The Fields of Heaven

by Anne Weale

  “What’s that you’ve found, dear? Oh, the walnut Do you know, I’d forgotten I had it. A pretty little toy, isn’t it? They made things so nicely years ago.”

  “Where did you get it?” asked Imelda.

  “It came to me with some things my sister left. My sister Ellen who died several years ago. I suppose it was given to her when she was in service. She worked for some very nice ladies, and they often gave her little presents.”

  “Would you sell it, Mrs. Titchwell?”

  The old lady smiled. “If you like it, you can have it, my dear. If I’d remembered it was there, I’d have given it to Mrs. Harple’s granddaughter when she used to come to see me. But she’s too old for such things now, and I don't know any other children.”

  Imelda held the nut in her palm. A fresh dilemma confronted her. She was almost certain that, about two years ago, she had read of a similar walnut fetching fifty pounds at an auction. But she was not certain; and even if she had been sure, she suspected that a handsome offer might be such a shock to the old lady that it could make her ill. It seemed wisest to make a generous offer for the other objects, and to add to the payment later on.

  “I couldn’t give you more than ten pounds, Mrs. Titchwell,” she said, with a gesture at the carton of rubbish.

  “Ten pounds! Good gracious me! I didn’t expect more than two. To tell you the truth, I thought Mrs. Harpley was exaggerating,” the old lady confided

  She was so flustered and excited by her good fortune that Imelda knew it would not have done to tell her the truth about the walnut. She would have to break the good news to her by degrees.

  “You won’t make a fortune out of that lot,” Mrs. Walsham remarked tartly, when Imelda had returned to the shop, and was unloading the carton.

  “No, but I didn’t give much for it. Any customers?”

  “Only a man wanting Turnbridge ware. I showed him the paper knife and the pencil box, but they didn’t interest him. He was after the more unusual pieces.”

  Mrs. Walsham was becoming quite knowledgeable. The night before she had almost missed one of her favourite television programmes by becoming immersed in a book about Staffordshire portrait figures which Imelda had left in the sitting-room. Imelda foresaw the time when her landlady would fall in love with some antique object and want to own it. She was waiting with interest to find out what it would be. Probably something unexpected. People often succumbed to the most unlikely objects, rather in the same way that girls were attracted to unsuitable men, mused Imelda.

  Like me and Charles.

  The thought slipped into her mind, and was instantly dismissed, although she knew that not thinking about it wouldn’t alter the fact. On the other hand, if she allowed thoughts of him to linger, it would worsen her condition which, at present, was only a very mild weakness.

  During the afternoon, Sam stopped by with a loaded van. Imelda bought an Edison phonograph with six cylinder records, a pole screen, a box of lead soldiers, and a set of small mother-of-pearl dominoes in a shabby velvet bag.

  While he was having a cup of coffee with her, she told him about the walnut and how she was torn between the wish to let Mrs. Wingfield have it at a bargain price, and the feeling that for Mrs. Titchwell’s sake she ought to make as much as possible.

  “You’ve forgotten something,” said Sam.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your cut. You’ll never make a good living by buying high and selling low. Mrs. Wingfield’s not short of a penny. If it’s worth fifty quid, let her pay fifty. Although if you ask me anyone who’d pay all that for a walnut must be out of their minds. How old is it?”

  “Not very old. About a hundred and thirty years, or thereabouts. But so few of them have survived. I’ve never seen one before. Anyway, I’m not positive that it’s worth as much as that.”

  “If you’ve given the other old girl a tenner, and made her happy, I should hang on to it until you’re in London and can sell it to one of the posh specialist dealers,” advised Sam. He saw that she did not agree, and went on, “You can’t mix sentiment with business. I don’t hold with robbing anyone - specially not an old age pensioner - but you can’t be too soft-hearted in this game.”

  “No, I suppose not. But sometimes I can’t help feeling rather a parasite. I know Mrs. Wingfield would jump at this for twenty pounds” - turning the walnut between her fingertips — “but what have I done to deserve to make a ten-pound profit? Nothing at all.”

