Ring of Guilt

by Judith Cutler

  ‘You say your father was gay?’ I knew from the family line-up in the Portrait Gallery the other side of the dividing wall that he’d been an exceptionally handsome man, with no resemblance at all to his battered specimen of a son.

  ‘Most miserable bugger I’ve ever met in my life. Oh, you mean queer.’

  I pulled a face.

  ‘Don’t tell me – it’s one of those words I’m not supposed to use these days. Well, he liked boys. And he liked some women too. Dipped his wick in all sorts of places, I dare say. Like father, like son. Not that I’ve ever done boys or men, except at school, and that doesn’t really count.’ He passed me the watch. ‘If this was my mother’s you should have it. Not to sell. To keep. A bit vulgar for every day, of course.’

  My head had all sorts of things whizzing round. My mouth said, ‘Cartier! Vulgar?’

  ‘Well, Nanny Baird would have said diamonds looked better by candlelight. Try it on,’ he urged. ‘No?’

  ‘I don’t want to fall in love with it only to find it’s someone else’s,’ I thought, but actually said out loud, surprising myself as much as him, I think.

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked at me as hard as Griff did, sometimes. ‘Very well. Let’s pop it away for a bit, and tuck it behind that cupboard again. And then I’ll see if I can find that photo album – I’ll swear I knew where it was the other day . . . Tell you what, though – let’s have a glass of fizz first.’

  This time I didn’t argue.

  ‘There you are,’ he declared half an hour later, jabbing a typically Thirties photograph album, leather bound with some unlikely tassels on the spine. ‘She’ll be in here, your grandmamma.’

  She was, too. It was like looking at a beautiful version of myself on a really miserable day. She oozed unhappiness, whether she was patting a horse, surrounded by hounds or tentatively hugging a small boy who might have been either brother – you couldn’t tell from their clothes. But from the tragic cast of her face, I assumed it was my father.

  Most were snapshots, but there was a series of much better ones of her on her own that might have been preparation for a formal portrait. My father jabbed a finger.

  ‘See – there’s that watch. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t give it to Nanny Baird, of course – she gave away a lot of things, come to think of it, just as if she was dying. More like she as trying to make sure my father couldn’t get his claws on them as part of the divorce settlement. Look at those earrings, now – you should have those. Or was it that ring? She told me that she wanted me to have something to give my bride as a present from her. Never had a bride, of course. So I reckon you should have them. If only I can remember where they were put. Hell, is that the time? We should be watching that Egg Head thing.’

  I nodded. But just as he was cramming the photo album back into a really horrible lacquered writing desk, I stopped him. ‘Do you think you could spare me a photo of her?’

  ‘What? Look, here’s a loose one.’ Barely looking at it, he flipped it across to me. ‘Are you coming down? No? Be a good girl and find a couple of pots or whatever to sell. Mustn’t run short of shampoo.’

  It was only a step to Stelling Minnis rectory, and Robin, an old friend of mine. Maybe it would make my nightmares go away if I could talk to him about the body. I could ask him if I could pray for whoever it was. Better still, if he would. But the rectory was locked, and the people at the village shop said he was retreating. Or something like that. I bought some lemon grass and a couple of aubergines anyway.

  FIVE

  Having a photo of my grandmother was one thing, but knowing what to do with it was quite another – especially as I didn’t know how Griff would feel. He’d suspect, as he always did if my father gave me anything, he was trying to woo me over to Bossingham. What he’d say about the search for Nanny Baird I’d no idea, but I’d an idea it wouldn’t be enthusiastic. And however bright and cheerful I’d try to be, Griff could read me like a book and know something was worrying me. At least if I stowed the photo deep in my knickers drawer and I shut myself in the work room to tackle my backlog of repairs he wouldn’t get to see too much of my face.

  I reckoned without a phone call, which brought him to the bottom of the stairs calling up to me, something quite against our house rules when I’m doing delicate work. As it happened, all I was doing was sitting with my chin in my hands staring at a broken jug, but all the same, I was ready to be ratty.

  ‘Harvey Sanditon!’ Griff mouthed, his hand covering the phone. ‘For you!’

