by Anne Weale
“Charles isn’t making a set at me. We attended the reception together merely because Mrs. Wingfield cried off at the last moment.”
“Has it occurred to you that Charles may have suggested that she should absent herself?”
“I think it’s highly unlikely. Why did you refuse his proposal?”
“My first marriage was a mistake. We were on the brink of separation when my husband was killed in a motorway accident. Anyone who has been through an unhappy marriage thinks twice before risking another partnership. To marry Charles involves taking on his brother’s children. I’m not good with children ... any children. They don’t take to me, and to be candid I’m not much interested in them. Nor am I particularly domesticated, and Elizabeth has said several times that when Charles marries she’ll hand over the running of that huge house. It’s become too much for her, and in a different sense it would be too much for me. I should have to give up the shop, and that’s something I don’t wish to do — even for Charles.”
“Do you love him?” Imelda asked bluntly.
“If I didn’t, would I be here, confiding my feelings to you?”
“Surely it would be more effective to confide them to Charles?”
“Charles is angry that I didn’t accept him immediately. He’s an extremely attractive, eligible man and I don’t suppose it crossed his mind that I wouldn’t fall into his arms. I only wish I had - or at least had asked for time to think it over. Like a fool, I turned him down flat, which is a blow to any man’s pride, even to a man with Charles’s self-confidence.”
“Then surely the remedy is for you to shelve your pride and tell him how you feel now,” Imelda suggested.
“Yes, but that’s easier said than done. Charles is deliberately being as unapproachable as possible, and every time I nerve myself to speak to him, I’m overcome with the fear that he may have changed his mind too. It was with the object of speaking to him that I followed him to the library on the night of Elizabeth’s dinner party. When I found you with him, I had to make an excuse about wanting to refer to the encyclopaedia.”
The doorbell rang, and Imelda excused herself to go and attend to another customer who turned out to be a dealer from Essex in search of automata. While she was talking to him, Beatrix paused on her way out to say, “I’ve left a cheque on the table. I must go or I shall be late for an appointment.” With a nod to the man from Essex and a smile for Imelda she departed.
The cheque, as Imelda discovered presently, was made out for the full marked price of the two things Beatrix had bought. The fact that she had not asked for, or deducted, the customary trade discount confirmed Imelda’s opinion that they had been bought chiefly to put her in a good mood before the main purpose of the call was broached.
Thinking over everything Beatrix had told her, Imelda was not convinced of the truth of her claim that Charles had asked her to marry him. At the same time she could not dismiss the possibility that it might be true. The thought that Charles might be using her as a pawn disturbed her peace of mind all that day.
“And if and when he asks me for another date, I can’t ask him if he did propose without betraying Beatrix’s confidence and putting her in a shaming position if he did not,” she thought uneasily.
On Sunday, Sam took her to an open-air market in the next county. She was filling the kettle when he arrived. “Hello, Sam. I’m just going to make a flask of coffee. We might be glad of a hot drink as the weather has suddenly become so chilly. Or is there a coffee stall on the market?”
“There were a couple of chip vans the last time I was down there. I don’t know about a coffee stall. Anyhow, a flask is a good idea.”
Turning to plug in the kettle, she glanced at him and saw there was something different about him. It wasn’t merely that he had been to the barber and had his hair trimmed or that he was wearing new navy-blue needle- cord jeans and a dark plum-coloured sweater. It was something she could not define. Her glance became a puzzled stare which made Sam smile.
“You’ve shaved off your whiskers!” she exclaimed. Of the Genghis Khan moustache which ever since she had known him had framed his firm jaw and given him a rather wild, fierce appearance, nothing was left but a band of skin paler than the rest of his face.
“Don’t you think it’s an improvement?”
“I’m not sure. Yes ... no... I don’t know. What made you do it?”
“I thought you didn’t like it,” he answered.
The implication of this statement made her turn away quickly to busy herself spooning coffee powder into the vacuum flask. The safest response seemed to be: “What do your family think about it?”