  “You knew what it was,” Sam said firmly. “You knew because you’ve studied old things. Where would collectors like Mrs. Wingfield find what they want if there weren’t any dealers? She wouldn’t go poking about in old cottages, asking people if they had anything to sell in her line, and they wouldn’t approach her off their own bat. Dealers are like any other shopkeepers, girl. They supply a demand. It’s about time the small dealers did make a decent living. My old man can remember when nobody wanted to know about this sort of stuff” - waving his hand at the contents of the back parlour where they were sitting.

  “Now it’s going to the other extreme. Too many people are interested, and there aren’t enough nice old things to go round,” she said thoughtfully. “At least not at reasonable prices. I think you’re right, Sam. Fifty pounds is a crazy price to pay for a walnut. On the other hand, think what thousands of engaged couples pay for a pathetic crumb of carbon which, but for the artificial scarcity created by the diamond corporations, would be no more expensive than a rhinestone.”

  On the afternoon of the dinner party, Imelda left Mrs. Walsham in charge of the shop, and crossed the road to the hairdressing salon. Her hair was shampooed by a junior, and she had to wait for a few minutes before Diane finished perming another customer and came to attend to her.

  “Good afternoon. Sorry to keep you waiting. Did you just want a trim?” Diane’s voice was soft, and perhaps a little affected.

  “I’d like about two inches cut off, please.” Imelda found it impossible to tell whether the younger girl recognised her as Sam’s companion at the Unicorn.

  Diane did not talk while she was cutting. She concentrated on what she was doing, and Imelda studied her pretty face, embellished with all the latest tricks of makeup, and wondered what she was like inside the beauty-queen exterior.

  While the junior was sweeping up the wet ends of Imelda’s hair, Diane placed a dry towel round her shoulders, and said, “You’re the young lady from the new antique shop, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. And you’re a friend of Sam Mutford, I believe?”

  “I know him.” The girl looked uneasy. “His sister was in my class at school. She’s married now, and moved to Royston. If you live in a small place like this, you get to know most people, don’t you?”

  “I suppose you do,” said Imelda. “It was fortunate for me that Sam was one of the first people I met here. He’s helped me in all sorts of ways.”

  Diane was silent for some minutes. Then, lowering her voice so that it would not be audible to the girl seated at the reception desk - the two other customers were under the dryers - she said, “Yes, Sam is all right. It’s the others who aren’t very nice.”

  “The others?”

  “The rest of his family. His mother and father, and his uncle.” She paused, and then blurted, “His mother comes shopping in her dippers, with her hair in rollers. And his father has been had up in court for using bad language in a row with their neighbours. There’s always some trouble with that family. My friend Jean was different, and Sam’s brother Barry isn’t a rough sort. But the rest of them - well, they’re awful!” - with a grimace.

  “ ‘You choose your friends, Fate chooses your relations’,” Imelda quoted dryly.

  Diane looked momentarily blank. When she saw the point, she said primly, “Yes, I daresay. But you don’t have to live with them, do you? Not at his age.” She studied Imelda’s reflection in the mirror. “Don’t you mind being away from your family?” she asked. “I shouldn’t like being all
on my own in a strange place.”

  Later, watching the girl from her seat under the dryer, Imelda thought her very pretty, but far too dim to be a fit wife for someone as shrewd and quick-witted as Sam. She would probably be obsessively house-proud and baby- proud, and totally uninterested in Sam’s business.

  Imelda had returned to Victoriana, and Mrs. Walsham had gone home, when Sam called.

  “Your hair looks nice,” he remarked. “Did Diane do it for you?”

  “Yes, she did. Mrs. Wingfield has invited me to a dinner party tonight,” she added, to explain why her hair was arranged in an Empress Eugenie chignon instead of tied back in a tail.

