‘Enough,’ Joe commanded from the doorway.
Jimmy released Sarah, who scuttled away from him like a crab, till she hit the furthermost wall.
‘We’ll have our breakfast now. Best you put some butter on that burn. Can’t have that pretty face scarred now can we?’ Joe decreed, taking his customary seat at the table. Jimmy joined him, and together they sat in silence as Sarah picked herself up off the floor, her cheek in agony, and made her way towards the pantry.
THE CUSTOMER
Bryce Sinclair pushed open the door of The Old Curiosity Shop, revealing an eclectic mishmash of antiques and second-hand junk.
A disembodied voice called out from behind a tall cabinet, ‘Hi there, I’ll be with you in half a minute. Just call out if you need anything!’
Sinclair wandered around the dusty shop. Relics from his past brought back memories he’d rather forget: a wooden washboard, its ridges scored by a century of laundry; an iron boot scraper, the ornamental lily design on its edges incongruous with its muck-wiping function.
Most things in this life were magical to him, such as the traffic lights and hot running water. Sliding his hand over a grey box on the edge of the counter, he marvelled at the feel of the materials it was made from. What is this machine? The acronyms CD and DVD were as foreign to him as Arabic to a farmer in the highlands of Scotland.
Sinclair had discovered this life was much more to his liking, and after mulling over the possibilities for an even better life, he’d come to a decision. He’d spent a fair amount of time checking out antique stores near his flat. The value of articles from his past constantly amazed him. It was perplexing that punters were clamouring for cut-throat razors, pocket watches and sovereign cases, old coins and fireside tiles. Ivory trinkets and ladies’ hatpins. Menial items. All easily obtained by sleight of hand – or by force.
If he could find his way back to his past to do a bit of ‘shopping’ – or any past would work – then all he’d need to do would be to return to this present and he would be a very wealthy man.
A dishevelled Patricia Bolton made her way over to the counter, a stack of German beer steins in her arms. ‘Old stock,’ she announced by way of explanation, carefully lowering them to the counter. The china mugs clinked in protest.
‘Old stock?’
‘Yep, from what I can see by the stock numbers, these beauties have been here for at least twenty years, if not longer! Most of these aren’t even German, they’re Japanese. You can tell the difference, based on how heavy they are – you don’t even need to check the base stamps. Listen to me, talking like I’m an expert!’ She laughed.
‘Uh huh,’ Sinclair said, not even remotely interested. German beer steins weren’t something he was familiar with and, compared to the antiques he’d been studying, they seemed worthless. ‘Where’s the woman who owns this place?’
‘Who? Sarah?’ Patricia stopped fiddling with the steins, looking instead towards Sinclair, suddenly uncomfortable under his direct gaze and butchered ears. ‘She’s not here.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Where is she? See, she has something of mine that she owes me for, and I’m in need of that money now. You could tell me where she is, and then I can leave you to your ... your party for one,’ Sinclair gestured towards the empty shop.
‘As I said, she’s not here. Away on holiday. I won't be able to help you anyway. I’ve not been able to make head or tail of her record keeping, so, unless you have proof that Sarah owes you any money, I can’t help, sorry.’
‘She back in New Zealand then?’ Sinclair chanced.
Patricia froze. She considered Sarah as one of her closest friends, and based on that she was certain Sarah wouldn’t have told anyone else about her time travel. Besides, Sarah didn’t have anyone else to tell.
THE CANDELABRA
‘Gem, what have you got? Anything yet?’ Ryan Francis quizzed his colleague from his side of the token partition as he peered inquisitively over at her computer screen.
Gemma Dance sighed, her fingers poised over the keyboard, before answering, ‘For the tenth time today, no. I’ll let you know when I’ve something to tell you. I’m not keeping secrets, Ryan, I just haven’t found what I’m looking for yet. It’s here somewhere and I promise to tell you as soon as I find the needle in this electronic haystack. So please leave me alone.’ She stabbed at the keys energetically to drive her point home.
