“Lovely. And Ells should have gotten rid of her tiger by then and be back at school, shouldn’t you, darling?” she asked her daughter.
Ellie had found a small, framed print of a bumblebee and pointed to it excitedly. “Look, mummy.”
“Oh, that’s one of your favorites, isn’t it. Why don’t you tell Xanthe what you call it?”
The little girl grinned. “It’s a fuzzy buzzy pom-pom!”
Xanthe laughed. “That is a much better name for him.”
Gerri took Ellie by the hand and led her toward the door. “Come along, we’ve got some scones to bake.”
As Xanthe watched them walk back across the little cobbled street to the cafe she admitted to herself it would have been nice to have some company on the outing. Having unburdened herself to Harley there was nothing more she could do about going back to help Samuel. For now, she had to concentrate on the shop. Gerri’s enthusiasm for the antiques fair would have helped with that.
As the day passed, Xanthe thought more and more about her conversation with Harley. Talking to him had helped clarify in her own mind some of the more confusing aspects of her recent experiences. Each time she thought about Samuel she told herself she could go back, she could see him again, she could make sure he was safe, but only when Flora was settled again and when she was sure she had more control over her journeys through time. She had to be certain she could come back when she wanted to, and that she wouldn’t accidentally travel again. She had to be more able to control the where and when of her movements through time. In short, she had to become a better Spinner, and quickly. She took whatever moments there were during the afternoon to read more of Spinners. She felt conflicted by the fact that the shop was so busy. They needed customers, that was the plain truth of the matter, but somehow selling things, frivolous, largely unnecessary things, didn’t seem anywhere near as important or urgent as learning all she had to know about what it meant to be a Spinner.
* * *
The next day was bright and cold, making Xanthe rub her hands together as she made her way to where her taxi was parked. Flora had returned from the doctor’s the previous day tired and still uncomfortable but more able to manage her symptoms and definitely less panicked, insisting she would make the next bell-ringing session. Each time her condition got the better of her there was the underlying worry that this would be the time she did not regain as much mobility as she had had before. Each time she, and Xanthe, feared this was the start of an unstoppable downward lurch. Having been reassured and helped by the physiotherapist, however, and having accepted a slight increase in her medication from her doctor, things were looking considerably brighter. By the time Xanthe had cooked her supper she agreed she would not be up to going to the fair but insisted she would be more than capable of managing the shop for the morning. Not for the first time, Xanthe experienced the small high of relief at another episode survived, another setback in her mother’s health weathered, with the prognosis not as bleak as they had both secretly feared. Now she could at least in part enjoy her trip out. She was doing something constructive for the business and for Flora, she was doing something straightforward and normal, giving her head a rest from the enormity of the Spinners, and distancing herself from the idea of Samuel. She repeated a silent mantra: it’s impossible and he has someone else, move on. At first it sounded like the words of a wise friend, but gradually she was beginning to listen to what she knew was her own, sensible voice.
When she reached her cab she found the windscreen was heavily frosted and she knew it would take the aged heating system a while to clear it. She settled behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The car made a feeble attempt to start, the engine spluttering. She stopped and tried again. There was the sound of the system turning over, but not sparking. At the third attempt the battery began to fade.
“Damn it!” For a moment Xanthe considered abandoning the trip, but they badly needed the stock. She couldn’t be beaten by something as simple as the car not starting. It might just be the battery and could be fixed quickly and then she’d be on her way. There was only one person to go to for this. With a sigh, she locked the car and headed for Liam’s workshop.
As she walked through the gates to his yard she could hear a radio playing and tuneful whistling. The doors to the workshop were open. There were several cars in various stages of repair, and Xanthe recognized the shape of Liam’s beloved sports car under its cover in the far corner. The smell of oil and petrol and old smoky engines was powerful. She tracked the source of the whistling and spied Liam’s booted feet sticking out from beneath an old Land Rover. As the song on the radio changed to something Christmassy Liam switched from whistling to singing. For a moment Xanthe stood and listened, enjoying the sound of his voice. He shifted on his trolley beneath the vehicle and Xanthe took a step back, her foot connecting with a can of grease that clanked loudly as it toppled onto a set of spanners. She hurried to right it. Liam scooted out from under the car, smiling up at her.
