THE LETTER – PAGE 2
Page 2
“Flying training has been keeping me busy. Have you ever wished you could fly? I swear I feel like an angel when I’m up there. Free of all my earthly shackles. Free of worry, or fear. Oh, I know the fear will come when we’re finally let loose on the Germans, but while I’m still training, I feel nothing but freedom. I wish I could have you sitting beside me. So hard to describe, it’s like boating on a summer’s day; like eating plump berries straight from the vine; like the sun warming your face when winter has finally passed. If you were able to package them all up, to bottle those moments, that still wouldn’t be as euphoric as the moment your wheels first lift of the ground.
They say we’ll be ready to fly solo soon. Another week or so. I shan’t be able to tell you any more than that. I can’t even tell you what sort of aircraft I am going to fly – sometimes I think the air force doesn’t know themselves. I’ll write as often as I can. I look forward to your postcards. They bring such happiness to my days.
There are some Indian chaps joining us next week. Do you still have that snuffbox your father had from India? The small gold one? It would be interesting to see if the Punjabs know anything about it. Can you send me a little sketch when you get a moment?”
THE AUCTIONEER
Harvard returned to Christie’s, tail between his legs. The jungle drums would have been banging during his long journey back to the office. Why anyone drove a car in London was beyond him, and he felt the sharp pinpricks of a migraine starting its slow onslaught behind his eyes.
Slipping into his windowless office, the air was weighed down by the biblical scenes on tapestries covering the walls. They’d been hung by one of his predecessors, unclaimed auction articles, ‘saved’ from festering in storage. Such pieces decorated most of the offices in the building, rightly or wrongly. Processes were tighter now – electronic banking and credit cards made it almost impossible to avoid paying for something you’d bid on at auction. But these perks were a leftover from a more paper-based record system, one prone to errors.
As he sat in his chair, he gazed blankly at an embroidered scene of Ruth gathering freshly threshed wheat in her arms. Simpler times, woven into wool, one of the most dynamic and tactile materials used by man. It was odd, he’d never paid too much attention to his office decor – downtime wasn’t a luxury Christie’s employees enjoyed – but in this rare moment of solace, he gazed at Ruth with a critical eye. Age-worn and slightly fraying at the edges – fortunately the absence of any of the sun’s ultraviolet light in his office was more beneficial to the art than the employee, and probably the only reason this piece kept from disintegrating. Ruth’s dress was stitched in a myriad of reds, giving her skirt folds and complex shadows. Dark hair peeped out from her headscarf, her eyes were downcast, demure. The flowers in the foreground were foreign to him ... old fashioned poppies? One of the art boffins would know.
In reality, he was just filling in time before someone received a phone call from the V & A. This time, they’d let him go for sure.
The quotation on the sampler he’d failed to secure swam before his eyes, “Time is an illusion. The minutes that have gone may still be ahead of you. Embrace every second”. A family motto? Just as he was reaching up to lift the tapestry of Ruth from the wall to better examine her, a knock sounded on the door.
‘Redecorating, Andrew, or packing up your office already?’ Hannah Gardner stood in his doorway, one hand planted on her waist, the other gripping the door handle, as if holding it gave her enough moral support to behave like an obnoxious cow.
Andrew returned to his seat. For whatever reason, Hannah Gardner continued to haunt the halls of Christie’s, despite her being universally distrusted by most of the staff. Hardly anyone knew exactly what it was she did. She had procured pieces for the auction house, and had a variety of clients she entertained on behalf of Christie’s but, apart from that, she was more a lackey for Don Claire. Some even alluded to a secret relationship between her and Claire.
‘Yes, Hannah?’
She edged into his office, slowly surveying his space, but taking care not to touch anything, before replying.
‘How was the School of Needlework thing? Full of buxom ladies in pearls and twinsets? Or the stern studious kind, with glasses and frigid nether parts – you know, museum types?’
Andrew sighed, ‘What have you heard, Hannah?’
Recognising she was getting under his skin, she perked up. ‘Oh, nothing much. Just Mr Claire got a call from one of those museum women you hang out with. I could almost hear her from my office. You do seem to attract more than your share of controversy. That’s why I wondered whether you were packing up your office. You know, in preparation of being, how do they put it, let go?’
‘Seriously, Hannah? I’ve got work to do. I’m sure if Mr Claire wants to talk to me about what happened at the needlework lectures, he’ll let me know – unless you’re here to tell me that he wants to see me?’
Gardner flushed at Andrew’s abruptness. ‘No, I was just passing. I’ll leave you to it then.’ Tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder she scurried away like a threatened rat.
Sinking back into his chair, Andrew rubbed his eyes. His headache was a constant companion now. He checked his watch. If only it were home time – but home time for Christie’s employees was about an hour later than other City types. Going home to Patricia would be nice, but they weren’t at that stage yet. All he had waiting at home was half a bottle of mediocre wine, and a frozen chicken Kiev.
He looked up at Ruth. ‘What are you having for dinner tonight?’ he asked the wall hanging. With no answer forthcoming he began attacking the contents of his carry case, the fruits of his time at the School of Needlework lectures.
THE LANDING
The Spitfire landed on a vacant field, and taxied along quite nicely. Phil thanked his lucky stars he’d been able to avoid the stand of old oaks bordering the field, despite the engine’s loss of power.
Suddenly the nose of the plane dipped, and its forward momentum ceased like a garden hose being shut off.
The realisation he’d hit an ‘anti invasion’ hole came quickly as his machine somersaulted and his canopy smashed into the loamy soil. The massive impact annihilated the Spitfire’s elegant tail. One wing lay half attached, its leading edge ploughing the fallow field.
