The Lady on my Left (The Mists of Memory)

by Catherine Cookson

  As Alison watched the woman sail out of the shop there was no anger left within her. She was no longer bristling with indignation but deflated, utterly deflated. Mrs Freda Gordon-Platt’s last words had achieved this. They gave confirmation that Paul and she were meeting…‘I’ve gone on to The Crown.’

  Nelson came out of the back shop at this point, and looking along the length of the drugget towards the door, he remarked, ‘There’ll be trouble. Aa can feel it in the air. It’s as if we was back in the old days…’

  At around one o’clock on that Saturday Miss Beck phoned, and the mere sound of her voice had brought a feeling of acute guilt to Alison. Although at this stage she could tell her truthfully that she had not found the tea caddy but was still looking, and hoping, there was a hint of tears in Miss Beck’s voice as she rang off. And they wouldn’t have been there, Alison knew, if she could have told her that at least half her troubles were over, for she had found the writing case.

  The weekend passed like a nightmare. It seemed endless, at times unreal; at other moments it seemed to be a pattern of all her life ahead.

  Tuesday was the day of the sale. Paul had said to her, ‘I’ll be away for the day. I’ve marked the items I’d like you to try for; I’d particularly like the French repeater carriage clock. Also the Victorian four-drawer Davenport.’

  In reply she had said, ‘Are you going to be away all day?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was straining his neck and adjusting his tie in the mirror above the mantelpiece, and for a fleeting second he looked at her reflection in the glass before lowering his head and saying, in a gentle tone, ‘Keep tomorrow free, will you, Alison? I would like you to come over to Eastbourne with me.’

  ‘Eastbourne?’ Her heart gave a jump.

  ‘Yes. It’s to do with the business of the writing case.’ He turned his head slowly and they looked at each other for a moment in silence before she burst out, ‘You’re not selling the stones?’ She watched him close his eyes for a moment and his head drooped again before he said patiently, ‘I’m not selling the stones; I’ll explain everything to you tomorrow.’

  Instead of feeling relieved she felt more weighed down with apprehension, if that were possible. There was something…well, something fishy about Paul’s manner and behaviour, to say the least.

  The sale started at eleven. It was not an important sale. There were no big dealers present; the local ones who were there sat together at the back of the room. Alison managed to get her usual seat near the rostrum, but to reach it she had to pass behind a low partition of furniture, where the men gathered. At the end of the partition stood Bill Tapley, talking to another dealer, but he turned his head quickly as she passed and smiled at her, and she had hardly seated herself before he was bending above her, saying, ‘Hello, Alison; any room for a little ’un?’ Without waiting for a response he squeezed past her and into the empty chair next to hers. ‘After anything special?’ He leant towards her.

  ‘Nothing much,’ she replied without turning her head. ‘Just the Davenport and the French carriage clock.’

  It was quite usual for dealers to discuss what they meant to bid for, so that they wouldn’t inadvertently push the price up for each other. If more than one of them wanted the same piece, they might amicably decide who was to have it, and it was no new thing to see money changing hands and dealers buying from each other after the sale. At the same time, they also might fight each other at the bidding for it. Yet, like birds of a feather, they usually flew in the one direction, so it was not unusual that Alison should tell Bill Tapley what she was bidding for.

  The clock struck eleven as the auctioneer took the stand, and being in a jovial mood this morning he started with, ‘Now, gentlemen, let us have no dilly-dallying or shilly-shallying during the next hour or so. It’s your money I’m after and as you’ve kindly come here to give it to me, don’t hesitate to hand it over…Lot one, a convex mirror in gilt frame. What am I bid? Ten shillings?…Ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen…’

  And so it went on for the next half-hour. At lot fifty-four the Davenport came up. Alison bid up to £18 and as it went to a private buyer for £22, Bill Tapley muttered under his breath, ‘Blasted fool! It’s the likes of him that would bring you down to tea and dripping.’ He laughed at his own joke, and looking sideways at Alison, said, ‘Sorry you didn’t get it. It was a nice piece. That fellow likely knew what he was after.’