“Well, well,” he said, “look who’s sneaking around my workshop.”
“I was not sneaking,” she insisted, staring at the gray-green grease that now coated her hands.
Liam stood up. He was wearing somewhat threadbare overalls, his face smudged with dirt and oil. He put down the wrench he had been using and took a rag from his back pocket, handing it to Xanthe.
“It’s early in the day for a social call,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining. Kettle at the ready, as ever.”
“Business, not social.”
“Yeah?” As she passed him back the rag he took hold of her hand and rubbed at a grease spot. “Missed a bit,” he said.
“My car won’t start.”
“Oh, poor baby!” he said. Xanthe was pretty certain he was referring to the car rather than her.
“It turns over, just about, but can’t spark up. I’ve tried it a few times but I’m just flattening the battery.”
“Has she done this before?”
“Not recently. I did have some trouble with the starter motor a while back, but I had that fixed.”
“Yeah, but fixed by who and in what way? Gotta watch out for cowboy mechanics, you know. They promise you perfection, charge you the earth, then just clean a few plugs or connections and work a temporary fix.”
“He did say it would need replacing. One day.”
“Ah. Could be that day has come. Might be tricky finding a replacement. They’ve been out of production a while.…”
“This is not what I need to hear. I was on my way to an antiques fair in Ditton.” She glanced at her watch. “Do you think you could come and take a look at her for me? Now, if you’re not too busy?”
“I could, but if it is the starter motor you won’t be going anywhere in your gorgeous old girl today.” Liam thought for a moment and then said, “Tell you what, how about I drive you to Ditton, bring you back with your purchases, and then I can take a look at the taxi? Once I know what the problem is I can start hunting down a new part, if that’s what’s needed.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t…”
“Oh yes, you could.”
“But you’re busy…”
“Nothing that can’t wait. Besides, I’ve never been to an antiques fair in Ditton, and my horoscope this morning said I should keep myself open to new experiences.”
Xanthe smiled. “You are a star,” she said.
“Give me a minute to clean up so I can properly shine.” He unzipped his overalls and disappeared into a small office that was built into the corner of the workshop.
Xanthe wandered around the drafty space, which was fairly crammed with cars and tools but still reasonably tidy. On the workbench, floor, and shelving units, the tools and tires and stacks of oil cans each seemed to have a proper place, and everything appeared to be well looked after. She picked up a badge that had come off a vintage Jaguar, running her thumb over the smooth, glossy chrome. She could hear Liam whistling again and turned to find that there was a window into th
e office. Through it she could see him. He had removed his overalls and was standing at a sink, running the taps. In a quick, fluid movement he pulled his T-shirt off over his head. His body was well muscled, making Xanthe wonder if he went to the gym. She didn’t think anyone could get a body that fit just by working on cars. She realized how little she really knew about him. As he washed the oil off his hands and strong arms she noticed his tattoo. Standing at a distance she could not make out the detail but could see what looked like a classic sports car cleverly worked into a design of roses and thorns that centered just above his heart, reaching up across his shoulder and partway down one arm. As he was splashing water over his neck and chest, droplets coursing down his skin to the waistband of his jeans, he looked up and saw Xanthe watching him. He stopped whistling, his expression showing surprise but not a trace of self-consciousness.
Xanthe realized she was staring at him. Flustered, she turned away, feigning intense interest in a socket set on the workbench.
Moments later Liam emerged from the office shrugging on his old jacket over a clean T-shirt. “Right,” he said, “let’s get going.”
“Um, we might not get many antiques in that sports car of yours,” Xanthe pointed out.
