At the thought of Howard, Annabel scooped up the bible and thrust it deep into her pocket. Determinedly, she wiped the tears which had dared gather at the corners of her eyes. What rubbish was I thinking? A mere coincidence. In this small backwater of a country, everyone assumed that if you had the same surname you were bound to be related by birth or marriage. But not her. No. Annabel Lester was related to no one here. And there was no way on God’s great earth that her daughter could be in New Zealand. Sarah was safe at home in England, teasing her father about his messy hair, or his inability to send an email or navigate the Internet.
Annabel had made the best of her situation. As a live-in housekeeper – without electricity, she’d blundered her way through bread making, washing, gardening, and cleaning, without any modern-day conveniences. No supermarkets, or washing machines, just hard graft. She missed the freedom of summer dresses, shorts and singlets. The high-necked dresses of the day felt like ivy wrapping its vines around her throat and her legs got tangled in her skirts constantly. But it was at least a life. And if her employer thought it odd she spoke so little of her family, he kept his own counsel.
Annabel left the kitchen, making her way to a small room at the back of the wooden house. There she placed the bible on her cluttered kauri nightstand. Her room was overflowing with small treasures she’d collected during her time in Dunedin. Nothing of any great value; mundane day-to-day objects, the sort you see for sale at car boot fairs. Earthenware jugs from England, a small piece of etched ruby glass, green leather-bound books of common prayer and hymns. All gathered to remind her of home.
‘Home’ is such a powerful word. When you are ripped from your home, against your will, and forced to assimilate into a new life, does that new life become home? Or is home really where the heart is? Or where you live and breathe? Until she found a way to return to her husband and daughter, she had no home. She was a refugee of time.
THE INKWELL
‘No, I only want inkwells which are Victorian or earlier, and I’d prefer sterling silver, but I’ll look at anything slightly unusual.’ His black top barely holding in his enormous girth, the man was creating an effective blockade of the aisle. The young girls wanting to sift through the collection of old vinyl records had already asked to get past a couple of times, before the tallest rudely pushed by, handbag bouncing off his bulging side.
He grunted, whether from annoyance or escaping gas as his belly slapped against the counter, Patricia Bolton couldn’t tell.
She looked vaguely around the shop, trying to identify where on earth inkwells might be kept.
‘Um ... probably best if you have a look in those,’ gesturing towards a series of cabinets filled with every type of Victorian and Edwardian sterling silver objects, including a few pricier pieces of Georgian silverware.
Again he grunted. ‘Where’s Sarah then? She usually sorts me out,’ he asked impatiently.
Sarah Lester’s closest friend grimaced. She was tired of having to explain that she was filling in at The Old Curiosity Shop, while Sarah was having some time out. At least, that was the answer Patricia gave the customers. For the police it was a different version but, then, the reality was very different.
She painfully recalled the last time she’d seen her friend; handing over the katar, an Indian knife, to a representative from Christie’s, before she’d vanished. Sarah hadn’t been at the auction house to witness an horrific murder, when a young auction clerk had been gutted in front of Patricia, a roomful of onlookers and Internet viewers worldwide. The weapon used had been a second katar, the twin of the one Sarah had consigned to Christie’s to sell on her behalf. A veritable nightmare for the audience, not to mention the Christie’s public relations team.
Which left Patricia Bolton here. Trying to run her own semi-successful clothing design business, and keep Sarah’s antique shop solvent in her downtime. Although she was making a fortune on that front. A hundred and thirty-two pounds today, and on a weekend too. She was far better suited to selling clothes than she was at selling other people’s stuff.
Patricia wrinkled her nose at the back of the obese man now shuffling towards the silver cabinets, jersey threatening to give way with every lumbering step. She whipped out the well-thumbed copy of the Miller’s Collectables Price Guide, scanning the index for inkwells: Staffordshire inkwells in the shape of greyhounds on cushions; travelling inkwells; a grotesque stoneware inkwell in the shape of a mask; and something called a Wemyss inkwell shaped like a heart.
‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered, aghast at the prices quoted. ‘Two hundred and sixty pounds for that! Looks like something I painted at school.’
‘Did you say something, love?’, the walking heart attack asked her, followed by yet another grunt, this time as his girth toppled over a tower of ephemera, only tidied that morning to be less of an obstacle.
Inwardly groaning, she shook her head, and continued flipping pages, furthering her antique education within the incredibly disorganised confines of The Old Curiosity Shop.
‘There’s nothing here for me today. Just tell Sarah I was in. Needs some tidying up round here, getting a bit hard to move round,’ he suggested as he eased his way past the centre tables, although his bulk was more the problem than the state of the aisles. Patricia would be the first to admit that she had been defeated by the insurmountable clutter and crates filling every corner, but being obese was easily as hazardous as the precarious piles of stock.
For what seemed like the hundredth time that hour, she checked the clock, waiting for her boyfriend to come rescue her from the purgatory to which she’d submitted herself.
Andrew Harvard was due any minute to take her away from this repository of dead people’s treasures. Senior Specialist, Costumes and Textiles at Christie’s, he had stood by her through it all: the auction fiasco; Sarah’s disappearance; the unrelenting attention of the police; and various antiquities organisations curious about the origins of the treasures Sarah had consigned to Christie’s.
Patricia had become so thoroughly fed up with the number of collectors coming into her clothing shop to ask when The Old Curiosity Shop would be reopening, that she and Andrew had organised limited opening hours, now prominently displayed on the cluttered window. No new stock was coming in; that was where Patricia drew the line. She’d sell, but she wouldn’t buy.
The media attention generated by the murder had done nothing but bolster Christie’s reputation, and that of The Old Curiosity Shop, which had been inundated by macabre sightseers and serious collectors alike, all looking for hidden treasures within the muddled aisles.
With a sigh, Patricia slipped the price guide back into its slot on the shelf behind her, and left the counter to pick up the mess of papers scattered on the floor by the obese man. She was barely paying attention as she hurriedly shoved them on top of a nail box full of napkin rings she’d used to stack them in the first place.
She picked up several postcards and old letters, held together by a corroded bulldog clip, its rust marks staining the edges of the postcards, rendering them almost worthless. She threw them on top of the pile, failing to notice who they were addressed to.
THE LETTER
Page 1
“Darling Elizabeth,
Thinking of you keeps me going. Were it not for the mere thought of your welcoming arms upon my return, I swear I would have laid down in some foreign meadow and let the others run me through. To plough me into this land that we are defending.
We are little more than fertiliser for the fields here. These virgin fields, fields we have yet to rake with our boots, swathed in a carpet of pristine white snow, ice crystals cling to every naked branch, like jewels in a crown; until we get there, and then it turns dun. A dull muddy brown, stained with the red blood of men. If the enemy reaches it before we do, it becomes the blackened carcass of a vulture. An ugly, stinking carcass.
There’s no word of when we’ll return. It’s laughable to imagine that I’ll be celebrating Christmas with
you this year. I’m truly sorry, my love. Remember our first Christmas together? Our tree? Almost every tree here reminds me of our first tree. You’d hung so many decorations on it that it barely had the strength to stand up straight. That’s how we feel out here. I’d do almost anything to be up in the skies looking down on all of this. They’re asking around to see if any of the lads have flying experience. I’ve put my hand up. How hard can it be?”
THE CELLAR
Saints perform miracles. It’s written in the bible and known the world over. If that's true, which saint just performed the miracle of saving my life?
Sarah huddled in a corner of the dark room. Her faith that everything would be all right this time round was being sorely tested by the cold gnawing at her bones. She drew her legs tighter into her body, willing the rustling noises around her to go away.
Clenched in her hand was the greenstone adze she’d grabbed at The Old Curiosity Shop, its unnatural smoothness a comfort in the dark. The idea that a Maori warrior had finely honed this weapon, with no metal tools, gave her an other-worldly feeling of strength.