Ryan huffed in his cubical, leaning back in his ergonomically bland chair and studying the ornate ceiling rose above him in their converted office space. While the London art world was buzzing over the tragedy at Christie’s, he and Gemma, and a number of other staff at the Art Loss Register were puzzling over the origins of the two katar and, more recently, the Paul de Lamerie candelabra, also auctioned through Christie’s. De Lamerie was known in antique circles as the greatest silversmith in eighteenth century England. A silversmith who’d supplied Tsarinas, Earls, Counts and Kings, de Lamerie’s body of work was huge, but pieces as spectacular as the matched pair of candelabra should have been recorded somewhere. Someone had owned them, had them commissioned. Records must exist. At some point last week, Gemma had declared she’d found the hint of a lead, but hadn’t shared it with any of her colleagues. She was driven, he’d give her that, but she also had an annoying habit of trying to score points by being the one to deliver the goods, regardless of who’d helped her along the way. A glory hound, who, annoyingly was spectacular at her job.
Meanwhile, he sat here, at her beck and call, waiting to cater to whatever crazy research mission she sent him on next. So far he’d been sent to the London Silver Vaults, and back to Christie’s to search their archives, but his most interesting visit had been to the library at the Goldsmiths’ Company. Over eight thousand books, and countless magazines, journals and papers from private collections. He could have spent days there delving into their material, happily surrounded by the life stories of the world’s treasures. He’d returned with a mountain of papers Gem had already ordered online through the librarians at the Company, leaving him no time to wallow in the incredible depth of history within the library. What the papers had in them – well, he wasn’t permitted to participate in that particular treasure hunt. In the meantime, he tried to follow up leads for the other clients he’d been allocated, but everything else he looked at was as dull as watching paint dry.
‘I’ve got it!’ Gemma yelled triumphantly.
The office erupted. Half a dozen corporate lackeys crowded around Gemma in her cubicle, high fiving as if she’d won the lottery.
‘It’s here. Can’t believe I didn’t think to look here first. It was the church all along,’ Gemma announced proudly, gesturing towards an enlarged image on her computer screen.
Ryan tried to peer between his colleagues. There was nothing on the screen he could see providing evidence of the origins of the candelabra. He was still perplexed as to why they were bothering with this folly. No one had registered the items with the Art Loss Register. The police didn’t seem worried. Christie’s almost certainly didn’t care, since they’d received their massive commission from the sale. But Gemma had insisted there was something fishy about the whole thing and, given her position with the Art Loss Register, she’d been given free rein to pursue her hunch. It’s how they operated, and why they were so successful.
The Art Loss Register had an impressive track record of reuniting stolen art and artefacts with their original owners – rare tapestries, stolen Matisse artworks, the Duchess of Argyll’s jewellery. All done with decorum and subtlety using the world’s largest private database of lost and stolen art, antiques and collectables.
As the hubbub cooled down, Ryan was able to pull a chair up next to Gemma, so he could see exactly what she had found, ‘What is it, Gem?’
She pointed a finely manicured nail at the grainy picture on her screen, ‘See there – there’s de Lamerie’s name in the header, with his Gerrard Street address. The date is clear, “May 29, 1739”. In the body you
can just make out the words “Pair of altar candelabra”. And underneath that, you can see they also ordered a large oval platter. I guess it was to match the candelabra. The hardest part has been trying to decipher who the invoice is made out to – see up here, in the top left-hand corner? I’ve finally got as far as deciphering the first word, “Bishop”. But have no idea what comes after that.’
‘Don’t you have the original to look at? Wouldn’t that be easier?’
‘Trust me, this enlarged version is much clearer than the original. It was badly water-damaged at some point in its life, which is why it’s so hard to read. I had the IT people play with the image, and this is as good as they can get it.’
‘But you still don’t know who ordered them?’ Ryan offered up.
Gemma rolled her eyes. Give me strength, she thought uncharitably.