  The French clock was lot eighty-four. But following seventy, the auctioneer paused and said, ‘We’ve a written-in lot here; it’s on the table, there. Some nice pieces, very nice. Come on, you china addicts and get bidding for this Sèvres…Yes’—he nodded his head around the room—‘two nice pieces of Sèvres there, not to mention bits of Doulton and a nice specimen of a Regency tea caddy.’

  The auctioneer’s words brought Alison to the edge of her chair, then onto her feet. She looked over the three rows of people in front of her towards the long table that flanked the rostrum. The porter was holding up a beautifully inlaid tea caddy. He lifted the lid, closed it again, then picked up the plates one at a time to show them round the room. As she gazed almost spellbound towards him, one or two people left their seats and moved forward towards the table; but Alison sat down. Her legs felt weak beneath her. She had searched Eastbourne, Brighton, Bexhill and Hastings and here on her very doorstep were the items she was looking for, among them Miss Beck’s tea caddy. As always when excited she shivered, then started as Bill Tapley said quietly, ‘Nice little lot, that. Usually reserved for the upper floor and the upper crust, that kind of stuff. I think I’ll try for it myself.’ She turned quickly to look at him and something in her expression caused him to say, ‘Any objection?’

  She shook her head briefly but did not speak. It would just have to happen that she was sitting next to Bill Tapley and that he would decide to bid for this particular lot.

  ‘Well, what’ll I start them at, gentlemen?’ When silence greeted this remark, as was often the way when a number of people were interested in a certain lot, the auctioneer said brusquely, ‘Now, come along, come along, don’t stall. Don’t tell me that this isn’t an interesting little lot. What am I offered? Eh?…Thank you, sir. One pound bid, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five. Two pounds, two pounds-five.’

  Alison was stiff with tension. She would let them go on and when they stopped she would start. But she knew that Bill Tapley would start also. She could have cried with vexation.

  ‘Five pounds ten.’ The auctioneer sent his shrewd gaze over the crowd. ‘Five pounds ten, ladies and gentlemen. Somebody’s going to get a very cheap lot; a gift, I should say…Five pounds ten.’

  Alison moved her pencil and the auctioneer said, ‘Five fifteen,’ then went on, ‘six pounds, six pounds five, six pounds ten, six pounds fifteen, seven pounds…seven pounds.’ He paused and the pause was in Alison’s favour, then a hidden bidder from the back of the room must have joined the fray, for the auctioneer now said, ‘Seven five…seven ten, seven fifteen, eight pounds, eight five, eight ten, eight fifteen. Eight fifteen,’ he repeated. The hammer wavered, and as Alison waited for it to drop gently on the desk, she thought that Bill Tapley, aiming to curry her favour, was going to let her have this lot. For the briefest second she felt grateful to him, then the auctioneer’s eyes moved just the slightest and he smiled as he took Bill Tapley’s bid and went on, ‘Eight fifteen, nine pounds. Here we go again, nine pounds, nine five, nine ten, nine fifteen, ten pounds.’ Alison was beginning to feel desperate. He was pushing her up, and up and up. She could feel he was enjoying this battle of bids, and wills. Not only had he taken a fancy to the lot but if he could beat her on this he would undoubtedly take it as an omen. The lot was now jumping in ten-shilling bids and when it reached £18 she thought wildly, I’ll go to thirty. I must; I’ll go to thirty. But before they had outbid each other to £25 the auctioneer paused and the room became so still that it could have been empty of people. It was doubtful whether the regular buyers in the saleroom had previousl
y come across anything so intense and exciting as this incident. Here were two dealers fighting it out. Sitting next to each other, their eyes riveted on the auctioneer, they were fighting it out. But now the auctioneer said, ‘That tea caddy there. Fred, hand it up.’ When the caddy was in his hand he examined it thoroughly and when he opened it he exclaimed, ‘Yes, very nice, very nice indeed. Glass liner still intact, a beautifully preserved piece, but it isn’t made of gold or silver, and as far as I can speak in my small experience’—there was a titter at this—‘I’ve never known a tea caddy to have a secret drawer.’ As he tapped each side and the bottom of the caddy the titter increased. It spread over the whole room, but it evoked no murmur from either Alison or Bill Tapley.