Her stomach cried out pitifully for food, but still she didn’t move. Shivering, she stayed wedged in the corner of the ... of the what? A cellar? With no light, and only her sense of smell and touch to guide her, that was what she'd discerned. The hard packed earthen floor, rodents scampering away from her bulk. Wooden crates stacked against one wall. Running her hand over the crates, she’d felt bottles, heavy glass bottles. She removed the stopper from one, trusting her sense of smell to warn her before she drank anything potentially toxic. Her eyes watered as the harsh liquor hit the back of her throat. Coughing at its intensity, she cast the bottle aside, the remaining contents seeping into the hard packed earth. Anything more than a moderate slug of that and she’d have been comatose in minutes.
She slunk back to her corner to wait, sure that someone would be down for more grog, and then she’d judge what next. There was nothing else she could do – her blind fumbling hadn’t located a door or an access hatch, or any means of escape. She was in a super-sized, gin-filled grave.
THE ANTIPODEAN
Sinclair smashed his empty glass into Stokes’ head, stunning him with the heavy crystal. Unexpectedly agile for a man of his size, Sinclair twisted the knife from Stokes’ grasp and plunged it into the smaller man’s lean stomach. The knife slid deep into Stoke’s bowel. Sinclair twisted it malevolently then released it, allowing Stokes to slip to the floor. Blood painted the polished floors a red Monet-like pattern.
Expertly, Sinclair frisked his victim, liberating a clunky gold sovereign ring and cash. He stared blankly at the remaining wallet contents: credit cards and loyalty club cards. Snorting in disgust, he tossed these weird new-fangled objects aside. Then, satisfied there was nothing else of value, Sinclair eased himself out of the apartment, engaging the lock behind him and never looked back.
Safely ensconced in new premises, courtesy of the bartender at the Jolly Farmer, Bryce Sinclair watched the saturation coverage on the magic box, he now knew to be called a ‘television’. He’d watched so much he felt he could picture the whole scene. The various broadcasters relished replaying the live Internet footage of the murder, the facial features of the dying clerk delicately blurred out in mock respect to his grieving family.
The arrest of Richard Grey fascinated him. He’d rightly assumed Grey would want him dealt with after his failure to obtain the katar before it was consigned to Christie’s. But a man doesn’t survive the goldfields of the colonies by being easy to kill. And London was no different.
In fact, Grey had received the call from Hannah Gardner at Christie’s, saying that the katar had been picked up from Sarah at The Old Curiosity Shop. He’d then made a call, to Stokes, instructing him to dispose of the ‘luggage’ from New Zealand, which had been interpreted just the way he expected it to be. What Grey hadn’t counted on was Sinclair’s innate sense of self-preservation. Which Sinclair was now toasting with a pint of London Pride, wondering where to from here.
THE WINDOW
Elizabeth Williams sat at her window seat. The barren garden cruelly taunted her fragile state of mind. As empty as her heart and home, the garden didn’t speak of the promises of spring or the joy of summer, rather its language was that of despair. Of loneliness, and the death of joy.
Clutched in her hands was a telegram. Is it my turn? A funny day to become a widow, a Tuesday in January.
There were no children to tell, her greatest disappointment. No family to speak of. Just her.
With unsteady hands she unfolded the telegram, quickly scanning the contents.
It fell, floating down to the plush carpet like a leaf on a summer breeze. A sob escaped, transforming into laughter as she caught her reflection in the window panes. Phil is coming home on leave. She was to expect him in a fortnight. Oh, how she must apologise to the postman for the arctic reception she’d given him when he’d delivered the telegram.
The news would be right around town now. There were no secrets here, even though the posters plastered around England reminded them not to spread rumours; Loose Lips Sink Ships. She reckoned most of the women she consorted with could be prosecuted for espionage, given their inability to keep a secret.