  “I suppose she told you a long tale about me,” he said, with an uncharacteristic scowl.

  “On the contrary, I told her some things about you,” Imelda answered lightly. “Were you ... are you still keen on her, Sam?”

  He studied the toes of his boots for a moment. “No,” he said. “Not any more.”

  He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes very blue and bright with some strong emotion which Imelda hoped she misread and which caused her hurriedly to talk about something else.

  There were already several motors on the sweep when Imelda arrived at the Hall that evening. Carefully, she parked her little car alongside a stately grey Bentley, and took a final glance at her make-up in the rear-view mirror. Then she climbed out and shook down her skirts.

  Carefully pressed and repaired, the Victorian dress looked very different from the bundle of creased black silk which had failed to attract a buyer at Mrs. Hockwold’s jumble sale. Imelda had not only filled two or three gaps in the row of sixteen jet buttons which fastened the bodice, she had stitched an edging of pleated white lawn inside the velvet cuffs and the high neckband.

  The door was opened by Betts who, to her surprise, said, “Good evening, Miss Calthorpe.” She had not expected him to remember her name.

  As she entered the house, Mrs. Wingfield emerged from a room on the right of the hall. She was wearing a pink silk shirt with a long skirt of amethyst wool.

  “Imelda, my dear, how are you? I was hoping to pop in at the shop this morning, but I was waylaid by someone and by the time I escaped it was too late to come and browse. It’s been that sort of week. What delightful things have I missed?”

  “None,” Imelda assured her. “I’ve had two interesting thimbles, but I’ve put them aside for you to see.”

  “Nice child!” Mrs. Wingfield patted her arm, and led her into a large and beautiful drawing-room where, as a man finished speaking, a ripple of merriment ran round the group who had been listening to him.

  “This is Imelda Calthorpe who owns the new antique shop in Church Street,” said Mrs. Wingfield, taking advantage of the natural break in the conversation to present Imelda to everyone there. But as her hostess told her their names, Imelda’s wits were temporarily numbed by her consciousness that they were all staring at her with expressions of astonished amusement. Two of the other women were wearing trouser suits in different shades of crushed velvet, a third was in a fine wool caftan, and Beatrix Otley

  had on a long crepe skirt, and a cowl-necked silk jersey top. Their casual expensive elegance made Imelda sinkingly aware that her own dress was ludicrously out of place.

  She was neither young enough, or shy enough, to be overthrown for very long. But she was unnerved for several minutes, and therefore glad to be spared a decision about what to drink.

  Instead of asking her what she would like, Charles brought her a glass of sherry, and stayed to listen to what an old man - whose name she had not registered - was telling her about the hardness of the local water.

  Presently Mrs. Wingfield went away to welcome some more arrivals, and the old man remembered something he particularly wanted to say to someone across the room. Charles and Imelda were left alone.

  “I wonder if, later on, there might be a chance to see you privately,” she said quietly. As his eyebrow lifted, she went on, “I have something in my bag which I think your grandmother might like for her birthday. But perhaps you would rather come down to the shop to see it?”

  His eyes glinted. “It isn’t beyond my powers to arrange a tete-a-tete with you after dinner. I shall look forward to it.”

  She knew he was only teasing her, but nevertheless she felt a fluttering of the pulse.

  At dinner Charles sat at one end of the table with a woman of Mrs. Wingfield’s age on his right, and another elderly woman on his left. From her place near his grandmother’s end of the table, Imelda avoided looking in his direction. The first time she did so, he was listening to a conversation between the women on either side of him, and Imelda had the impression that, in spite of his apparent attention to what they were discussing, his mind was on something else.

  The second time she permitted herself to glance at him, she found he was looking at her. But whether consciously or absently she could not judge in the seconds before she averted her gaze.

  After dinner, everyone returned to the drawing-room where, when nearly an hour had gone by, she thought he must have forgotten their private talk. Then suddenly he was at her elbow, waiting for a pause in her conversation with some other guests to extract her from the group and steer her to the library.