  The auctioneer, now handing the tea caddy back to the porter, looked down at Alison, and smiling, said briefly, ‘Ready?’ There was another wave of muted laughter as she moved her pencil once more.

  When Bill Tapley had bid £30 a dealer moving from the crowd went to the table, and lifting one of the plates turned it over and examined it. This brought a curt reprimand from the auctioneer. ‘Would you mind remaining quiet during the bidding, sir? There was plenty of time to examine the pieces before the sale started.’

  The buyer shrugged off the reprimand and returned to his place, and once more the bidding was in progress. ‘Thirty pounds ten shillings, thirty-one pounds.’ The auctioneer’s head became like a pendulum as he confirmed each bid. ‘Thirty-seven pounds.’ It was Bill Tapley’s bid. She paused and looked down. If only Paul were here; if only she could be sure that if she went to forty, Bill Tapley would drop out. She was aware of the tension in the saleroom pressing on her, acting like a tight band around her head. They all knew that this was just an ordinary sale where a single lot might reach £25, or £30 at the most. It was only at the monthly sales on the first floor where the prices reached the £50, the £100 and the £200 mark. She made a quick decision. She would go up to £50. Even if Miss Beck couldn’t pay, she herself would put up the rest. What was in that tea caddy was worth more than £50.

  When Alison bid £50 the auctioneer stopped and began to write something on a piece of paper. There was a rustle of curiosity in the room as he beckoned a porter and whispered as he handed the note to him. The porter now brought the piece of folded paper to Alison. Opening it, whilst keeping it shielded with one hand, she read the spidery words, ‘Does Paul know? If Tapley is set on this, he’ll go the limit.’

  She folded the paper quickly and pushed it into her pocket. She felt quite unnerved. Yet she moved her pencil once again. At £56 the auctioneer said tensely, ‘This is nonsensical, to say the least. It’s becoming a private battle. This lot has gone far beyond its worth; you know that, Mr Tapley.’

  ‘I’m still bidding.’ Bill Tapley’s voice was quiet and unemotional and it had the power to take the last ounce of fight out of Alison. She thought wildly, I can’t go on, I’ll bargain with him after. She lowered her hand with the pencil in it and when it dropped across her knee the auctioneer said, ‘The bidding stands at fifty-six pounds.’ He paused a moment and looked from Alison’s bent head to Bill Tapley’s unblinking eyes, then dropped the ivory mallet.

  An audible sigh, like a breaking wave, swept over the room. Alison knew that all eyes were turned in her direction. As she kept looking down at her catalogue and pretended to be writing, she was conscious of Bill Tapley sitting smugly back in the chair beside her. She felt it impossible to remain near him a moment longer, but forced herself to stay until the bidding got into sway once more so that her departure would not cause so much comment. As she gathered up her bag and gloves, Bill Tapley said quietly, ‘We’ll talk about it later, if you like.’ She moved her head in his direction but she could not trust herself to look at him. Without giving him any answer she rose and walked the gauntlet of all eyes until she was in the street.

  Ten minutes later she entered the drawing room, and without taking off her outdoor things she dropped on to the couch. Pressing her face into the corner, slowly and painfully she began to cry.

  A minute or so later Nellie’s voice startled her by saying, ‘You all right, Miss Alison?’

  She sniffed and blew her nose, then smiling weakly up at Mrs Dickenson, she said, ‘I’ve got a dose of the blues, Nellie.’

  ‘Oh, blues! I thought something had happened. Well, if you’ve got the blues, miss, there’s only one cure for that, and that’s work.’ She moved her compact body to give this fact stress. ‘I know what the blues is and I say to meself, get going, Nellie Dickenson, get going.’

  ‘Yes, Nellie, you’re right.’

  ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea? Lunch will be another half-hour or so.’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much, Nellie.’

  As Mrs Dickenson turned away, the telephone bell rang and she said flatly, ‘Don’t disturb yourself, I’ll see to it.’

  Within a minute she had put her head round the door again, whispering, ‘It’s for you.’