With new eyes, the beauty of the world outside became self-evident – the potential in the barren branches, the hope in the silent soil. She flung herself from the window seat, dancing around the furniture renewed hope giving wings to her emotions.
Pausing at her writing desk, she ran her hands across the stain of the wood. It hummed with the vibrations of all those who’d gone before. This was her absolute favourite piece of furniture, and she'd owned some remarkable ones, many of far greater value than this old thing. But this desk never failed to connect her to the past. She could almost see her mother sitting penning notes to the vicar, replying to invitations to take tea.
As a child she’d spent hours looking for hidden treasure within the dozens of tiny drawers, the functions of which were completely beyond her. Many were too small to hold anything more useful than paperclips and buttons. Nonetheless, intrigued, she’d drive her mother crazy opening each drawer to reveal its contents.
But, for now, she pulled open the top right-hand drawer, and slipped the telegram into the void, where it landed on top of a bundle of postcards; a bundle of postcards with tatty edges, from places she’d never heard of before the war. Places she never wanted to hear of again. Some places no longer existed in any real form, and wouldn’t for years to come.
It was a pile of short missives from her husband. Short and poignant, lacking any real detail. Due to Philip’s haste to write them, or the rules of the War Office? It was enough that he wrote to her at every opportunity. Every postcard further proof he lived, and that he loved. That he was still hers.
She closed the drawer. The faint impression on the ornate brass handle from the warmth of her hand slowly faded as she walked away.
THE ASSOCIATION
The room hummed with the genteel murmuring of suppressed excitement. A hundred or so women wearing pearls and cardigans – and a smattering of men in sensible shoes – sat their stout behinds on universally unforgiving conference chairs. The salmon fabric of the stackable chairs and the well-worn carpet dated the venue as accurately as the fashion of the attendees.
Like most, this one was firmly mired in the nineties, with salmon pink and beige the predominant colours, in stark contrast to the ecclesiastical robes displayed on the stage – each of these individually lit and gleaming as if golden – indeed some were embellished with finely woven gold thread.
‘May I have your attention?’ A robust woman at the lectern waved at the assembled crowd, tapping on her microphone with short blunt-cut nails. There were no pretensions of beauty bound up in her dated woollen suit.
Tracey Humphrey, Chairwoman of the Royal School of Needlework, was more at home with bobbins and Buckingham lace than she was in front of an audience of self-proclaimed nee
dlework experts. But here she was. Today’s lecture series on ‘Samplers, Genoa Point Lace and Ecclesiastical Robes’ was a sell-out. That so many people were prepared to spend twenty pounds to listen to lace experts never failed to amaze her.
‘Thank you, and welcome to the first lecture of this series of the School of Needlework’s “Stitch In Time” programme. We have a marvellous line-up of speakers – comprising conservation experts, collectors, and museum curators.’
There was a rousing round of applause before Tracey could continue, ‘After our first speaker today, we will be running our popular “Open The Trunk” service in the foyer, where you will have an opportunity to present your treasures to our panel of experts for valuation, advice on restoration, or information gathering.’ A wave of shuffling rippled through the hall as the attendees knowingly patted their treasures concealed in a motley collection of carrier bags and tapestry totes.
‘I’d like to introduce our first speaker, Eliza Broadhead, curator of the Department of Furniture, Textiles and Fashion at the Victoria and Albert Museum, with her presentation on their collection of samplers and its conservation.’
Enthusiastic applause greeted the formidably buxom Eliza Broadhead as she ascended the stage, jet beads jockeying for space between her enormous breasts. Panting into the microphone, she acknowledged the crowd with a smile, and a tilt of her head.
Famous for her precise eye and extensive knowledge of all things textile, Eliza was renowned in the world of needlework. She was also firmly of the belief that all tapestries and textiles of historical import should be in the safe hands of the V & A, not those of unscrupulous collectors. It was for this reason that the only time her broad grin faded was when she noticed Andrew Harvard from Christie’s in the third row, his black suit incongruous in the sea of tweed and cashmere.
The Last Letter Page 3