"This way, squire,” Jake said, walking to a nearby table. Chris could already see the bundles of used notes on the dirty surface.
Mary appeared by his side, counting them. “How much is that?"
"Ten grand,” Jake replied, watching them both.
"You said at least twenty!"
He nodded. “True, love. And I can get you twenty. But not till next month. Ain't got that much cash lying around, have I?” He held out a huge hand for the keys. “We got a deal or not?"
"No chance,” Chris nervously replied. “Not for ten lousy grand."
"Suit yourself, pal,” Jake casually replied, starting to scoop the bundles away.
"No, wait,” Mary panicked. “We'll take it."
"Mary!"
She turned to Chris, tight-lipped. “We'll take it."
"But it's a con!"
"And how else do you think we can get the money, eh?"
Jake smothered a laugh with a cough. “Listen, folks, I'm a busy fella, got things to be doing. Can't stand here and listen to you two arguing. It's the ten grand, or nothing. End of."
Two minutes later, they were on their way to the auction rooms in the family saloon, Mary driving as Chris sat in stunned, shameful silence with ten thousand pounds in neat bundles on his lap.
* * * *
If anyone ever had doubts about the efficacy of local news items to drum up public interest, the expectant, abnormally crowded auction room that morning proved them wrong. Established antiques dealers sat alongside private collectors, together with interested members of the public who'd simply turned up to witness the spectacle. Rumour had it the television cameras were going to return to interview the successful bidder on the two crimson-dipped Wedgwood Jasperware jugs, the star attraction of that morning's lots.
Chris and Mary managed to find two of the last available seats, as the back of the room quickly became standing-room only. To the side, a dozen dealers stood waiting on phones, linked to unseen buyers.
In the “planning” stage, neither Chris nor Mary had fully appreciated just how intimidating the atmosphere would be. The thought of actually bidding for an item was terrifying. The auctioneer himself was a stern-faced schoolmaster type, banging his gavel unnecessarily loudly with the completion of each lot.
Tension grew as the main event drew closer. At the appointed time, the assistant gently set both jugs on the table by the lectern, while the auctioneer went through the items’ description, stressing their rarity, value, and the exceptional opportunity for all bidders.
"I'll start the bidding at five thousand,” he announced, his narrowed eyes scanning the room.
Chris went to raise his hand, but Mary, who'd been observing tactics on previous lots, held it down.
"Four thousand?"
Nothing.
"Three,” he conceded. “Three thousand for this incredible opportunity to own these two beautiful Wedgwood jugs."
A bid. Somewhere from the back.
Chris turned, tried to spot the raised hand, but suddenly there were too many. Bids began coming in from all over. The price rose and rose, yet still Mary held his hand firmly by his side.
"We wait,” she whispered. “We wait till the last bid. Then we know it's just a two-way thing. Us, or them."
The price steadily rose—five thousand, six, seven...
"Now,” she urged, as the auctioneer announced that the final bid of eight-thousand, three hundred pounds was going for the third time.
Chris raised his hand, nodded at the man, causing the room to gasp and turn towards him.
"Eight thousand, five hundred?” he was asked.
Chris nodded, as Mary squeezed his free hand excitedly.
* * * *
Fortunately, they managed to avoid reporters, the auction-house staff showing the successful bidders a discreet side door used when avoiding inevitable publicity. They were, Chris suspected, all too grateful to assist in any way they could, seeing how he'd just paid nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five pounds for the Wedgwood jugs. At ten-percent commission, showing someone a side door was the least they could do.
"No problem,” the smiling assistant said, opening the door, but missing Chris's disgruntled reply.
"Well,” Mary concluded, inspecting the jugs as Chris drove them home, “this is one story I'll gladly tell the kids about when they visit me in the rest home. Can't say we haven't lived a bit today."
"You might have done,” Chris moaned. “I feel about thirty years older.” He glanced across at the Wedgwood. “Christ's sakes, be careful! We've got ten grand's worth of antiques in a six-hundred-pound car.” He looked ahead and saw the police officer signalling for him to pull over. “Oh God, what's this?"
"Stay calm,” Mary instructed. “It's probably nothing."
"Nothing?” he replied, pulling up in front of the patrol car. “Christ's sake, Mary, have you forgotten what we've done?"
His mouth dried. The officer seemed to take an age looking around the old car before finally tapping on the window. Chris wound it down. “Is there ... a problem, Officer?"
"Could say that, sir, yes."