  Well, it would hardly be for Mrs Walker, would it? But I never snapped at Griff, so I managed a wary smile and ran down to the office.

  ‘Ms Townend, I wonder if I could ask you the most enormous favour. A contact has damaged an 1810 Barr, Flight and Barr vase and turned to me for advice. I thought of you immediately. I know you said you have a long waiting list, but this is absolutely urgent. If you can prioritize it, this will be reflected in your fee, I promise you.’

  1810 Barr, Flight and Barr. I was very tempted.

  ‘Could you email me a photo of the vase, so I can see how much work’s involved? You’ll need an estimate, after all.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll let you have all the details as soon as I can.’

  ‘Do you think this is all right?’ I asked Griff, anxiously, as I washed up after supper. ‘He won’t try and palm it off as perfect, will he?’

  ‘Is that what’s been worrying you, dear heart? You’ve been looking subdued, shall we say, ever since you came home. I thought it might be something to do with that disreputable aristocrat whose only good deed in a dark career was to beget you.’

  ‘Two good deeds,’ I corrected him, because I knew he’d want me to.

  ‘Oh, I know he saw off that rotter for you. So two good deeds,’ he conceded, still looking anxiously at me.

  There wasn’t much I could hide from Griff. But I just didn’t want to talk to him about Nanny Baird’s legacy, or the ring my father wanted to find for me. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.

  I clenched my hands, but kept them by my sides: I wouldn’t hit my face till I bruised it, not this time. No more black eyes to try to cover with make-up. Never, ever, not if I could help it. I said, as lightly as I could, ‘Sanditon was very high-handed at Detling. I really didn’t take to him.’

  ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t take to his money, though. It’d really establish your reputation if it became known that you worked for him, even though I suspect the name is fake. Does it not ring bells with you, my child?’

  I frowned. Something lurked in my memory. Griff worked so hard to improve both that and the range of things I ought to have in it. My fingers clicked almost of their own accord: ‘That book! The one I got cross with because it didn’t have an end!’

  ‘I’m sure the author got cross because she couldn’t finish it, poor lady.’

  Another click. ‘Ah! Jane Austen. Because she died.’

  ‘Well done. Now, what is it the man with the possibly spurious name wants you to tackle?’

  ‘He’s emailed me some photos. Have you got time to have a look?’

  ‘As if you even had to ask, my love. Now, where are my glasses?’

  ‘Round your neck.’

  ‘So they are. Dear one, it’s not like you to leave the computer on! We’re supposed to be green, remember.’

  ‘I know. It left itself on, though. Some new antivirus programme was installing itself, and wouldn’t let me switch off. Anyway, here you are.’ I touched the mouse and the picture leapt into full glory.

  Griff sat down heavily. ‘Goodness me, I can see why he might want to pass it off as perfect,’ he breathed. ‘Last time one of those came up for auction it fetched something like five thousand pounds, if my memory doesn’t deceive me. All that wonderful lifelike floral painting. All that gilding. Those darling little dolphin handles. Oh, dear. Just the one dolphin handle . . .’

  Nodding, I clicked the mouse again: the next picture was of the base, with the puce scrip
t mark. ‘All hunky-dory,’ I said. ‘He says he’s afraid the handle fragments are too small to stick back together. If he’s right, do you think I can manage a complete rebuild?’

  ‘So that’s what it’s all about,’ Griff said. ‘Not whether he’ll pass off a restored item as perfect, but whether you’re skilled enough to do it! Of course you can do it. And maybe a rebuild would be easier than a jigsaw job,’ he added reflectively.

  ‘But it’s so fine.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone with a steadier hand.’

  ‘And the gilding?’

  ‘Especially the gilding. Has he said how soon he wants it done?’

  ‘Urgent. Drop everything else. Which is another problem. I’ve made people promises – people we know, Griff. People who encouraged me when I was starting.’

  He stroked his chin. ‘I don’t think there’s any harm in playing hard to get, my love. Obviously you must concentrate on restoration for a bit – I’m sure Mrs Walker would be happy to do extra hours. And you must tell Mr Sanditon just what you told me. How soon do you think you can do it – if you put back non-urgent work? Two, three weeks? Tell him four and see what he makes of that.’