‘But we know when they were ordered, by the Bishop of Somewhere, and that a matching platter was made, which may still exist unless it’s been melted down. I can use some word recognition software I’ve downloaded to match up the letters we can make out, to known bishops in 1739. It can’t be that hard. Just a few more hours. And from there, we can track it through church records. The church are worse than Inland Revenue when it comes to record keeping. Somewhere they have everything. Thank God.’
Ryan rolled his chair back to his cubical, resigned to waiting till Gemma’s program had done its thing. Idly he clicked on the katar file, reading his latest notes on the pair, hoping that the raised energy levels in the office might offer some sort of clarity. But without the actual dealer who’d consigned the katar to Christie’s – Sarah Lester – the investigation had ground to a standstill.
He wrote down the address for The Old Curiosity Shop on a piece of memo cube, and underlined it several times. He didn’t need the owner of the shop at all, just access to the owner’s records.
THE ENVELOPE
Sinclair looked at Patricia expectantly, surprised that his question about Sarah being in New Zealand had thrown her so much.
‘Yeah, New Zealand. Last time I saw her she was saying how much she wanted to go back there. Good source of antiques, she told me,’ Sinclair continued.
Patricia nodded, absently rearranging the beer steins in rows as she pondered the question.
As a child, Patricia was renowned for being unable to keep a secret. She’d forever be telling her cousins what was inside their birthday wrapping paper. Her school friends knew never to tell her anything confidential. She never meant to divulge what she knew, it was just her way. Despite her unease in the presence of Sinclair, she couldn’t help but elaborate, reasoning with herself that she could still keep Sarah’s time travelling secret whilst answering the customer’s question. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure if she is in New Zealand. She also mentioned India, so she could be in either place – I’m really just looking after the shop while she’s away.’
Sinclair’s piggy eyes watched Patricia for any signs of fabrication. They were interrupted when the door opened and the postman appeared with the day’s mail. With the finesse of a champion darts player, the post sailed through the air, landing perfectly on the counter. The uppermost letter was emblazoned with the logo of a London Port storage company.
‘More bills. It’s never-ending,’ Patricia complained, gathering the white envelopes into a tidy pile.
Sinclair picked up a beer stein, trying out its weight in his rough hand.
‘That one’s German. See, on the inside, it’s all smooth. The Japanese ones don’t have the nice finish on the inside like the German ones,’ Patricia prattled away. ‘Sorry about the dust, though. Thought I’d give them all a clean before I tried restocking the shelf.’
‘I’ll take this one then,’ Sinclair announced, to Patricia’s astonishment. ‘I haven’t got one of these. But could you could give it a clean first?’
‘Sure,’ Patricia agreed readily. A sale was a sale. And besides, it would be one less stein for her to have to fit back on the shelf. ‘I’ll just pop out the back and wash it.’
As she made her way out to the sink in the back room, Sinclair whipped the storage envelope off the stack of mail. His next course of action was clear.
THE NATIVE
Silent like the air around him, Wiremu Kepa slipped down the slope of the grassy hill with only the sunlight watching him. He’d seen enough to get the gist of what was going on but was a little nonplussed by what he’d seen. It was all very well agreeing to bury old ancestral hatreds and jealousies, but whether the chiefs would abide by that was another story.
Wiremu wanted to worry about just one thing – his family. And that meant keeping them safe, especially from the white man’s influenza. He’d laughed silently as the Maori chief was handed a wooden staff by the Governor. No fancy staff trimmed with silver and carved with the Royal Coat of Arms would protect the chief or the members of his tribe from the pakeha disease. So many had already been carried off by its relentless march.
Gangs of men were clearing the land, forming the long ribbon of road to make it easier for soldiers and settlers to travel down country. Easier for soldiers to massacre my people. Steering clear, Wiremu ran down the scrubby slopes, only pausing as he heard the faint screams of a woman. As he tried to locate the direction of the sound, it faded. There was a smattering of houses on the slopes around him, their owners oblivious to the sacred nature of the ground where they’d built. It was beyond him to judge them, but their complete disregard for his culture rankled.