“They weren’t up when I left home. I only took it off this morning.”
They arrived at the airfield where the market was held at about a quarter to twelve. Officially the market did not open to the public until one o’clock, but already a score of private cars were parked along the edge of the main runway. The traders’ vehicles and their stalls were arranged along the opposite edge of the runway and down its centre, enclosing an area about half a mile long and thirty or forty feet wide. Most of the junk stalls were grouped together and, as Sam had warned her on the way there, most of the objects for sale were of little interest or value. But while Sam was chatting to an acquaintance Imelda spotted a pair of pictures propped against the trestle of a stall which made her bend down to examine them.
“You don’t want those old things, do you?” said Sam, coming to peer over her shoulder.
“I rather like them,” she said. The blade frames with their narrow gold-leafed liners were battered and dulled, but behind the dirty, fly-spotted glass the coloured prints - if they were prints - had a naive charm which appealed to her.
The stall-holder, scenting her interest, said, “At a pound the pair you can’t go wrong, love.”
She paid him a pound and Sam put the pictures in the van. Then they strolled to the far end of the market past
stalls selling cut-price carpets and “seconds” crockery, past a man selling ironing-board covers and another selling paintbrushes, past a candy floss kiosk and a shrimp stand. Bed-linen, potted plants, peppermints, melons, rustic furniture for gardens - the market offered a wide variety of wares.
To the south of the long-disused runway lay a cornfield and, beyond it, a rolling panorama of oaks and elms and hawthorn hedges reminiscent of a landscape by Constable. But although the sun had come out, the wind flapping the awnings of the larger stalls had an unseasonable nip in it, and Imelda was glad of the thick jersey under her car coat.
“Cold?” asked Sam, taking her hand.
“Only at the edges. How warm you are!”
“What you need is a hamburger.” Still holding her hand, he joined the short queue at the hamburger van.
The crowd in the lane between the stalls was increasing rapidly now. Judging from the snatches of conversation which Imelda overheard as she waited for Sam to buy the hamburgers, many of the people arriving would have spent the day at the coast, had it been warmer.
“I think those two pictures I bought might just possibly be early gouaches,” she said, in a lowered voice, as they strolled along eating the hamburgers. Her left hand was still clasped firmly in his, and there seemed no casual way to disengage it.
“You mean they could be valuable?”
“Oh, Sam, don’t be so mercenary. It isn’t what they’re worth which is important to me. It’s their possible age which is interesting, and the fact that — if they are gouaches - I recognised them when a much more experienced dealer priced them at fifty pence each.”
“I’d have sold them for half that,” said Sam. “What d’you say they’re called? Gwarsh?”
She spelt the word for him. “That’s the French term. The English is ‘body colour’. It’s watercolour with Chinese white added to make it opaque. I don’t really know a great deal about it, except that it was more popular on the Continent than here, and I once fell in love with a painting of Naples from
the sea which the dealer told me was a gouache.”
“I hope you’re right, but I have a nasty feeling you’ve wasted a quid on a couple of Edwardian coloured prints.”
“Have you ever thought of taking a stall here?” asked Imelda, as they joined the crowd round a London trader selling bags.
Sam shook his head. “Selling the stuff is no problem. Finding it is the headache nowadays. How about a trip to the Portobello market next Saturday? They say you can buy cheaper up there than in the provinces.”
“Yes, I think that’s true,” she agreed. “There are so many dealers all together that they have to be more competitive. But it costs over a fiver to get there, Sam.”
“Not if we go by road and take a packed lunch. If we set off at seven, we should be in London by ten. Even if we didn’t buy much, it would make a change, don’t you think?”
Imelda deliberated. Supposing she agreed to Sam’s suggestion and then, tomorrow, Charles invited her to go out with him the following Saturday? Was a day at the Portobello worth the risk of forgoing an outing with Charles?