“Don’t worry, I have just the girl for us.” He led the way outside to the far end of the yard. “Isn’t she a little beauty?” he asked, indicating with a flourish the bright orange vintage Volkswagen camper van parked there. “Found her at an auction in Bristol a while back. Bodywork needs some time and effort, but mechanically she’s sound. Popular things, these. Should turn a good profit on her. And roomy as you like. Come on.”
Much to Xanthe’s surprise the old camper started right up and they were soon zipping along the main road out of Marlborough. She was happy to feel the familiar slight tension in her stomach the anticipation of a treasure hunt brought on. She glanced sideways at Liam, the image of his half-stripped body still vivid.
“So, do you belong to a gym?” she asked.
He laughed. “God no. Terrible places.” He paused and then added, “I have a set of weights in the workshop. When business is quiet I work out there. No posers or gym bunnies to deal with. How about you? I don’t see you as the gym-loving type, somehow.”
“I’m not sure how to take that! But you’re right. If I get the time I’d rather walk up to the white chalk horse. Spend an hour marching about outdoors. Not that I’ve had much time for that lately, what with the shop, and Mum.…”
“How is she?”
“Up and down. Every time I think this is it, she’s not going to get better. But every time she does. This time will be no different. I can already see her getting her strength back. She’ll be fine, it just takes a little time.”
“No siblings to come and help out?”
“Just me. How about you?”
“I’m a lonely only too,” he smiled. “Not that I ever was. Lonely, I mean. My dad gave me my passion for cars. He has a BMW dealership in Salisbury. I practically grew up in the workshop. It was him got me my first apprenticeship as a mechanic. He was stoked when I set up my own workshop.”
“I bet.” She hesitated and then went on, “So, single guy with his own business, lead guitar in a band, not to mention a fine…”
He grinned. “A fine…?”
“… selection of cars,” she continued, pulling a face, “I’m surprised the local lovelies aren’t falling at your feet.”
“Who says they’re not?” he laughed. “OK, they’re not. Well, only sometimes. The band thing is a bit of a pull, not gonna lie. You must know that.”
“Surely Marlborough is far too genteel and respectable to have groupies!”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Right about that. And you never found a special one? One that mattered?”
“What? And give up all that breathless adulation from my screaming fans? Oh, here we are. Ditton in all its unvarnished splendor.”
The village turned out to be an underwhelming collection of houses, set mostly along a short stretch of busy main road. Xanthe thought there was something familiar about it but could not recall ever having been there before. The shop and run of bungalows themselves did not strike any chords. The village hall made a good venue for the sale, being easy to find with ample parking. As Liam swung the VW into a space Xanthe was pleased to see most of the other vehicles were private cars, not vans or pickups belonging to dealers. She badly needed a few bargains and quality finds. When they entered through the double swing doors it was to find a happy buzz of browsers, mostly local people and a few tourists.
“What’s the plan?” Liam asked as they went inside.
“A quick browse to see what’s what, try and spot any gems. Single out the best stalls, then closer inspection.”
“All the while not letting on your trade, I’m guessing.”
“For as long as possible.”
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Nothing too huge or too expensive. Steady sellers. Things that would make good Christmas presents. Stuff Mum can get excited about.”
Liam let out a low whistle at the sight of so many stalls all stuffed full of antiques and collectibles. “This,” he said quietly, “is alien territory to me. Place is full of antique women!”
Xanthe gave him a little shove. “Come on, or all the best pieces will be snapped up. And I’ve promised Gerri a box of china, so you could look out for some of that if you feel like it.”
“China, it is,” he said, marching into the crowd with a determined step.
Xanthe scanned the room, her practiced eye dismissing tables of bric-a-brac and stands of heavily restored furniture. She was looking for quality so had to avoid cheap tat, and if Flora could add value by restoring an item, so much the better. No point paying for someone else to do what her mother could do so well. Xanthe strolled around the hall, making an initial sweep, keeping a mental note of interesting items and possible purchases. She noticed a couple of china stalls and made a note to hunt down some pieces for Gerri as she had promised. First, though, she needed to focus on treasures for the shop. One or two vendors greeted her enthusiastically, ready to draw her into a discussion about this little table or that glass lamp. She noticed Liam had stopped at a stand selling Victorian jewelry and was happily chatting with the rather attractive girl running it. Xanthe browsed on, investigating further, playing her cards close to her chest, even when she saw a beautiful Russian samovar that made her heart beat a tiny bit faster. It was best not to let her interest show too much. The price might be written on the tag, but the chance of beating the seller down dwindled in direct proportion to how much they believed the buyer truly wanted the item.