  The voice that greeted her over the phone was that of Bill Tapley, and she was definitely surprised to hear it, for she thought he would have left the next move to her; also that he would have stayed until the end of the sale. His voice held a tinge of laughter as he said, ‘How are you feeling now? A bit battle-scarred?’

  ‘No,’ she lied glibly, ‘these things happen. All I can say is that you must have wanted that lot badly.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t want it all that much. I just wanted to beat you.’

  She brought her teeth together as she looked down into the mouthpiece. ‘And now I suppose you want to make a deal with me, putting a hundred per cent on at the very least, is that it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I’m prepared to give you the lot. What’s sixty pounds?’ He laughed here. ‘I think we’d better have a chat, eh? Like to come round?’

  She moved her eyes quickly from one side of the hall to the other as if searching for guidance. She had never been in Bill Tapley’s house, although she had passed it many times. It looked a nice house, one of a Regency block, and recently he’d had it done up. In an ordinary way she would have answered this invitation with, What’s wrong with you coming to the shop? but this was something that she had to deal with alone, without Nelson listening in the background…or Paul putting in an unexpected appearance. That was the last thing she wanted. She hadn’t decided yet how she would explain to him about the episode in the saleroom, for he was nearly sure to hear of it; the dealers would naturally think she was buying for him. She asked abruptly now, ‘When?’

  ‘No time like the present, is there? I’ve just got in and I’m having a drink. If you come straight along you can join me.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘That’s settled, then.’

  She put down the receiver; then going to the kitchen she said to Mrs Dickenson, ‘I’ve got to go out. Sorry about the tea; I’ll be about half an hour, Nellie.’

  ‘Oh! Well, don’t be longer, mind; lunch won’t improve with keeping.’

  She was down the stairs before Mrs Dickenson finished speaking. In the shop she evaded Nelson’s enquiry of ‘Did you get anything this mornin’? Aa didn’t see you come in; you were quick back.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later, Nelson; I won’t be long.’

  As she reached the green-painted door and lifted her hand to the brass knocker she said to herself, Go easy, don’t get his back up.

  He could have been waiting behind the door, so quickly did he answer her knock. He was not profuse in his greeting, saying simply, ‘You weren’t long. Come in.’

  When she stepped into the hall the first thing that drew her attention was the quality of the few pieces standing against the walls, and when she entered the sitting room she was more than surprised to see with what taste the room was arranged. It was also the room of a collector, not a seller. She had always imagined that Bill Tapley would sell anything for money. She was forced to remember that when she had first seen Paul’s rooms they held nothing like the pieces th
at graced this apartment.

  If Bill Tapley noticed her interest he made no comment, but going to a cocktail cabinet that stood in the corner, illuminated by interior lighting, he lifted up a glass already full of sherry and brought it to her. ‘This is an occasion,’ he said.

  She did not answer him, but as he inclined his own glass towards her she made a slight motion with her head before sipping at the sherry. ‘There now’—he was smiling his wide grin—‘our first drink together. I hope it won’t be our last. But come, sit down.’

  The chair she sat on, and others dotted about the room, were in the Louis Quatorze style, and she was irritated with herself for being impressed by this unexpected side to him, and the elegance with which he surrounded himself. She wouldn’t have believed it without seeing it for herself, for judging by his outward appearance he was a coarse individual. She would never have given him credit for good taste in anything. But he undoubtedly had taste. The glass she was drinking out of was, she imagined, a collector’s piece in itself. She was brought to the reason for her visit by him saying, ‘Well now, Alison, you want to do business? But first of all, tell me why were you so eager to get that lot?’

  ‘I…I had an interested buyer.’

  ‘And he was prepared to go up to fifty for it? I can’t see why. I’ve examined the caddy. It’s really nothing; I’ve seen dozens better. It’ll bring about four pounds…not more, and as Renault said, there’re no secret panels.’

  Alison drew in a deep breath, then said, ‘It’s of sentimental value. It’s been in a particular family for years.’

  ‘Which family? Why did they sell it, then?’

  She leant forward now as if confiding in him, and her voice dropped a tone as she said, ‘The Gordon-Platts.’