  This was another room which she had not seen before tonight. The sight of the book-lined walls, the massive mahogany desk, and the Chippendale winged chairs on either side of the fire, made her give a murmur of pleasure.

  Behind her, Charles closed the door. As she turned, intending to say, “What a marvellous room,” he forestalled her.

  “Alone at last,” he said softly.

  As before, he was only joking. But, as before, it made her throat tighten. What would it be like, she wondered, with a shiver of excitement, to be really “alone at last” with a man like Charles? As the summer advanced, each time they met his face was browner. Tonight his tan was accentuated by the whiteness of his dress shirt, and beneath the sardonic black eyebrows the cold North Sea grey of his eyes was doubly unexpected.

  But although the colour of his eyes might be incongruous in that otherwise dark southern face, there was nothing cold in their expression at the present moment. From whatever cause - and boredom seemed the most likely - he was in the mood to flirt with her, if she was willing.

  “I – I’m afraid the thing I’ve brought for you to see is rather expensive,” she said, opening the beadwork purse which she had taken out of stock for the evening. She handed the tissue-wrapped walnut to him.

  He took it, but did not unwrap it immediately. “I like your dress. Is it the genuine article, or only a copy?”

  “It’s genuine. Can’t you smell the mothballs?” she said lightly.

  “Not from here. But perhaps if we were waltzing —” Disconcertingly, he came close, slipping the walnut into the pocket of his dinner jacket in order to take her left hand in his, and rest his other hand on her waist. “No, even here I can only smell your scent. No mothballs ... and no whalebones either, apparently” - sliding his hand further round her and drawing her closer. “Or have you removed them?”

  “There were no bones to remove.” Imelda disengaged her hand, and stepped backwards, away from him. “About the present for your grandmother. You must say if you don’t care for it, or if the price is far too high. I can easily sell it elsewhere.”

  Charles’ mouth curled with amusement. He took the package from his pocket and began to unwrap it, pausing to say, “You seem almost as nervous as the girl who first wore that dress would have been in this situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “Being alone with a man.”

  “Not at all. I’m concerned not to keep you from your other guests longer than is necessary,” she answered evenly.

  Watching him, as he examined the walnut, she thought that although social customs changed with each generation, the essence of people’s relationships did not alter very much. There must always have been men with whom the most timorou
s girls felt at ease, and other men, of whom Charles was one, in whose company even self-possessed girls could be thrown into old-fashioned flutters. Just why this should be so was hard to analyse.

  “Expensive, you say?” Charles remarked.

  “Thirty pounds.”

  As she expected, his eyebrows shot up. “Rather more than I had in mind.”

  “I know. But it’s an exceptional item, and I thought you would want to see it before I showed it to Mrs. Wingfield.”

  “Do you think she will buy it if I don’t?”

  “I think so. I can’t be certain, of course.”

  The door opened and Beatrix entered the room, stopping short when she saw it was occupied. “Oh ... I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone was here. I slipped away from the party to look up something in the encyclopaedia,” she explained.

  “Which volume do you need?” asked Charles, placing the walnut on the desk and turning towards the bookshelves.

  “It isn’t important. What’s that?” — eyeing the walnut.

  “A bibelot for Grandmother’s birthday. Do you think it will please her?”

  Beatrix picked up the walnut. Her hands were beautifully shaped, but spoiled, in Imelda’s opinion, by long lacquered nails. Tonight she was wearing several rings. The diamonds sparkled in the light as she held the walnut close to the tall brass-columned lamp at one end of the desk. Imelda wondered if, to a man, those white, jewelled fingers would seem alluringly feminine.

  “It’s a pretty little piece, I suppose,” said Beatrix, after a moment. “It doesn’t appeal to me personally. You know my feelings on this subject, Charles. I consider it so much better, from every point of view, to invest in one first-class piece, rather than an assortment of five-guinea trifles.”