The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory)

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Will if I can, miss,’ he replied laconically, a manner which seemed to be prevalent amongst porters. Then when she told him what she was looking for, he answered, ‘Well, not so far as I’ve seen, miss. No Sèvres pieces in this time, not down here, anyway; but there’s no knowing what’s upstairs. Mr Luckin’s up there cataloguing now. Why not try him?’

  She thanked him and made her way upstairs. This room was kept solely for antiques. And it was Paul who came once a month to do the buying here. Mr Luckin, the assistant auctioneer, was a young man with an attractive smile and a sense of humour. She had spoken to him on one or two occasions before. He said now, ‘Hello, miss. Come for a preview?’

  When she told him what she had come about he shook his head slowly. ‘Tea caddy? Sèvres plates? Doulton? No. Not a thing like that this time. Sèvres stands out like a sore thumb these days. It’s getting noticeably rarer. You know, I have dreams at night, and they are all concerned with catalogues, and in one dream in particular I have reached lot 840 and every piece has been Sèvres.’

  She laughed with him. It was a happy laugh. When their laughter had subsided he asked seriously, ‘Someone put you on to it?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I’m not wanting it for the shop, it’s—’ she paused. How would she put it? ‘It’s a family affair and you know what family affairs are.’ She herself didn’t, but who was to know that? ‘What’s yours is mine. Well, one of them has put some pieces into a sale and another member of the family wants them back.’

  ‘Oh. Any harm in asking the family name?’ She looked at him for a moment. Auctioneers, she had found, were in some cases the equivalent of doctors and priests. They could keep their tongues still when necessary. She said briefly, ‘The Gordon-Platts from Beacon Ride.’

  ‘Oh, Lordy!’ She watched him as he beat his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Some more of that…The younger one?’

  ‘You know the younger Mrs Gordon-Platt?’

  ‘I should say. Had a bit of trouble here a short while back through her. She put in a pair of Sheraton mahogany card tables.’

  ‘I know; we bought them. I’ve got them in our drawing room now. They are a lovely set.’

  ‘You’ve got them? Well, well. But you didn’t get the bedside cabinets, did you?’ She shook her head.

  ‘Well, it was those that caused the trouble. They were a nice pair, lovely. They weren’t bought by the trade—someone private got them—but they were no sooner gone than a solicitor arrived. He was acting for the old lady. Apparently the young one thought the old one was going to snuff it and prematurely started selling up. But it wasn’t the cabinets they wanted back as much as the contents. Anyway, we traced the buyer, who lived in Rye. But he had bought the cabinets legally, and naturally he didn’t want to part with them. And this the solicitor didn’t mind at all. It was what had been in the cabinets that he was interested in. But, believe it or not, the Rye man had sold the contents to somebody in this very room before he moved the cabinets. You know how it is when you’ve made a good buy and there’s some rubbish attached, you pass it on, and this is what happened to the stuff inside the cabinets. Anyway, who would put any value on a batch of old snapshot albums, forty-seven of them to be correct? We’ve never traced them since, because the man who bought them, well, he—’

  ‘You said albums? Snapshot albums?’ Alison put in quietly.

  ‘Yes. They did some hoarding in those days, didn’t they? I didn’t see them myself, but one of the porters said they were just ordinary snaps of holidays, hundreds and hundreds of them, all stuck in these albums. Apparently the bloke who bought them was also a private buyer, although he wasn’t a regular and none of us could remember what he looked like; nor could the man in Rye, and he didn’t even know his name, never thought about asking it…Well, he wouldn’t, would he? So there it is…You cold?’

  Alison had shivered, and she answered quickly, ‘No. No. Somebody walking over my grave, I think.’ They laughed again. And now Mr Luckin said gravely, ‘That madam’s going to get herself into a packet of trouble if she doesn’t wait for the old girl to die before she starts selling her up. A bit cold-blooded, don’t you think?’

  ‘I imagine they’re very short of money.’

  ‘Well, aren’t we all? But we don’t go round selling our mother’s bits and pieces before she’s cold. Anyway, I hope you come across them. But who’ll be paying for them?’

