Honey worked in Fenwick’s in Canterbury; she was always immaculately made-up, with nails to die for, and each class was scented with her latest perfume. Laura, a council administrator in Maidstone, had wild blonde hair and an interesting line in printed t-shirts; for some reason she was wearing a Tommy Cooper Comic Relief one today. Honey and Laura had known each other since their schooldays, which in my case had been decidedly limited, since social workers had transferred me to a seemingly endless series of foster carers and the schools nearest them. Not a lot of continuity there – or indeed learning, as far as I was concerned.
It was Griff who, taking me in as a sort of feral apprentice, had taught me to read and to listen to music, to shop intelligently and cook the ingredients I’d bought, and who’d put me through the more formal training with restorer friends of his which meant I could earn my own living – and now his too. In fact, the restoration side of the business was doing so well in comparison with the shop next to our cottage that our accountant had insisted we made it into a separate firm. But none of that made for good conversation with casual acquaintances, especially as part of the psychotherapy Griff had also paid for had been to learn to forget the worst parts of my life. Consequently there were some very big gaps.
And if my job didn’t sound very interesting – mending old china – I could certainly not talk to Honey and Laura about my father and his work.
Griff was now well enough to be back in charge of the kitchen again, so I was welcomed home by gorgeous smells. I grabbed a glass of water to take up to the shower. By the time I’d finished, there was a glass of something else ready – and his favourite Thai green chicken curry on the table.
Griff was no keener on hearing about Pa than Pa was on learning about Griff’s latest exploits, so I asked about his day – church work, some of it. That afternoon he’d been part of the church’s home Communion team, visiting an elderly parishioner. They’d taken a wafer and some wine that had been blessed the previous Sunday.
‘Dodie’s house reminds me in many ways of your father’s quarters before you got him organized,’ Griff said, gently swirling his glass of sauvignon blanc – he was supposed to drink red, for his heart’s sake, of course, but occasionally he’d allow himself a holiday.
It had taken a long time for Griff and Pa to meet, so he’d never seen Pa’s rooms at their worst. I snorted with laughter. ‘Nothing could be as bad as Pa’s place as it used to be! If social services or the medics had got anywhere near him they’d have had him sectioned. Remember, the only thing you’d want to touch was his TV.’
He squeezed my hand. ‘By normal standards, then, Dodie’s is pretty dirty. She does have carers, of course, but it’s not their job to clean the whole place.’ Griff paused ominously.
He wasn’t about to suggest that since I had both rubber gloves and expertise in handling china I should offer my services, was he? ‘Why don’t you ask the women from the church cleaning rota?’ I suggested hastily.
‘What a good idea.’ He sounded genuinely impressed. ‘After all, anyone doing home visits is supposed to have a Criminal Record Bureau check – you remember the palaver that irked me when I joined the team?’
I did. He’d been so infuriated by what he saw as quite spurious enquiries about his bank balance and past addresses, he’d thrown both pen and application form across the room; I’d been afraid that despite his clean bill of health he was about to have a heart attack.
‘Oh, it’s not called that any more, is it?’ he said. ‘It’s DBS – something about disclosing and debarring. All these changes for their own sake,’ he chuntered.
‘But will the women have been checked? Just for cleaning?’
‘No, no. Most are involved with other things too – the youth club or the playgroup. And if they work with children or vulnerable adults they have to be checked; it’s Church of England as well as government policy,’ Griff declared. He added, ‘All the same, if you weren’t as honest as the day, it’d be easy to steal the odd item, because there are simply so many, and poor Dodie’s eyes aren’t what they should be. Nor her memory, of course.’
I gathered the plates as Griff topped up his glass. It was good to see him enjoying his food and drink again, particularly as he exercised it off one way or another every day.
There was something in his voice, however, that made me pause. ‘Your eyes and memory are spot-on. What’s worrying you?’ I sat down again and poured myself another drop.
