‘Would you take 50p for this one, love?’ She was holding out a shiny, new and very clearly priced paperback. ‘I’m just a wee pensioner, you know.’
Fortunately I had once seen Dolores deal with exactly this request: ‘Do you think this is a charity?’ she had asked indignantly. And when the customer had had the temerity to answer yes, Dolores had replied, ‘Not for you it isn’t,’ and whipped the book out of his hands. So with this sterling example in mind, I held my ground.
‘I’m a wee pensioner myself,’ I said, ‘but we must all do our bit to help those less fortunate than ourselves. That will be £2.50. Thank you.’
She scuttled off, muttering darkly. When I had dealt with the rest of the people in the queue, I turned my attention to sorting out the till. Most of the Good Intentions volunteers had worked in the shop for years but they were still alarmed, and all too often bamboozled, by the workings of what they regarded as an infernal machine. And given fading eyesight and the fact that Northern Ireland has a bewildering variety of banknotes to cope with (not to mention a thriving business in forged ones), it is not surprising that the takings rarely tallied. At Archibald’s Antiques the problem did not arise: we had no till. On the few occasions that anything was sold, the money was simply stuffed into a drawer, and only the most insistent customer was given a receipt. Or change.
Now, you might well wonder how an establishment such as Archibald’s could afford an assistant, even a poorly paid one working for just three days a week. The answer is that it was never a business – it was a hobby. It was also a convenient cover.
I first met Archibald Minor a few months after my return to Northern Ireland. I had no car at the time, and very little money, so my chief source of pleasure was a weekly bus trip to some town or village chosen at random from the map, where I would explore the churches, second-hand shops and markets, and eat my sandwiches in a park, or – surreptitiously – with a cup of coffee in a cafe. On one such journey I found myself in Saintfield, a charming village on the road between Belfast and Downpatrick, and there, in a little shop that sold antiques and second-hand books, I fell into conversation with the two delightful men who owned the business.
I had remarked on a pair of handsome red volumes entitled With the Flag to Pretoria: the proprietors, it transpired, had a great interest in military history and had visited South Africa some years before. When I confessed that I had been born in Pretoria, they insisted on giving me tea and showing me other treasures. An hour later, clutching a little copy of The Hunting of the Snark (awarded in 1935 to Agnes Tomb, for Diligence), I took my leave, but as I turned to go I said, ‘What a pity you don’t need an assistant – I would love to work in a shop like this!’
It was meant as a compliment rather than a plea for employment, but a large man who had just come in, removed his hat, and gave me an old-fashioned bow.
‘I have a shop in Belfast,’ he said, ‘and I am looking for a part-time assistant. Perhaps you would care to call on me?’ And he handed me a card on which were engraved the words ‘Archibald’s Antiques’.
And that was how I came to work for Archie. He was a deeply mysterious man – he lived above the shop in a flat to which no one was ever invited and was devoted only to the ungrateful Morris. (I am a cat lover myself but I harbour no misconceptions about the species, and Morris was, even for a cat, singularly self-absorbed.) Archie couldn’t afford to pay much, but I was happy with our arrangement: I kept an eye on both shop and cat, in return for which I had a small but adequate salary and a warm, quiet place in which to read, largely undisturbed by customers. Archie was mostly absent, driving around the countryside in search of antiques, or so I assumed.
In the beginning I worried about the dearth of customers, but gradually I realised that selling things was not the aim of Archie’s enterprise. The shop was Archie’s plaything, a repository for his toys, and a place where, on Fridays and Saturdays, he entertained his friends – mild, like-minded men who collected stamps, coins, medals and ancient postcards. And whatever Archie had done in his previous existence, it seemed to have provided sufficiently for his retirement.
He was resolutely private. By the end of the first year I knew only that he played bridge twice a week, was a member of various historical preservation societies and that he had a sister in Australia. Apart from that, I knew nothing about him. Even Dolores, whom I suspected of keeping dossiers on everyone in the street, could tell me nothing more. And then, halfway through my second year working for him, I discovered Archie’s secret. What happened was that one evening he came upon me in the shop, twenty minutes after I should have left, and found me crying.