“It’s a rare piece,” a colorfully dressed woman said as she stepped out from a swathe of hanging kilims, a mug of coffee in hand. “And in fantastic condition,” she added.
Xanthe smiled casually, turning the heavy samovar over while holding the lid firmly in place. There were marks of the maker and place of origin still clearly readable. It was silver plated, probably copper underneath, though it was hard to tell as the plate was still in a good state and not showing too much wear. Still, it was pricey, and the market for such a large piece was niche. She wondered, fleetingly, what would happen if an object from such a far-flung country sang to her. Would she be transported to St. Petersburg, perhaps? The thought was both exciting and terrifying. She was glad not to hear any of the telltale ringing. Nothing in the room seemed to carry that special connection. She had to admit to herself that she was thankful for that, this time. She had more than enough to cope with. It occurred to her that this might somehow register, somehow communicate itself. Could it be that a Spinner, when involved with an object and its story, when that mission was incomplete, could it be that she was unavailable to other found things in that way? As if she was taken, engaged in a task that she had not yet finished and so unable to take on another. She became aware that the seller was talking to her.
&n
bsp; “Sorry?” she said, setting the samovar back down on the velvet-covered table.
“I was saying, it came from a family who moved here from Moscow two generations ago. The provenance is rock solid.”
“It’s lovely, but the price is a bit steep.”
“It reflects the rarity of the piece. I haven’t seen another one as beautifully worked as this in such good condition, have you?”
“Not recently.”
The seller’s expression altered minutely: she sensed another member of the trade.
“Where are you based?” she asked.
“Marlborough. It’s a small premises, so I have to pick really carefully.”
Now that the woman knew she was dealing with an industry professional her demeanor changed. She altered from friendly but ever-so-slightly patronizing to respectful but wary. She would now expect Xanthe to bargain hard, but there was also the possibility of selling her multiple items.
“What’s your particular interest?” she asked. “I’ve some superb art nouveau bronzes and textiles.”
And so the dance began. The vendor suggested things she thought might tempt her customer, while Xanthe parried her expensive selections, challenged the prices, and sidestepped the hard sell. She wasn’t going to be pressured into paying too much, however lovely something was. On the other hand, the woman had a good eye and there were some intriguing pieces on offer. All that was required was that Xanthe get what she wanted for the right price.
“I don’t want to blow the budget on one piece,” Xanthe explained. “Oh, these are nice,” she said, noticing a collection of small wooden items.
“Treen is always a good seller, don’t you find?”
“Yes, if the piece is attractive.” Xanthe could hear her mother’s voice in her ear. Inexpensive is not the same as cheap. Inexpensive is a bargain people are happy to get; cheap is low price for low quality. But the seller had a point. Treen was the name given to wooden household items, generally small ones, often kitchen based but not entirely. The word meant literally “of the tree” and tended to describe quite old antiques, as later versions of the same things would have been made from some sort of metal. Xanthe browsed through the selection. There was a snuffbox, a small chopping board, a mallet, three lace bobbins, and a salt box, which she picked up for a closer look. She ran her thumb across the surface of the lid. The close grain of the wood had been burnished over the years, worn smooth with use and polishing. The hinges were simple and small. There was a wooden bracket at the top, all cut from a single piece of wood that formed the back, so that the box could be hung on the wall above the fireplace to keep the precious salt dry. It smelled faintly of beeswax and salt. It was wonderful to think of how many kitchens it might have found a home in over the years. Of how many dishes it had salted; a pinch for pastry, perhaps, a spoonful for soup, a small scoop for a slow-cooked stew.
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 22