‘I just have a feeling … Most of what she’s got is rubbish – maybe worth a few bob at a car boot sale, if you like tatty souvenirs of Weymouth or wherever. But in the midst of the miniature vases, lighthouses and cottages I find a netsuke. About which I know absolutely nothing, so it might be my brain playing tricks.’
‘What sort of tricks?’
He touched my hair. ‘Sometimes I think some of your dowsing instinct must have rubbed off on me. Mind you, I’m a bit old to discover my inner divvy. But you know how sometimes, without knowing anything about an object, you know it’s special—’
‘Or conversely that it’s rubbish.’
‘Quite. I know this is special. A tiny rat clutching a candle. Perfect. What on earth is it doing there?’
I spread my hands. ‘A present? Have you tried asking her?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me. Certainly nothing to do with why I’m in her house. I’d be embarrassed. All I’m supposed to be doing is praying and watching Tony Carr give her the wine and the wafer.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Just the mismatch … At least it was until Tony and I went to see her today.’
I knew every intonation of his voice better than I knew my own. ‘It’s gone walkabout, has it?’
‘It may have done. May. Or someone might have picked it up and put it down somewhere else – maybe even Dodie herself. She’d rearranged all the photos on her piano the other day, and Tony found one down the back of the sofa.’
‘I suppose it wasn’t possible to ask her about it?’
‘It might have been last week – might be again next week. But today all she could do was chunter about never seeing her family. The sad thing is that they visit regularly.’ Griff shook his head as much in anger as in sorrow.
‘Who says? I mean, one person’s regular is another’s once in a blue moon.’
He sounded defensive rather than certain. ‘They know someone at church.’ As if that was any answer at all.
‘Even so … OK, so they turn up from time to time with food and drink and flowers. Could it be that they’ve realized the little rat’s valuable and have removed it for safekeeping?’
‘Or removed it full-stop? Or maybe one of the carers has taken a fancy to it?’
I said bracingly, ‘Surely they’re all DBS checked, too?’
‘Of course. But have you any idea how dreadfully little these women are paid for doing the most intimate work?’
‘If they wanted to steal anything, they’d have to know it was valuable. Griff, there’s no problem, is there, and if there is, it’s not yours. Speak to Tony if you’re really worried.’
‘I may just do that. And I’ll float your suggestion of getting the cleaning team to help with Dodie’s housework, too.’ He got to his feet. ‘There is someone else we could mention it to: Carwyn.’
A suspicion as vague as that? I wasn’t at all sure he’d be interested. In any case, he wasn’t even in the country at the moment. ‘He’s on secondment to Europol at the moment, remember.’
‘Of course, that training initiative, whatever that means. Tony it must be. Ah, well. Peppermint tea, sweet one?’
Sometimes Griff could still surprise me. Like the evening a few days later when he announced, with some trepidation, I thought, that he’d got something to show me. I knew he’d been pottering round in his shed, something he’d not done for months before his operation, but he’d been notably quiet about what he’d been up to.
‘You know that the Saturday night dance
in Torquay is a fancy-dress affair? And that this year’s theme is London Life?’
I nodded, though it had hardly registered. And then stopped short. All this work in the shed – he’d not been building a miniature Big Ben or Buckingham Palace, had he? Or even the Shard? He was a man for plaudits, was Griff, and if there was a prize going, even in the most obscure raffle, he wanted to win it. He’d want to go as something no one else – no one in their right mind, at least – would ever think of. And there was no doubt he was embarrassed as he flung open the shed door.
The first thing I saw was a Pearly King outfit. Perhaps he’d simply been sewing on endless buttons. Then I registered that there was no Pearly Queen outfit beside it, just a large wire structure painted gold. Inside was a frivolous dress, very short, with a bustle – more a short train, really – of feathers. A feathery headdress sat beside it. The whole outfit was pure Kylie Minogue.
‘If we don’t win first prize I’ll eat my hat, pearls and all,’ he declared. ‘The whole cage is very light, so all you have to do is hold these little perches and walk normally.’ He demonstrated. ‘And then you step out and we sing, “Only a bird in a gilded cage”. And you’ll look lovely in that little dress,’ he said – probably truthfully.