‘Good heavens, Johanna! What has happened? Are you ill?’
In his consternation, he put the package he was carrying on the desk and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. It was red silk and clearly not intended for the blowing of noses but I took it anyway.
‘I’m sorry, Archie.’ Sniff. ‘No, I’m not ill. It’s just … it’s my birthday … ’
Archie looked at me keenly. ‘And you have nothing planned? No lover waiting with an armful of roses? None of your children at home?’
I shook my head and snuffled some more.
‘Well then, Johanna, I should be very honoured if you would allow me to invite you to dinner. It will do my reputation no end of good to be seen with such a decorative woman.’
‘Oh, Archie,’ I cried, and threw my arms around him – and in so doing knocked his package to the ground, where it split open to reveal multiple copies of a very lurid-looking book.
I was instantly diverted. ‘Archie!’ I exclaimed. ‘Milord Demon by Cecilia MacBride. I’m amazed! Who would have thought that you were a fan of Cecilia MacBride?’ I paused. ‘But why have you got ten copies of the same book? Are you giving them away as Christmas presents?’
Archie had gone purple. ‘Good God, Johanna! I certainly don’t read them and I wouldn’t dream of giving them away… it’s just that they always send ten copies … ’ He stopped in some confusion, but I could see a letter lying on top of them, and the heading was that of a well-known publisher. Slowly, light began to dawn.
‘You didn’t write them, did you?’
Archie clutched his head and groaned.
‘You’re Cecilia MacBride?’ I was thunderstruck. ‘Good lord, Archie – I can hardly believe it!’
Archie was looking as mortified as it is possible for a man to look – and no wonder. I hadn’t read Cecilia MacBride myself, but I had certainly heard of her, as the author of what can most politely be described as historical erotica.
‘But, Archie,’ I said, ‘how on earth did you come to come to be Cecilia MacBride?’
He gave a helpless shrug. ‘I started out as a journalist, you know, but I always liked historical novels: I used to read my mother’s collection of Georgette Heyer when I was a boy. And then, one day, it occurred to me that there might be a market for something along the same lines but a bit … racier.’
‘Well, from all accounts you’ve certainly managed that,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to read one for myself.’
‘Johanna, I beg you not to!’ Archie’s face contorted with distress.
‘Oh, all right. I probably wouldn’t dare be seen with it anyway. Dolores had one in the bookshop last week: she threw it out. Pure filth, she said.’
‘She’s right,’ said Archie, ‘but it does provide me with a very useful income. And now that you know the awful truth, do you mind if we eat in? I was planning a little celebration anyway and it would be rather nice to have company for a change. I have a meal all ready to heat and a bottle of rather good wine.’
Which is how I found myself following Archie and Morris upstairs and into a most luxurious living room which was lined from floor to ceiling with the myriad titles, editions and translations of the collected works of the world-famous, and enormously successful, Cecilia MacBride.
We ate at a round table in the bay window. ‘This is delicious, Archie,’ I sai
d, spooning up the casserole. ‘Don’t tell me you made it yourself?’
‘Marks & Spencer,’ said Archie. ‘Have some more wine.’
I held out my glass: it was a long time since I’d had wine that good.
‘I can see why you don’t ask anyone up.’ I gazed at the surrounding books. ‘The cat would be out of the bag immediately.’
‘Indeed,’ said Archie. ‘And imagine what that would do to my reputation. I should have to resign from the bridge club.’
This was such a shattering thought that it silenced us both. Then Archie gave a little cough. ‘I do hope, Johanna, that I can rely on your discretion?’
‘You have my word on it,’ I replied. ‘But I rather think, dear Archie, that the time has come to discuss the question of my salary.’
‘Johanna,’ said Archie, leaning back in his chair and raising his glass to me, ‘I salute you! I knew the moment I set eyes on you that you were a formidable woman. What a pity I can only love Morris!’