Before she had made up her mind, she was surprised to notice Henry Wingfield wandering among the passers-by. Some distance behind the boy came Charles and Beatrix, flanked by Sophie and Fanny. The little girls were holding hands with the grown-ups, and Beatrix had one hand tucked in the crook of Charles’s arm. The four of them looked so much like a handsome, happy family that Imelda had a sinking conviction that Beatrix had spoken the truth on her visit to the shop, and that, since then, the estrangement between her and Charles had been resolved.
It was Fanny who spotted Imelda and pointed her out
to her uncle.
“Hello. Do you two come here every Sunday? asked Beatrix, smiling, when the four adults had greeted each other. “Do you find you can pick up some bargains?”
“Now and again,” answered Sam, visibly puzzled by
her graciousness.
He was still holding hands with Imelda, and she saw Charles glance at their clasped hands with an absence of expression which was somehow more condemnatory than if he had shown disapproval. Beyond saying Hello and Goodbye, he did not address her. Beatrix did all the talking.
“Looks like it won’t be long before her shop will be for sale,” said Sam, when the others had moved out of earshot. “I can’t see her staying in the trade when she’s Mrs. Wingfield!”
“She wasn’t wearing an engagement ring.” Imelda knew she was clutching at a straw. There had been an unmistakable element of triumph in Beatrix’s cordial manner.
Imelda had left a chicken casserole in the oven. After lunching with her, Sam extracted the rusty tacks from the backs of the pictures she had bought. Removed from their unpleasing frames, the paintings were unquestionably gouaches painted early in the nineteenth century.
The day before she and her daughter, and the grandchildren, set off for their holiday at Charles’s cottage in Menorca, Mrs. Wingfield called at the shop to say goodbye.
That morning Imelda had been to a farmhouse where the farmer’s wife wanted to sell an enormous and peculiarly hideous sideboard, dating from the 1930s, which Imelda had had to refuse as tactfully as possible. However, she had not come away empty-handed, for the woman had had several charming examples of blue and white transfer-printed earthenware languishing, unappreciated, in her pantry. And, as Imelda was passing through the kitchen, she had noticed that a cat bed beside the Aga was lined with a patchwork quilt.
“I’ve always longed for a patchwork quilt. I’m tempted to keep it for myself,” she said, showing it to Mrs. Wingfield. “But it’s rather large for a single bed.”
“Put it in your bottom drawer, if girls have such things nowadays. In spite of being slept on by a cat, it’s in good condition, and early patchwork is not easy to come by these days. Some of these designs are most attractive,” said Mrs. Wingfield, examining the diamonds of sprigged cotton from which the centre of the quilt was made. “These red pieces round the edge are turkey twill. It isn’t obtainable any more, but until about ten years ago there was an old-fashioned draper’s in Norwich where they sold it for railway guards’ flags. A pity the quilt isn’t signed and dated. I should put it at 1860 or thereabouts.” Suddenly, she switched her gaze to Imelda’s face. “You look a little wan, my dear. A holiday would do you good. What are your plans?”
“I have none. My family are going camping in Scotland, but there’s only room for the four of them in my stepfather’s car. Perhaps in September I’ll close the shop for a few days and go on a business-cum-pleasure trip to Wales. The Welsh border is supposed to be a good hunting ground.”
Mrs. Wingfield bought one or two small objects to put away in a drawer until Christmas. Then, to Imelda’s surprise, she kissed her goodbye.
“I shall see you in six weeks’ time, my dear. Take care of yourself. Don’t hesitate to telephone Charles if you find yourself in any kind of difficulty.”
In the afternoon a man with a foreign accent called at Victoriana. Among other things he was looking for paintings and, after warning him that they were not for sale, Imelda showed him the pair of gouaches. He at once made an offer for them, raising it to sixty pounds when she was not tempted by his first figure. When he had left, promising to call on her again on his next trip to England, she wondered if she had been a fool to turn down such a handsome profit. But since the pictures pleased her, regardless of their value, it seemed foolish to part with them too hurriedly. She decided to spare no expense on having them attractively re-framed.