At first I was revolted – there were all sorts of Freudian undertones I might not understand but which I really did not like. However, Griff was trying so hard that I couldn’t reject all that forethought and planning out of hand. ‘How do we get it in the van? With all the things we need for the fair?’
‘All these wires push back together.’ He demonstrated. ‘And the bottom ring that holds them in shape just unclips.’
We were left with a structure like the flimsy ribs of a very tiny canoe.
‘That’s how you get in and out. You just push the verticals back and – bingo!’ He looked at me like a dog hoping for a chew for performing a clever trick but fearing a kick.
‘You were wasted as an actor – you should have been an engineer.’
‘If you could see some of the props I designed – and made!’ He sighed, but not necessarily at the thought of glories past.
‘OK. I’ll go and try on the costume. It’ll need stage-quality tights, of course, or I shall be the far side of indecent.’
‘They’re tucked inside the headdress. Actually, there are some little knee breeches there too, if you’d prefer them.’
The old bugger had thought of everything, hadn’t he? I trooped off to my room with all the gear. I had a sudden weird frisson: at one time I must have dressed up in something pretty for my mother, whom I barely remembered, to be honest – just these tiny fragments of something too vague to be called a memory.
I’d never have worn an outfit like this, however. Belatedly entering into the spirit of things, I applied some slap: over-the-top glittering eyeshadow and shiny lipstick. And popped on my dancing shoes. Wow. It wasn’t me anymore. I was ready to razzle and to dazzle. Though I did think the matching knee breeches, if a bit tight, were more appropriate for Dee’s pupils.
I shimmied my way down to Griff. ‘I wasn’t convinced by the cage, to be honest,’ I admitted, ‘but this more than sets me free.’
‘I hope all the old gents have their heart pills with them,’ Griff mused. He put his head on one side. ‘I think we may need to change your hair a little, but otherwise I think we have fancy-dress perfection. How would you feel about blue nail varnish to tone with the feathers?’
I inspected my working paws, scarred by glue, paint, lacquer and goodness knows what else: even with varnish there was no hope for them. ‘It’ll have to be false nails, or even glitzy gloves, but let’s go for it. Yes!’
The other preparations were considerably less exciting. Trade wasn’t good these days, not surprising given the length and depth of the recession. Victorian was going out, and Art Deco coming in. Russian was good, Chinese was better. On the other hand, the good citizens of Exeter might not be up to trend yet, so we packed a selection of our old reliables. Those that didn’t make the cut went into plastic storage boxes which I took to the self-store unit down the road. I made space for them by removing three other carefully labelled old-fashioned cardboard boxes of stuff Griff had collected before my time.
He was eagerly rubbing his hands together as I carried the cases into the kitchen. ‘I’ve forgotten what I’ve got. Dear one, this is like Christmas, isn’t it? Which shall we look at first? Russian?’
Icons – quite a number. We both scratched our heads as we looked helplessly at each other. One of us would have to do a lot of homework. What was this? Fabergé? A whole lot of Fabergé? I gaped.
Gently Griff reached across and put my jaw back into position. ‘Beautiful as the items are, convincing as the marks are, they’re all fakes, dear one. I bought them as fakes and will have to sell them as fakes.’
I nodded: honesty was Griff’s middle name, and now mine too, of course. But my enthusiasm bubbled over. ‘Look at this pill box. All this lovely enamel. And surely that’s a genuine diamond in the middle of the lid? Taking your daily dose wouldn’t be nearly so bad if all you had to do was flick this open.’
‘It does rather put NHS bubble packs into the shade, doesn’t it? But even though it’s a fake, my love, it doesn’t mean it’s worthless.’ He fished in the box and removed a scrap of paper. ‘Here you are. Twelve years ago I paid six hundred pounds for it – so allowing for inflation and the huge surge of interest from Russia … Let’s say I’d expect it to fetch at least double, possibly triple or quadruple, my original investment. And this little cigarette case – for all people don’t smoke these days, it’s lovely in its own right, and some denizen of St Petersburg may well take a shine to it.’ He touched the view of the city on the lid. ‘I’d hope to earn a nice lot of roubles for this too.’ Then he frowned and put them hurriedly back in the box, not even opening the other tempting packets.