Given the sort of thing that was reputed to go on in Archie’s books, I thought it was probably a good thing that his passion was confined to cats, but I didn’t say so.
Instead I raised my own glass and drank to our continuing good fortune.
And, of course, if I hadn’t been working for Archie, I might never have spent so many hours in Good Intentions, or encountered Albert. And if he and I had not been brought together by M. Heaney’s The Traveller’s Guide to Ancient County Down, we would not have embarked on our outings together. As my sister Frederika (known to my children as Auntie Fruitloop) would say, ‘The way may twist and turn, but in the end, all things are connected.’ Or something like that.
Chapter 5
Not long after my ill-starred visit to Chestnut Avenue, Albert and I set out one Sunday morning in search of the Goward Dolmen. The rain, which had been falling for weeks, showed signs at last of letting up at last, and I had planned another picnic. I was eager to visit other sites in the guide to County Down, of course, but I also wanted an opportunity to discuss the future. I have often found that potentially difficult conversations can be more easily conducted in the open air: there is something inherently calming about the great outdoors, and there is less danger to breakable property – a fact that I felt Carmel Morrow would do well to consider.
Ever since our first meeting, Albert and I had been engaged in a continuous and delightful conversation – on the phone, by email, in bed. It was one of Albert’s many charms that he actively enjoyed rambling conversations in the middle of the night. We had discussed books, music, politics and our love for one another at length, but I could not help feeling that there were other matters that needed to be addressed.
Spring had been the air all week, together with a noticeable perking-up of the winter-worn populace. Upstairs, Sticky Wicket had embarked on his annual diy frenzy, and on his way in and out with parcels from b&q he had more than once buttonholed Albert for discussion of the summer’s cricketing prospects. It was the tail end of one of these conversations that I caught as I emerged from my flat with the picnic basket.
‘South Africa is in good form,’ Sticky Wicket was saying, ‘and our very own South African too, if you don’t mind my saying so, old man. Never seen such a change in a woman – been positively civil to me lately! Mind you, she still scares the living daylights out of me. Oh hello, Johanna – got a good picnic there, have you?’ He gazed hungrily at the basket as I handed it to Albert.
‘Quails’ eggs,’ I said, ‘champagne, smoked salmon, Parma ham, melon and a lovely ripe Camembert. Oh, and a few chocolate truffles and hothouse grapes.’ In fact it contained an unusually frugal selection of cold meats, salad, crusty bread and Cheddar, but he deserved to suffer. ‘Have a nice day, Sticky Wicket!’
‘Johanna, my love,’ said Albert, as we drove off, ‘why are you so unkind to that poor man? He’s terrified of you.’
‘Good,’ I replied. ‘It will keep him in his place.’ But I could see that an explanation was called for.
‘When I first moved in, Albert, I was always coming home to find him in my flat, doing so-called repairs, and he was forever turning up at mealtimes.’ I did my best to mimic Sticky’s plummy tones: ‘Oh gosh, Johanna, that does smell delicious. I’m only having an egg and toast myself. Or he’d be knocking on my door late at night to ask if I had any aspirin. It was quite obvious what he was after. In the end I had to be very firm. I went to him and said, Mr Wicket – that’s his actual name, you know, Sidney Wicket – Mr Wicket, you are giving me a problem, or to use a cricketing metaphor you will understand, I find myself presented with a Sticky Wicket. You are my landlord and I am your tenant and that is as far as this relationship is ever going to go. I do not expect you to knock on my door again unless it is an emergency, or to enter my flat unless expressly invited to do so. Do I make myself clear? And I am glad to say that after that I had no more trouble.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Albert. ‘Mind you, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. If I’d been your landlord, I’d have knocked on your door as well.’
‘If you’d been my landlord, I’d have let you in.’ I reached out a hand to pat his thigh and then quickly removed it as the car swerved into oncoming traffic. ‘Now, concentrate, dear Albert: we must take the next left turn.’