  ‘The personal maid, Miss Beck. She’s very attached to her mistress. She doesn’t want her to find out that the things are missing.’

  ‘Kind hearts are better than coronets.’ Once more they laughed, and Alison said, ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Luckin. It looks pretty hopeless, but I’ll keep on.’

  ‘I wish you luck. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, and thanks again.’

  When Alison got down the stairs and into the street she was still shivering, but not because someone was continuing to walk over her grave. She was shivering with excitement. The snap albums, forty-seven of them. Now she knew; now she knew where she had seen Mrs Gordon-Platt before, and Miss Beck, and the high-backed chair. She took to her heels and ran along the street to where the car was parked. All those albums and the embossed writing case were at this moment in the storeroom of the shop. She had bought them herself in a job lot in the basement of the saleroom at Sealock. It was in the basement where all the junk was sold, where you could get anything from three to ten articles going in one lot, and where one of the articles might be a tea chest full of albums. She had really gone for the lot because among them were three old English china cups in perfect condition. There were also seven glass decanters without stoppers, fourteen chipped dinner plates, a box of books and…a tea chest full of snap albums. How the tea chest had come to be in amongst all the other articles, she didn’t know. She could only guess that the buyer in the first place had thought he was on to something—it wasn’t unusual to make finds in the cupboards or drawers of old furniture. Likely he was a dealer in a small way. But she now asked herself, as she sped along the main road towards home: if the man had been a dealer, would he have returned the albums to a sale, together with the old china cups? No dealer would have put those cups in the sale. No, it was more than likely he had been a private buyer…But why try to puzzle it out? She had got the albums, she had got Mrs Gordon-Platt’s embossed writing case. It seemed almost too good to be true…

  When she dashed into the shop Nelson looked up from a paper he was reading, peered with his one eye over the top of his glasses and exclaimed, ‘By, when you do come back we know you’re here! What’s your hurry?’

  ‘That tea chest with the albums, Nelson. You haven’t touched it?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact Aa—’

  ‘Oh, Nelson! Don’t…don’t tell me you’ve sold them?’

  ‘Sold them! No, of course not. Who’d want to buy them? We’d have to put a sixpenny tray out to sell them. Aa thought of dumping them.’

  Alison let out a deep breath of relief and now walked slowly into the back shop. Crossing to a dark corner, she spotted the chest. There were the albums, some on their sides, some end-up, all higgledy-piggledy. Quickly she began lifting them out and stacking them. And then she came to the brass-fronted writing case. Supporting it in one hand, she gently traced her fingers over the design. It was the Prince of Wales’ feathers; they filled each corner, and in the middle was a crown all stamped out on the brass. The case itself was worthless except as an ornament on a desk. It was cumbersome and she doubted if it had ever been used for the purpose it was made, but under these feathers, under this crown, lay part of a necklace. It was fantastic. This was a dealer’s story. This was a dealer’s tall tale. This was the kind of find that buyers talked about in the recess between long sales as they snatched a meal before returning to dig in the gold pit of the auction room…‘Did you hear what happened to so-and-so?’ would begin the fairy tale. ‘He bought a picture; seventeen and six he paid for it, and not a penny more. It was an o
riginal Corot…Fact!’

  The tea chest had been lot number three. The early lots, like the later ones, generally went cheap. The auctioneer usually threw them off quickly as a draw, for, towards the end, cheap lots often meant boredom, cold feet, tiredness or hunger. But on that particular day she had had to pay £2 15s for number three, which she didn’t consider cheap at all, and all because of the three old English cups. Paul had thought it a poor buy because, he said, they wouldn’t make more than 30 shillings on the cups, as they were without saucers. Yet her £2 15s had bought a small fortune.

  Nelson, coming to the doorway, said, ‘You’re lucky you know, Aa nearly dumped them, Miss Alison, Aa nearly did.’

  She said to him, ‘Here, stack the albums on my arms.’

  ‘Afore you take your clothes off?’

