset, which doesn’t seem to mind.
Dovetail Page 32
