Celia was overwhelmed when she saw the flowers. She thanked Eddie and then impulsively gave him a big hug. ‘Everybody’s been so kind,’ she said, and took out her handkerchief and blew her nose hard.
Cousin Albert had also helped her with advice regarding a business licence, for which Edna had loaned her the money until the auctioneer paid her.
Altogether, Celia found herself surrounded by helpful friends and, in some wonderment, she said to Edna, ‘I’ve never before had friends – or anybody – who did things for me; even Phyllis wasn’t like this.’
Edna laughed. ‘It’s overdue,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever been out without Mother before. No chance to make any real friends of your own.’
Louise did not come to look at the shop. She said rightly that it would be too painful to see the contents of her old home up for sale. Though her visits to the soldiers in the nursing home often took her into Market Street, she always avoided passing the shop by crossing to the other side of the road.
Celia understood, and she sympathised. Because she was not so much under her mother’s thumb, she was able to understand more fully her mother’s efforts to come out of her grief and create a new life for herself.
One evening, after she had closed the shop for the night, she went over to the Aspens’ yard, to rummage in the barn for more of the Philip Oppenheim books which her mother wanted. While doing so, she came across a little trunk of her own personal possessions.
Kneeling on the stone floor, she unstrapped it and looked at the curious collection of oddments which she had kept over the years. Wrapped in tissue paper and laid on the top was the dress she had worn for her Confirmation, together with the prayer book given her by Great-aunt Blodwyn. She smiled at the recollection of the excited fourteen-year-old who had worn it; she had felt like a bride. Underneath were letters, which she had lovingly tied together with blue baby ribbon, letters from both her brothers while at boarding school, and, later, when they went to war.
In the failing shaft of light from the setting sun through the great door of the barn, she held them in her hands and bowed her head and cried.
They had thought about their little sister consistently throughout their short lives, she realised. Perhaps, if there had been no war, they would have found amongst their friends some decent young man to marry her. At least she would never have had to worry about her future; one or the other of them would certainly have given her a home – and affection.
Outside, she heard Ben Aspen’s workmen shouting good night to each other, and she hastily put down the letters and delved in the bottom of the box. Two battered dolls, some children’s books, and at the very bottom the only toy which she knew had been given to her by her paternal grandmother, a wooden box of handmade building bricks. She had no real memory of her grandmother, but she lifted the box out and opened it.
Each little cube was about two inches in size and was grubby from much play. On all six sides of each brick, a letter of the alphabet had been carefully carved in relief, so that the letter stood out. She ran her fingers gently along the bricks, and remembered how her nanny had taught her the alphabet from them and how to spell simple words.
At the thought of Nanny kneeling on the floor with her and patiently spelling out words, she had a sudden inspiration about how her mother could, perhaps, communicate with the two poor deaf-blind servicemen about whom she was so concerned.
She bundled her other treasures back into the trunk and closed it. She would ask Ethelred, some time, to carry the trunk to the cottage. Her personal grief forgotten, she hurriedly pushed the barn doors closed and locked the padlock. She ran across the deserted yard to Betty’s office to say good night before she left.
Betty had on her coat and hat, ready to go home. Her father was with her, so Celia simply paused to say that she had locked the barn up and wished them both good night. Then, clutching her box of bricks, she ran for the train to Meols.
Chapter Forty-Four
Celia sat behind a little table which Ethelred had set across a corner at the back of the shop for her. It had a drawer in it in which to keep money, and, in that position, it would be difficult for a customer to ease round the table and open it. She had a brand-new account book in front of her, so that each day she could enter the transactions which had taken place. She also had a receipt book; a pen; a pencil box holding a pencil, India rubber and extra pen nibs; a piece of blotting paper and a cut-glass inkwell. On a corner of the table lay a number of books on antiques, which she was reading her way through very carefully.
All she needed was customers. Though a number of people walked in and looked round, nobody bought anything.
Occasionally, someone asked a price, and she would get up and walk round to them to tell them, and, perhaps, open a drawer to show the fine dovetailing of the piece’s interior or remark that the wood was the finest mahogany and that the piece was over a hundred years old and, therefore, an antique. They invariably remarked that things were too expensive, but she refused to reduce the price.
She was very despondent, and made still more so when she discovered that some of the china ornaments she had put out for display had been stolen.
‘It must have been when I was showing a dressing table to a woman, you know, John,’ she lamented. ‘Her friend was strolling round looking at things. I got distracted. Two really pretty shepherdesses and a pin tray just gone like that,’ and she snapped her fingers to illustrate the rapidity of the theft.
‘Oh, aye, it’s a common enough ploy – two friends work together – and you’d better watch out if a woman comes in with children – the kids’ll clear a display case while you’re dealing with the mother at the counter.’
‘The children would steal?’ Celia was shocked.
‘Yes.’ John sighed and sat himself down on a wooden rocking chair. He was dressed in a suit and had a heavy portfolio of upholstery samples, which he laid carefully on the floor beside him; he had just returned from seeing a customer in her home. She wanted all her drawing-room furniture re-covered and repolished, a nice job which would help his finances.