  ‘Afore Aa take me clothes off,’ she mimicked. ‘Come on, stack them up.’

  She had to make three journeys down to the shop before all the albums were in the drawing room, and when she had dumped the last pile on the hearthrug, Mrs Dickenson, surveying them, said, ‘What on earth do you want to bring that junk up here for? I thought you were against messing the place up.’

  ‘I want to look at the photos.’

  ‘All them snaps? It would take you a year.’

  ‘No, it won’t; I’ll be through them this evening; I’ll have them out of your way by tomorrow. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried, but if you leave them there, I’m not moving them when I dust.’ As the door closed on Mrs Dickenson Alison smiled, and, settling herself on the floor, she picked up the brass-backed writing case and with a sense of awe she again traced her fingers over it. She would not attempt to open it until Paul came in. He was expert at finding notches or springs, or prising off delicate panels without leaving a mark. There was not the slightest doubt in her mind as to what lay beneath this embossed brass cover. She laid the case almost reverently down beside her, then began sorting the albums. She spread them around her, on the couch, the chairs, the hearthrug, all forty-seven of them. Some of the albums were large, being over a foot wide, others were only a few inches in length. But all were similar in that they had a date pasted on the back.

  After some time, and a lot of juggling, she found that the first album started in 1897, and each succeeding one was a record of a holiday. Inside these albums was the life story of Mrs Gordon-Platt … and, undoubtedly, Miss Beck. Miss Beck first appeared in the album dated 1904. This must have been the year after Mrs Gordon-Platt had come to Beacon Ride as a bride. Apparently Mrs Gordon-Platt had started compiling albums when she was about sixteen and in her holidaying she had visited most parts of the world: India, Germany, Norway, Sweden, France, Africa. On and on went the list of countries. Most of the albums started with a photograph of a ship. One was the Orcades of London, another was the Strathnaver. This one had taken her to India. Alison noted that there were only two albums dealing with the years following the first war and these were less exciting, showing places such as Torquay and the Isle of Wight.

  The first snaps of Mrs Gordon-Platt showed a beautiful girl, then, as the dates on the albums got well into the new century, the pictures portrayed a handsome woman. In some of the albums family snaps had been inserted and Alison recognised Miss Beck posing with two children, a good-looking boy and a plain-looking girl. The girl was undoubtedly Margaret, and the handsome young man her brother, the man whose double-dealing had set the pattern of Paul’s life into one of struggle.

  As Alison went through one album after another, covering most of the lifetime of Mrs Gordon-Platt, she gained an insight into the old lady’s character. She would say now that Mrs Gordon-Platt the elder was a woman who had spared herself no luxury, whose whims had to be satisfied; and the thought came to Alison that had there not been so many whims, Beacon Ride would not be in such a dilapidated state as it was now.

  Mrs Dickenson brought in tea and took it away again hardly touched, grumbling as was her wont. She came in finally to say she was going now and that she had left the supper ready, and Alison bade her goodnight as if speaking out of a dream.

  She had even forgotten about Paul and the hurts of yesterday, until his sudden appearance startled her. And so engrossed was she in this old world that she greeted him as if they had parted in their usual friendly way that morning. Turning on her knees she cried, ‘Paul! Oh, Paul, come here. Come and look. You remember that lot with the old English cups? Well, I’ve made a find. I didn’t know…I didn’t know it then. Look!’ She showed him the embossed writing case and he stood looking down at it for a moment. Then his eyes coming to rest on her face, he asked, ‘What’s it all about?’

  His voice sounded tired. He looked tired. She swung quickly to her feet, saying, ‘Have you had any tea? Come and sit down, but be careful. Mind where you tread. I’ve something wonderful to tell you. It really is wonderful.’ They were back on the old footing. He allowed her to press him into his chair, but when she said, ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ he put in quickly, ‘No, not tea. Give me a drink. Whisky.’

  ‘Whisky?…Are you feeling all right?’ Before he could answer she said, her voice rising, ‘I told you. I told you you shouldn’t go out. You’ll be back where you started, if not further. I told you.’