‘Griff? Are you all right?’ I was already hunting for the emergency spray he’d not used once since his operation.
‘Perfectly,’ he assured me. ‘It’s just something our lovely Paul was saying the other day. An accountancy issue. Accountancy and tax. Like when we separated the restoration from the retail sides,’ he added hurriedly.
But judging from the serious expression that always smudged Griff’s face when they’d been closeted together, I suspected they were plotting something more serious. I was very puzzled. Without positively throwing money at the Inland Revenue, Griff always declared that if you were fortunate enough to earn enough money to pay tax, you should pay it without grumbling. The tax avoidance and evasion schemes – I could never remember which were the worst – that some of our acquaintances dabbled in were anathema to Griff and, let’s be honest, incomprehensible to me.
Squaring his shoulders, he patted another box. ‘This might be more what we need. Far less profit.’
I couldn’t understand why he should want to turn his back on a large increase in income, but lifted the one he indicated on to the table.
‘Lacquer boxes,’ he said. ‘I only paid a couple of hundred each for most of these: we’ll get a nice manageable return, I’d say.’ He removed about a dozen. ‘Meanwhile, let’s pop the rest back into store, shall we?’
I felt my face fall. ‘Can’t we look at the china?’ I excavated a pretty tea set. ‘Oh, that’s really pretty. Cup, saucer, pot, creamer and sugar bowl. All that loveliness for just one person,’ I added sadly. ‘I wonder what the servant carrying it to her mistress thought.’ I shook my head. Enough of this preoccupation with upstairs-downstairs differences. ‘Why not sell this at least? After all, we’re supposed to be porcelain specialists.’
‘We’d make more if we did it online and tickled international interest.’
‘You make it sound like fishing.’
He sighed. ‘How much do we make from the shop these days?’
‘Just about enough to cover Mary’s wages. If she ever left I’d wonder whether we should close it. As for the big exh
ibitions – when did we do more than break even at the National Exhibition Centre events?’ Or at potty little local one-day fairs like the one at Matford.
‘But I love the social side of it, my love. Meeting punters, greeting old friends – though sadly there are fewer of those by the month.’
The implication was that they were dropping like flies; in fact many were simply retiring or had the same view of fairs as I did. But I didn’t want to argue, so I changed the subject. ‘Have you mentioned that netsuke to Tony yet?’
‘As a matter of fact I have. He took it quite seriously, in fact. His wife has oversight of the vulnerable adults in the congregation and she’s going to visit Dodie and talk about it.’
For some reason I changed my mind. Sometimes kindness and goodwill aren’t enough. ‘And she’s a trained police officer? No, I thought not. Tell you what, I will text Carwyn and see what he has to say.’
‘Very well. In the meantime, let’s see how Moira gets on, shall we? At least she’s used to talking to old ladies.’
THREE
The first evening in Devon passed pleasantly enough. Waltz; quickstep; cha-cha-cha; rumba – I did them all. Mostly I danced with Griff, but I did stand up with other partners, although not the handsome thirty-year-old Dee had hinted at. Why did I doubt if he’d ever existed? The old guys danced well, but handsome princes they were not – nor was I tempted to kiss any of them to see if I could transform them.
For me, the high point of the first evening was when Griff and I finally took the floor for the Charleston. The hour or so he’d made me practise in the kitchen paid off, especially when I decided to finish the number with a couple of cartwheels. And then the jive, with more cartwheels … Yes! I could have jived and Charlestoned all night. But Griff couldn’t – not, he assured me, because of his heart, but because his muscles simply weren’t used to all this exercise. And we had to get up early in the morning, didn’t we?
Guilty as Sin Page 2