Chris's heart missed a beat.
The officer pointed at the tax disc on the windscreen. “Out of date, sir. Expired at the end of last month."
"Oh ... right, yes. I've been meaning to go and..."
"This is an illegal vehicle, sir. To drive it is an offence under the Road Traffic Act."
"I was...” Chris's mind raced. “I was on my way to get one right now. That's right, isn't it, love?"
Mary nodded.
The officer considered this. “Well, I could save you the bother, sir. If you have the money, I can enter your details on my computer, and a new disc will be sent to your address straight away."
Relief filled them both.
"Yes,” Chris quickly said. “That's a great idea. I'll do that now."
They legally drove away a few minutes later, every penny of the ten thousand spent, plus an extra forty-two pounds Chris had to put it on the credit card in order to buy the full year's tax.
"And now,” he announced, trying to keep the rising anger in, “all we have to do is get home and tell the police the BMW has been ‘stolen’ from our garage while we've been driving around illegally in this car. Bloody marvellous day, this is, Mary, eh? Really living, isn't it?"
She didn't reply, refusing to rise to the sarcasm.
"Then, after that, I simply have to tell my oldest friend that his brand-new, beloved car has been nicked. Not only have I swindled him, I have to lie to him as well. Another top-notch bit of ‘living,’ wouldn't you say?"
Mary shook her head. “Look, love, I'm sorry. Really sorry."
"So easy to say. It's not your friend, or your friend's car."
"Come on,” she tried. “Dave's just a user—we both know that. Well, maybe for once we've used him. But only because we didn't have a choice."
"No,” Chris loudly objected. “It was because you put those bloody jugs in the charity shop!"
She was angry too, now. “Yeah, I did! But why did I do that, eh? Because your bloody friend parked his car where Mum's stuff was. Stuff that you went and moved! If he hadn't dumped his car on us—none of this would have happened!"
It was another silent journey home.
* * * *
The kitchen phone was already ringing when Chris stormed into the house, Mary angrily carrying the precious box a few paces behind.
"Yes?” he barked into the receiver.
"Whoa, down, boy,” came the familiar voice. “Called at a wrong time, have I? That car of mine turning you into a jealous maniac?"
Chris glanced at Mary, hit the speakerphone, silently mouthed “Help” at her. “No, Dave,” he said, “it's fine. Everything's fine."
"Well, it's pretty bloody fine over in NZ, too, mate. Pretty damn fine, indeed."
Mary slowly set the box on the kitchen table, took out the two jugs, staring firstly at the phone, then blankly back into
her husband's desperate eyes.
"It's about the car,” the tinny voice continued.
"Right,” Chris said. “Look, Dave, I've got something to tell you..."
"No, mate,” his friend laughed. “I've got something to tell you. Well, ask you, really. I need a favour."
Chris took a breath. “Wha ... what's that, Dave?"
"I want you to sell the thing."
Mary flinched, couldn't believe what she'd just heard.
"What?"
"You heard. Sell it. Stick it on the ‘Net. Thing is, they've got all sorts of lovely motors down here, I've fallen on my feet with the job, and I can pick up a new motor for about a third of the price. So sell the Z4. I'll sort the paperwork out, no worries. But listen, don't take any less than thirty grand for it, you hear?"
Chris sat at the table. “I ... hear. Yes. But listen, Dave, there's something I really do need to tell you about the car."
"In a second. Wait up, I haven't finished yet. Been doing a lot of thinking recently. You know, about stuff. Mostly you and Mary, really. I haven't been that good a friend, have I? And the point is that I'm doing really well now, and I know you guys are always struggling."
Out of Chris's eyeline, and even unaware of it herself, Mary's hands had begun to shake a little, as the dreadful possibility of the next sentence dawned on them both.
"Thing is,” Dave went on, “I want you guys to keep the money. All thirty grand of it. No objections—it's yours. Just think of it as a gift from me for all the times I used you. A present from a true friend to his only other true friends."
Chris gasped, saw Mary's shoulders begin to sag. Then, to his horror, watched as the two Wedgwood jugs slipped effortlessly from her shocked hands and smashed on the hard kitchen floor.
A tinny voice from the other side of the world cut through the stunned silence. “Chris, you still there, mate? Like I said, just sell it and keep the money. It's not going to be a problem, is it?"
Copyright © 2009 Phil Lovesey
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Special Feature: 2009 EQMM Readers Award Ballot
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EQMM, December 2009 Page 19