  ‘Give me a drink, Alison.’ There was such a deflated tone to his voice that she turned quickly and poured him a drink. After he had finished it in one draught without even a shudder, he lay back in the armchair, and drawing in a deep breath said, ‘That’s better.’ He put out his hand and patted her. ‘You were quite right, Miss Read.’ The corner of his mouth moved upwards. ‘I did try to fly before I could walk. And it’s bitter outside.’ He drew in another breath and remained silent as he looked at her with a deep tenderness in his eyes, and then the expression was almost snapped away as he blinked and said briskly, ‘Well, now I’m ready. What’s your find?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m ready for anything.’ He hitched himself straighter in the chair, but she continued to look at him. His face was drawn, even haggard, and the worry that rose in her blotted out the excitement of the past hour.

  ‘Come on.’ His voice pushed her and she turned slowly towards the couch. Picking up the writing case she held it out to him, saying, ‘It’s this.’

  He took it in his hands and after looking at the front turned it over and opened it. It was lined on both sides with blotting paper, which was almost obliterated with writing, which proved it had been used for its intended purpose. ‘Yes, yes, I remember this lot…And those.’ He pointed to the albums scattered on the floor, and the corner of his mouth moved further upwards as he went on, ‘I remember thinking that if we accumulated much more of this stuff out back we’d better put a couple of shilling tables outside at the weekend. I said as much to Nelson and he said why not? But I told him I wasn’t going into partnership yet with Broadbent and Fowler.’ He looked up at her now. ‘Well, what about them? This’—he tapped the case—‘might bring a shilling or two if anybody wanted it, but it’s cumbersome. It isn’t a collector’s piece, either.’

  ‘If they knew what was inside it would be.’

  ‘Inside of this?’ He tapped the cover. ‘What could you get inside of this? What are you getting at, Alison?’

  She dropped on her knees by his side and began hurriedly, ‘You know when I first went up to Beacon Ride and I told you I thought I had seen the old people before, Mrs Gordon-Platt and her maid? Well, I had. They’re there in those albums. But that isn’t the point. Mrs Gordon-Platt was in a state because her cabinets had been sold while she was in hospital.’ Alison did not mention Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt’s name in connection with the cabinets. Something warned her against this. It also warned her not to mention the meeting with Miss Beck that very morning. So instead she said, ‘When I saw Miss Beck she gave me a hint of what was in those cabinets and why Mrs Gordon-Platt was so upset at the loss of the albums.’ Now Alison tapped the embossed cover of the writing c
ase. ‘Apparently she had only one valuable piece of jewellery left…a necklace. And she broke it in two and put half in here.’

  She watched Paul’s puzzled expression as he repeated, ‘In here?’ Then he went on, ‘She couldn’t get anything in here.’

  ‘Let’s look and see. I didn’t open it; I thought I would leave that to you. I’ll get the stiletto.’ She jumped up and, running to the mantelpiece, she took down a small, paper-thin blade. As she handed it to him she said with a laugh, ‘You’ve managed to turn locks when keys have failed. There you are, have a go.’

  Paul was examining the back thoroughly now, pressing, pushing. ‘Did she say there was a spring?’

  ‘No. She just said it took them quite a long while to insert the stones underneath these indents.’ She pointed to the Prince of Wales’ feathers and the crown.

  Gently now Paul began to prise the cover from its base with the knife. After easing up one end, all he had to do was to insert his nail and lift off the thin brass cover. Slowly, he turned it over and laid it on his hands, then he stared at Alison in blank amazement before gazing down at the inside of the embossed writing case again. There, lying in minute nests of cotton wool, was a tracery of chain and gems. The fine gold links of the necklace spread from one corner right across the inverted crown almost to the opposite corner. They had been placed in their little sockets like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

  ‘Good God!’ The exclamation came from deep in his throat. ‘The cunning old devil. Who would have believed it? And how mad to have put them in here.’ Gently he lifted up a link of chain to reveal a stone rising out of its nest of cotton wool.