“They’ll be a good investment for my old age,” she thought. It was a private joke she had with herself whenever she was tempted by something expensive. Only suddenly it wasn’t funny any more. The possibility that she might always live alone sent a queer little chill through her. All through her growing up years she had taken for granted that some day in the future there would be marriage and children and someone with whom to share the delights and the difficulties of life. Perhaps it would not be like that. Perhaps she would always be Miss Calthorpe, the antique dealer, never Mrs. Somebody, wife and mother.
During the week that followed the weather was at its
summer worst, and Imelda’s spirits were as overcast as the leaden sky. One day, as she was staring gloomily out of the shop window, she saw Charles on the other side of the road. He was wearing the ancient clothes and heavy rubber boots of the working farmer, but his long-legged stride and straight shoulders were noticeably different from the heavy movements of most farmers, and the pop-singers’ hunch affected by the younger agricultural workers.
He did not look in the direction of Victoriana, and Imelda wondered if, when he came out of the post office, he might cross the street to call on her for a few minutes. She felt sure Mrs. Wingfield would have said to him “Do keep an eye on Imelda, Charles.”
But by the time he reappeared it had begun to rain. With a glance at the lowering sky, he moved swiftly in the direction of the car park.
A picture postcard from Menorca, showing a golden beach sheltered by a rocky headland and lapped by a pellucid turquoise sea, did nothing to raise her morale. In an effort to distract herself, she started to make a lampshade to go on a rose-painted washstand ewer which had lost its matching basin. Odd jugs of this kind could be picked up very cheaply, and she hoped that, if she could “lamp” them successfully, they might fetch five or six pounds.
One evening, when she had finished binding the wire frame with lampshade tape, and was beginning to pin on the pink silk cover, someone knocked on her back door. Thinking it was Sam, whom she had not seen for several days, she went to the door and found Charles standing outside.
“Good evening. Have I called at an awkward moment?”
“No ... not at all. Please come in.”
The back parlour was not at its tidiest, and nor was Imelda. She had been out all day, and was still wearing the sweater and jeans she had put on that morning.
“I see you’ve had a card from the island,” s
aid Charles, nodding at the postcard on the mantelpiece.
“Yes. They seem to be having a splendid time. Would you care for some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“A drink, perhaps? There’s sherry, beer or cider.”
“Beer, please.” He had the air of someone who does not intend to linger.
As she opened a can of chilled beer, and tipped some pretzels into a dish, Imelda reflected that five minutes ago, absorbed in the task of pinning silk, she had been at peace for a little while. Now Charles would stay for ten minutes and go on his way leaving her in a fresh state of turmoil.
Returning to the parlour, she said, “Have you any interesting news?”
He shook his head. “I had a letter from my grandmother, describing their journey to Barcelona. Otherwise I’ve been closeted in the library, catching up with a backlog of paperwork.”
He looked as if he had been working hard ... overworking, she thought. The farmer’s wife from whom she had bought the patchwork quilt had bemoaned the amount of paperwork, but Imelda was surprised that Charles found it necessary to bum the midnight oil. She would have expected him to have an efficient system worked out, and if necessary to employ a part-time secretary.
On the table near which he was sitting there were a number of small objects waiting to be cleaned and priced. Idly, he picked up an ivory paper-knife and examined the carving on it. Then, to Imelda’s surprise, he raised it to eye-level and looked through the tiny hole in the handle. She would not have expected him to recognise the hole for what it was. His grandmother must have enlightened him. Several of Mrs. Wingfield’s Victorian needle-cases had peepholes showing magnified views of the places where, long ago, they had been bought as souvenirs.
“Do you know the history of these things?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Only that they all seem to have been made in France. Even those, like the one you’re holding, which are souvenirs of English resorts.”
“No, they were not all made in France,” he said, with authority. “This is called a Stanhope lens, after the third Lord Stanhope, the father of the famous Lady Hester who went off and lived like an Arab queen in the Lebanon.”