We were heading for Castlewellan. After studying the map with care, I had thought that we might, en route, take in Slieve Croob, but it turned out to be remarkably elusive. It is one of those mountains that approached from the wrong direction will loom first on your left and then on your right; it will appear straight ahead one minute, and the next minute be shrinking in your rear-view mirror. On this occasion it finally disappeared completely into a canopy of cloud, so we gave up and made for Castlewellan, a village with a wide main street, chestnut-lined squares and a beautifully kept country park. The park is famous for its mile-long lake and extraordinary variety of trees and shrubs, but on this particular Sunday we did not stop. Instead we followed the road to Newry for a couple of miles until we spotted a reservoir on the right, and a left-hand turning up a lane, to the Drumena Cashel and Souterrain.
A narrow opening in the thick dry-stone wall led us into the grassy enclosure of the cashel. Like so many of these places, it felt immensely peaceful and untroubled by the outside world. There was no one else there and no sound but birdcalls and the wind. Situated as it is on the northern slopes of the Mournes, there are sweeping views to the south across the valley and a small lough, and an opening in the ground with steps leading down into a souterrain. It had been restored well, and although the ancient inhabitants who might have sheltered there were probably a good deal shorter than Albert, there was ample room for us to traverse its length. I have a photo of Albert’s shining dome emerging at the other end to prove it.
From the Drumena Cashel we continued in the direction of Hilltown until we saw the Goward Road signposted on our left. More lane than road, it twisted and turned for nearly a mile, and quickly deteriorated into a bumpy track, but the journey was worth the trouble, because the Goward Dolmen took our breath away.
We came upon it quite suddenly – it was tucked away, as M. Heaney had promised, on the downward slope below the lane. It was extraordinarily impressive, with an immense granite capstone, at least thirteen feet long and nearly as wide, supported by pillar stones almost six feet in height, and beyond it, there were panoramic views to the north.
As fitful sunlight came and went, I photographed the dolmen from every angle; then we spread our rug on the grass and unpacked our picnic. We ate, we drank, and Albert leaned back against the ancient stones while I leaned back against Albert. It was one of those fleeting times of intense and silent happiness.
Then a little wintry gust of wind – or possibly a Neolithic ghost breathing down my neck – caused me to shiver. Albert tightened his arms.
‘Are you cold, my darling?’
‘Not really, but the sun won’t last much longer – those clouds are building. And
speaking of clouds on the horizon, I’ve been meaning to ask you: have you talked to any of your family about what happened the other night?’
‘Well, yes and no. That is to say, I haven’t seen much of Norah – she and Kevin have been in Donegal – but Rosie did ask me if you were my girlfriend.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said you were. And that I hoped you would all get to know each other better. In time.’
‘Hmm,’ I said.
‘Johanna, my love,’ Albert stroked my hair, ‘you mustn’t worry: I promise you it will all work out in the end.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ I replied, ‘but we are no longer young and I do not feel that time is on our side. I must be honest, Albert, and tell you that I cannot help but feel that a man who left his wife five years ago but only got as far as the house next door has not entirely detached himself. And while you are always welcome in my house, I certainly don’t feel welcome in yours. Perhaps, my love, the time has come to reconsider your position?’
There was silence. Then Albert sighed.
‘I know you’re right, Johanna, and changes must be made. But if you can be patient just a little longer, I’d like to manage it in a way that will cause as little hurt as possible, especially to Norah and Rosie. You know how difficult these things are, my darling, you have children … ’
‘Indeed I do,’ I replied. ‘Four of them, and I do not expect any one of them to live next door – because, like yours, they are all grown up.’
Luckily for Albert an enormous cloud engulfed the sun just then and a sharp spattering of rain sent us scrambling for the safety of the car. By the time we turned back on to the main road, it was coming down in torrents.
On a clear day the descent into Rostrevor is glorious, with Carlingford Lough spread out before you, and if the weather had held we might have continued in the direction of Newcastle. As it was, we turned right, to Warrenpoint, and on to Newry and Belfast, cocooned in our separate thoughts, and the driving sheets of rain.
The Traveller's Guide to Love Page 3