  The answer was, not a lot, as Sanditon said in person, when he appeared in our shop a day later, the vase under his arm. Well, almost. It was wrapped with as much care as the Rockingham vase I’d sold him. He carried its box in both hands. Fortunately he wasn’t trying to balance a coat on his shoulders.

  I was only behind the counter because Mrs Walker had phoned to say she was trapped in an almighty traffic jam on the M20, and because I’d sent Griff down to our doctor for his repeat prescription. It was nice gentle exercise and very good for him. Plus he got to talk with all our fellow villagers and topped up his gossip levels.

  ‘I told you, you’re wasting your time as a mere shop assistant,’ Sanditon greeted me.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sanditon,’ I said, since Griff had told me never to be rude unless I could land a really good insult. ‘Ah, this is the Worcester, is it?’

  I spread the extra thick baize on the counter. In the interests of our insurance, I didn’t offer to unwrap the vase myself.

  At last it stood there in all its glory. About thirty-five centimetres high, from the bottom of its little gilded paw feet to the gilded rim. As lovely as the original craftsmen and artists had left it. Almost. Poor smashed dolphin. He put down an envelope beside it, presumably with the handle shards in it.

  He broke the silence. ‘It’s one of a pair, as I’m sure you’d guess.’

  I whistled. Like those little Ruskin bowls, together they’d be worth much more than as two separate items.

  ‘In that case I could really do with seeing its twin to make sure I get the dimensions spot on.’ He did not respond. ‘May I?’ I picked it up and turned it in my hands. I wasn’t just looking to see if I could repair it, I was checking for other damage I might later be accused of – it wouldn’t be the first time. At last I put it down and pointed. ‘You realize there’s a fleck of marbling missing just under the rim?’

  He stared, and I hunted for a really good word Griff had taught me. Aghast, that was it.

  ‘Don’t worry. The work of minutes rather than hours,’ I said. Then I turned my attention to the site of the damage. I didn’t touch: I didn’t want to do anything that might make the damage worse or harder to repair. When I actually got round to the work, I’d wear fine surgeon’s gloves. The pieces in the envelope were as bad as he’d said, and might well end up in the bin. Trying to sound reassuring, I said, ‘I shall want to tackle this slowly, so the repair’s absolutely seamless. An extra layer every day. However urgent it is, I can’t do it tonight and give it back tomorrow. If you want that, find some other restorer.’ I looked him straight in the eye.

  When he wasn’t looking so full of himself, and managed a bite of the lower lip, he looked altogether more human. Like a little boy caught nicking a couple of Mars bars, actually.

  ‘You did this, didn’t you? Not a client?’ I must have sounded like his mum. No need to wait for an answer. ‘No wonder you want a speedy job. But you have to promise me – absolutely promise – you’ll tell whoever owns it what you’ve done. Because I’ve got my reputation, same as you’ve got yours.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Maybe the fee I charge –’ fee always sounded pretty professional, I thought – ‘will convince them you’ve done your best. So when I print the invoice for you and your insurance company, I’ll do a copy for them – so they can’t claim on theirs, of course,’ I added with a grin. You’d be amazed how people try to diddle anonymous companies in ways they wouldn’t dream of if it was the guy next door.

  ‘How long will it take?’ he asked humbly.

  ‘Allow a fortnight. That’s the best I can offer. And I really ought to have the other in the pair. No? I shall just have to hope the both handles are exactly the same.’

  ‘I’ll check with a micrometer and let you know. You’re sure you can do it?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. But it has to be done at my own pace.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said with something of a sigh. ‘I take it you don’t work here?’

  ‘My workroom’s in our cottage.’ I nodded across the courtyard.

  ‘So it had better travel in style.’ He touched the vase and its box. ‘Shall you do the honours or shall I?’

  ‘Still your baby,’ I said, letting him wrap the vase as tenderly as if it were really an infant. ‘Have you come far?’ I added chattily, as he swathed it in bubble wrap and laid it on little pads of scrunched up tissue.

  ‘Wellington.’

  Where the hell was that? It wouldn’t be the New Zealand one, would it? Or was it the one we’d once been to a fair at and Griff had pointed out a shop sign – the Wellington Boot Company – in Somerset, I think? And wasn’t there one in Shropshire? None of them close.