The sound had gone. Striking it from his mind, he carried on, not noticing the covered-over windows of a substantial weatherboard house less than two hundred yards away.
He finally made it home, his breath ragged after his marathon run home to the settlement of Onehunga. The town clung to the harbour side, the smell of the mangroves crowding its shores, salt hanging in the breeze. Here tiny two-roomed fencible cottages huddled next to each other like women gathering water at a well. Wiremu’s father had been given land after being wounded defending Auckland in 1849. Like the other Fencibles – retired soldiers – he set about building his own cottage. Wiremu had been born there and knew no different.
Ducking his head as he entered the doorway, a veil of peace descended on him. Time slowed, as did his heartbeat. A beautiful man, skin the colour of fine coffee tempered with cream, his muscular frame was evidence of a life lived on the move, exercising every muscle, every day. His dark eyes had a haunting look to them, as if they saw more about you than you knew about yourself.
His father had built the cottage using the native timber the land was blessed with. The knots still visible in the planks of wood were like eyes accusing him of destroying the forests which had graced the harbour’s edge. He shuddered and averted his gaze. To cover them, he’d have to get some of those paintings the white men hung on their walls – paintings of the lands they’d left behind. He’d want paintings on his walls of the land he felt in his heart too. This land. The land of the long white cloud.
Moving from the all-purpose space that served as lounge, kitchen and dining room into the only other room in the house, the bedroom, he found his wife asleep, a tiny bundle curled up next to her. He admired how they could sleep so soundly, the knowledge that he protected them enough reassurance. He started toward to the bed, and his boot caught on a rogue nail jutting up from the matai floorboards. The noise caused both his wife and baby to stir.
‘Wiremu?’ she murmured sleepily, while simultaneously fumbling to feed the mewling infant in her arms.
He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, smoothing her sleep-mussed hair.
‘How was it? Did they all play nicely together?’ she asked, as she remembered the reason her husband had been gone for so long. It was a long trek to Kohimarama from Onehunga and, although Auckland was at peace, there was never any certainty that a native could pass through the township without being assaulted. Through fear, or more likely alcohol, the unexplained deaths of natives had risen sharply in recent mo
nths.
‘I kept away from the work gangs. You know me. As fleet on foot as the weka,’ he laughed. The weka, an ungainly bird, was more at home in the undergrowth of the forest, but hardly a master of disguise despite its unassuming brown plumage. Curious and fearless, it was easy prey, and often ended up on their dinner table.
‘Their talking was just wind, but peace will hold, for now. We’ve got bigger problems closer to home. All that alcohol those gangs are drinking. I heard from Tau today that it’s getting worse. It’s them that I worry about, especially with you here alone with the baby.’
He prayed that this baby would survive. Their first, a boy, had been born in winter, and influenza had spirited him away a few short weeks after his birth. They were better prepared this time. Baby slept wrapped in a feather-filled quilt, or warm against her mother. The fire was never allowed to go out; stoked with all manner of local timbers. And they did not mix with anyone else.
Wiremu earned the white man’s dollar at one of the native mills. Today there was no work. The grindstone had slipped off its shaft, cracking the metal, and he had no expertise to fix it. One of the English millers had agreed to help repair it, but not today, for today had been the spectacular conference in Kohimarama. There would be no wheat milled in Auckland today.
Would his family have a better life down country with his wife’s extended family, her tribe, her iwi? He’d not been raised on the marae, but an iwi gave you protection. The only problem was that there were more troubles the further down country you went. Lawlessness increased, soldiers who’d gone rogue haunted the Waikato country.
He threw a couple of rough split logs on the fire, the fresh sap spitting as the flames hit the fresh fuel. He allowed himself a few moments to reflect on the tangi, the funeral they’d held for his son – the last time he’d seen any of their family.
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