He looked round the shop, and suggested, ‘You could put your knick-knacks and – them four mantel clocks – in the big glass cabinet over there and lock it – I see it has a key. Keep the key in your pocket. And keep your eyes open, luv.’
She nodded, and sadly did as he advised.
‘I must go and write up me estimate,’ he said, and heaved the heavy samples into his workshop.
A week later, he knocked on the intervening door between his workshop and the shop, and, as usual, came in without waiting for her answer. He had brought her a rather grubby mug of tea, which he set before her on top of the closed receipt book. She thanked him shyly and put her cold hands round the mug to warm them, before drinking the tea.
He again sat down on the rocking chair, and said, ‘I talked to Alec Tremaine last night. Met him in the Ship Inn. He’s the teacher at the art school that I told you about. If it’s all right with you, he’ll come in on Saturday to look at your paintings. He says he’s no expert, but he’d have a shrewd idea whether they were good or not.’
Acutely aware that the money left over from the auction was being rapidly eroded by the need to pay her rent and Ethelred’s wages, she inquired anxiously, ‘What would he charge?’
‘Oh, he’s not going to charge you; he’s quite interested in old paintings. Paints himself, as well as teaching.’
‘That’s most awfully kind of you and of him. I shall be here all day, needless to say.’
As if he hadn’t heard her last remark, he went on heavily, ‘Him being a teacher and not owning a gallery, I think you’re not likely to be cheated by him in any way – if there is something fairly valuable amongst them, like. A gallery might say they were not worth much and offer to buy them as a job lot very cheap. You could lose a lot of money that way.’
Celia sipped her tea and smiled, ‘Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t recommend anybody who
would be likely to cheat. And would a gallery really cheat?’
‘Well, it can happen in any business, and more than anywhere in the antique trade. You can be had quick enough by anybody. When you need to buy stock, you ought to remember to decry whatever’s up for sale, so that you give the lowest possible price for it.’ He grinned slyly at her.
She knew that he was right. Her father’s business adage, often repeated when his wife had been extravagant, had been buy low, sell high. And the value of second-hand furniture was, at best, uncertain; she was sure of that.
John got up and stretched himself. ‘Haven’t seen Miss Edna for a couple of days. Is she well?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you. She’s just catching up in the house. We’ve all been out so much that it’s a mess.’ She looked ruefully round the shop, and said, ‘She can’t do much here, at the moment – I’m not exactly busy.’
‘No, that’s for sure, luv.’
‘Do you think I’ve priced stuff too high for people?’
‘I doubt it. I think you’re not getting the right kind of people into the shop. You need to do some advertising – and I need to do some, too – we could do it together, if you like. Let’s talk about it when Miss Edna comes. Or Betty Houghton might have some ideas – there’s a smart lady if ever there was. Maybe get a little article into the Hoylake paper or, better still, the Chester paper, about the opening of the shop.’
Although she’ had no idea what either Edna or Betty could contribute, Celia agreed enthusiastically, and John went back to his workshop.
The little bell on the front door tinged as someone entered. Celia turned towards it.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. ‘Dr Mason! How nice to see you.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Edith Mason came swiftly in, and looked round. ‘How pretty it all looks,’ she said, her eyes twinkling merrily behind gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Do you mind if I have a look?’
‘Please do.’
Edith put down her doctor’s bag by Celia’s work table, took off her gloves and loosened a blue silk scarf which she was wearing. She proceeded to circle round, occasionally pausing to stare at a particular piece. She stopped in front of a bookcase in which Celia was displaying a collection of Victorian and Edwardian novels, many of them beautifully bound in leather, their titles in gilt. She laughed, and remarked, ‘I see many old friends amongst these.’
‘Are you looking for anything special?’
‘I actually wanted a really large desk for my consulting room. But you don’t seem to have one.’
‘Oh, but I do. I have Father’s desk. It’s in the back shed, however. Would you mind coming through to the back?’
‘Not at all.’
Celia shot the inside bolt on the front door, and then led her client through the back passage to the rear door.
‘Phew!’ exclaimed the doctor, as they passed the closed door of John’s workshop.
Celia laughed. ‘It’s Mr Philpotts with his French polishing. I’m sorry – it makes an awful smell.’
‘It can’t be very good for him. I hope he has his workroom well ventilated.’
‘Well, there are windows.’
They crossed the yard, and Celia unlocked and opened the double doors of the shed. In the poor light, she pointed out the desk.
It was rather dusty, so Celia pulled her little yellow duster from her pocket and ran it over the wood. She pointed out that it was double pillared with seven drawers, all with dovetailed corners. The pillars and the fronts of the drawers were elaborately carved. Round the top surface it was inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a pattern of lotuses. The writing area was covered in fine green leather embossed with a leaf-patterned edging in gold.
The drawer pulls were heavy brass, and Edith ran her fingers round one of them. ‘Hand thrown?’ she inquired.
‘Yes. It is certainly beautifully made, although I don’t think it is quite old enough to be classed as an antique,’ Celia said honestly. ‘My paternal grandfather brought it from Malaya.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
‘I am asking twenty-five pounds.’ She knew that a cheap new desk could be bought for about five pounds, and she held her breath, while Edith considered it.