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise that he’d come so far – from wherever it was.

  ‘I drove overnight,’ he said. ‘I had this terror of an M25 pile-up.’

  At this point Mrs Walker came trudging in, as if she’d journeyed from John O’Groats. By foot. ‘M25? You’re quite right. I’ve just been in this incredible M20 jam. I must have sat there an hour, seeing the junction I needed but not being able to get to it. And men peeing by the roadside and everything. You’d think they’d use a bottle, for goodness’ sake,’ she said, muscling in on the conversation as she always did, poor woman. One day I’d buy her a parrot to talk to – except she’d have to bring it with her, since it wouldn’t be fair to leave it alone all day. No, not a good idea. ‘Do you mind if I get the kettle on? Or . . .’

  ‘Of course not. And Griff’s topped up the biscuit barrel – the more you have the less for him. No, fewer,’ I corrected myself. ‘I was just going to show Mr Sanditon where I work, so don’t worry about us. After you,’ I said, ushering him out of the back door and across the courtyard garden into our cottage.

  ‘Miss Bates,’ he breathed as I closed the door behind us.

  ‘So I’ve always thought, and would have sacked her,’ Griff said, standing at the table unpacking the groceries he’d bought en route, ‘only Lina said she owed her a debt of gratitude and you’d be surprised how well she gets on with our customers.’

  ‘Griffith Tripp,’ I said politely. ‘Harvey Sanditon. I’ll take that straight up to my work room, Mr Sanditon, as I said.’ I held out my hands for the box.

  He didn’t let go. ‘May I see it?’

  Weird. But then, that was what I’d said to Mrs Walker.

  ‘If you want.’ It made no difference to me either way. There was never any need to apologize for its being untidy, for instance, because I always left it as immaculate as I could, so I could walk in at any time and start on the work in progress. Everything else was stacked neatly on shelves. I led the way upstairs, the vase in its box still in his hands.

  ‘In here.’ All the lights focused on the table came on at once.

/>   ‘Good lord! It looks like an operating theatre.’

  ‘Yes, a fine arts version of Casualty!’ I grinned at him, liking him more because we’d had the same idea. ‘Best put the patient on the operating table then.’

  He unwrapped the vase as carefully as he’d packed it and placed it in the middle. He gave a rueful smile. ‘It’s lovely now, even with only one handle.’

  I nodded happily. Soon it would be utterly beautiful.

  ‘I’ve never before had a guest who fell asleep at our table, my love,’ Griff said, as we waved Harvey Sanditon on his way. ‘Remarkable.’

  I thought of his half hour doze. ‘Not really. Apparently he drove down overnight.’

  ‘And presumably intended to make the return journey immediately. What a good job we offered him coffee.’

  ‘And a good job we could offer him those cup cakes. What did you think you were doing, buying all those, Griff? You know you’re not supposed to eat sugary things, and those are diabetes on a plate . . .’

  This time, I dreamt I got out of the van and tried to lift the body. But his arm turned into a funny little dolphin and shattered as I dropped it.

  SIX

  With such an important piece of restoration work on my hands, not to mention all the other precious things I needed to reunite with their owners, I didn’t argue when Griff said he’d go to the next house clearance auction by himself. It was only in Sandwich, so he didn’t have too far to drive.

  Mrs Walker would be in sole charge of the shop, I told her. Even if someone actually asked for me, I mustn’t be disturbed, I insisted.

  ‘I understand – it’s like exam marking,’ she agreed, nodding. ‘But you won’t work too long, will you, or you’ll lose concentration. A break – not that I should use that word, in the circumstances – every half hour.’

  With a grin at her little joke I nodded. Every five minutes, more like. Just to relax the hands and the neck. Just in case I really could use the original fragments, I put them on my table and arranged them. As far as I could tell there was nothing missing, but there’d be more glue than china, with the risk of visible joins. Griff had been right to say making a new handle from scratch would be easier than trying to patch together the broken one. As I picked the fragments over, however, I found something interesting – evidence of two bad cracks. So perhaps it wasn’t altogether Sanditon’s fault.