‘It’s rather expensive,’ Edith said, running her fingers longingly over the exquisite mahogany. She sighed. ‘I would like to see it in a better light, before I decide.’
‘That could be arranged. If you would like to step in again tomorrow, I’ll ask Ethelred to move it into the shop. You would be able to see it in a good light there.’
‘Thank you. I would like that.’ She shrugged, and confided, ‘As you can imagine, I never know exactly when I will be free, but some time before you close, I’ll come over.’ She smiled at Celia, and added, ‘I love beautiful things round me. I’m using Father’s old desk at present. All the drawers keep sticking, and the surface is stained beyond redemption. It doesn’t give a good impression – besides which,’ she said ruefully, ‘I have to see an awful lot of it, and I would like to have something good. You know, Father never cared about possessions, and with no mother in the house, there was no one to suggest anything better.’
Celia laughed. ‘People make do every day with things they don’t like, don’t they? And keep in store the really beautiful things they should be enjoying. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it for you until you come.’
The hint that it could be sold quite quickly was not lost on Edith. She thought that Celia was learning fast. She noted with some relief that the girl had lost the look of absolute despair which she had exhibited in her office.
The next day, the desk, in all its well-polished glory, stood in the window, its rich wood catching the afternoon sun, and when Edith saw it through the window, she knew that she wanted it very much, a fitting memento of a month when her practice had shown real growth. She dickered over the price, and Celia brought it down slowly to twenty pounds, agreeing reluctantly to a payment of ten pounds that day and ten pounds in fourteen days.
‘You don’t have to deliver it until I’ve paid the second instalment,’ Edith said encouragingly.
Celia looked at this lady who had, she felt, given her new life, and had a strong inclination to give her the desk. Common sense won, however, when she remembered that she had obligations herself. She responded by saying that she was sure she could trust Edith to pay, and that Ethelred would deliver it on a handcart the next day. ‘I’ll wrap it well in a quilt so that it doesn’t get scratched,’ she promised.
The doctor gave her a cheque for ten pounds, and Celia carefully wrote her first receipt. For years afterwards, she said that this was the most exciting moment she could remember in all her life – with one exception.
After she had seen the doctor out, she ran through the shop, cheque in hand, to tell John Philpotts the good news.
Chapter Forty-Six
After Ethelred had delivered the desk and while he still had the rented handcart, she closed the shop a little early, and together they walked over to the Aspens’ yard, to collect all the pictures that she had. As Ethelred lifted them out of the barn, she arranged them carefully, back to back, on the old quilt which she had spread over the handcart. Betty came over from her office to look at some of them, and heard about the impending visit of Alec Tremaine.
‘That’s just like John,’ she said. ‘He’d help anyone struggling.’
‘I hope his friend won’t mind helping me.’
‘I’m sure he won’t. He’ll probably be quite interested, if he’s an artist, as you say. I wonder if he’s Lady Tremaine’s son back from the war at last.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Celia. Then she said slowly, ‘I believe that Mother is acquainted with a Lady Tremaine.’
It took three patient journeys with the handcart to transfer all the pictures to the shop, after which she sent Ethelred home and herself dusted them lightly with a feather duster, as she had seen Dorothy do, and then propped them up all round the shop, wherever they could b
e placed.
In order to save the train fare, she walked home.
As she crossed the road just before reaching Meols Station, she was nearly run down by a young woman on a bicycle. The woman swerved to avoid her, flung a laughing apology over her shoulder and continued merrily pedalling towards Hoylake.
Safely on the other side of the road, Celia, who had never ridden a bicycle in her life because her mother thought they were vulgar, watched her enviously.
With some of Dr Mason’s money, I’ll buy a second-hand bike, she promised herself. She said I should cycle. I won’t tell Mother. I’ll ask Eddie about it. She felt very bold and daring.
At home, Louise and Edna had already begun to eat dinner. They were both a little worried about her being late. ‘You should tell us when you expect to be late,’ her mother scolded.
‘Yes, Mama,’ she agreed, as she ran upstairs to wash her hands and tidy her hair before coming to the table.
As she snatched up her comb, she noticed the box of bricks she had earlier brought from her old trunk, and she picked up the box and took it down to the living room. She put it on the sideboard, and slid, breathless, into her chair.
She did not tell her mother about the sale. She thought it might distress her to know that her husband’s desk had gone for ever. Nor did she mention the impending visit of Alec Tremaine to see the pictures. She had begun to feel strongly that it was her shop and her business, and was nothing to do with her mother, who would, anyway, only criticise anything she did.
While they were drinking an after-dinner cup of tea fairly sociably round the fire, she told Louise about the box of bricks. She got up, put down her cup, and then emptied the bricks on to the tablecloth.
‘I thought, Mama, that you could spell a word or two by putting the bricks in a row, and then guide the men’s hands round the letters.’ She spoke eagerly, anxious to help.
‘Both of them must be able to read already, and if their fingers were sensitive enough, they could recognise the letters. For instance, you could spell WALK, and they would possibly get the idea that they were going to go for a walk.
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