The once-proud machine, now closely resembling a baby bird thrust from its nest too early, lay broken on the ground.
Phil moaned, more in shock than pain. His harness held him tightly against the seat. Blood filled his head as he fought to release the metal clips. Burning to death in the cockpit was his greatest fear. The scent of aviation fuel mingled happily with the night breeze and the disturbed soil.
The high pitched scream of a family of foxes punctuated the air around the plane, as if they were providing a soundtrack for his crash, mimicking his anguished cries for help as he struggled frantically with his harness.
THE KNOCKER
The shop bell tinkled, interrupting Nicole’s private musings as she sat behind the cluttered counter, waiting for Sarah to return from next door. Will I still have a job was uppermost in her mind. She’d found her niche, in running the shop. Yes, it had its moments of frustration, but she’d bloody well done her best given the circumstances.
A man entered. His legs encased in grimy track pants; his bulky stomach constrained by a taut blue sweatshirt, the logo in the upper right corner now faded, looking as if swirls of toothpaste had migrated onto his chest from his distasteful mouth. A riotous head of stringy grey hair, as unacquainted with a hairbrush as his body was to deodorant, topped off the filthy human who sidled up to the counter, a battered banana box balanced on his hip, threatening to take out half the items on the edge of the long table as he edged past.
The box safely deposited onto the counter, he stood in front of her, expectantly.
‘What have you got for me today, Wick?’ Nicole asked, trying to inc
h unnoticed away from the smell emanating from the other side of the counter.
‘Not much for you this week, Nicky.’
She cringed at his unwelcome use of the diminutive of her name, ‘Unpack it all then. I can’t offer you a price if I can’t see it.’
Wick Farris, a ‘knocker’ for The Old Curiosity Shop, ferreted through his box, the slow extraction of treasures part of his show. How do you ever persuade people to let you into their homes, let alone sell their treasures to you, she thought for the umpteenth time. Yet, according to the stock book, he’d been ‘knocking’ for the shop for years. She’d looked through the old stock books stacked up on shelves behind the counter and, almost without fail, every week there’d be at least one entry for goods purchased from Wick Farris.
‘Knocking’ was a distasteful profession. Knocking on the front doors of strangers, and persuading them to sell their treasures, usually for the lowest price possible – a practice generally frowned upon by every auction house, antique dealer, and constable in the country – but an integral part of the chain. Admittedly not all of them were as dodgy as sin but, in Nicole’s opinion, Farris was top of her list of the most untrustworthy of suppliers.
He unpacked onto the counter a blue Bristol glass scent bottle, complete with its stopper. Good. A pair of cameo glass goblets. A pair, also good. Two sets of sherry snifters. Glass, not crystal. Two millefiori paper weights, different sizes, although one had tiny nibbles in its base, not visible on display. Potentially saleable. Nicole picked one up, checking to see if it was marked “Baccarat” – alas no, just a run-of-the-mill paperweight, its coloured glass rods nevertheless forming a pleasing image inside the bun shaped glass. The Baccarat name would have been better, adding another hundred pounds to the price tag.
Next came a small brass carriage clock, its leather case battered and held together with yellowing tape. A plastic bag bulging with coins, its heft not at all an indication of its value. Just last week she’d paid forty pounds for a box lot of china, medicine bottles, biscuit tins and a handful of costume jewellery. In amongst the jewellery was a tiny bag containing what she thought were four coins, so she hadn’t factored those into her offer. It was only when she was pricing them up that she realised one of the coins was a very worn gold sovereign. She’d made back her money several times over with that one coin.
The pile grew larger – a cigar box filled with military buttons, badges and medals, including a rare Indian Mutiny Medal from 1858. Nicole crossed her fingers that Wick wouldn’t have any idea of the true value of that one. A wooden barometer, missing its hands, and glass – essentially worthless. Two silver plated chafing dishes. Not bad, quite desirable now, oddly. And an ornate betel box. That one she’d need to research.
Farris looked up from the empty banana box, the greed in his eyes as filthy as his nails. ‘How much do you reckon for this lot then? There’s some lovely things here this time. Some old duck up in Salisbury let me have a right ferret through her stuff. There’s jewellery too, but I’m saving that for a rainy day.’ He winked.
Nicole eyed the betel box, admiring its fine floral openwork. Decades of dust obscured its true beauty, but a quick dunk in some warm water with Sunlight soap ought to clean it up quite nicely.
‘I don’t know, Wick, none of this stuff is that moveable. Where’s more of that Lladro you bought me last week? Or some silver? You know I’m running low on good sterling silver. Don’t you ask people about their silver?’
‘Come on, Nicky love, you know this stuff’s good. It’ll sell. I guarantee if Sarah were here she’d buy it in a heartbeat. Let’s say two hundred quid and we’re sorted.’
‘Jesus Christ, Wick, if I paid you two hundred quid, Patricia would fire me immediately. There’s no way this stuff is worth that.’
‘What about that military stuff? You’ve got a guy that buys all that straight away. I’ve met him in here before. Come on now. How about a hundred and eighty quid? I’ll discount it some for you, cause you’re still learning the ropes and all.’
‘A hundred and fifty, and not one pound more.’
Nicole opened the till, the bells inside adding a merry tune to their conversation. She counted out the money, knowing Wick would accept her offer because no one else would deal with him. She’d rather not deal with him, but it seemed Sarah trusted him, as had her father.
‘Here, a hundred and fifty quid.’ She handed over the money, before thrusting the purchase register at Wick for his signature. He scrawled his details, which hadn’t appeared to have changed in the ten years of record keeping that she’d had access to.
‘A pleasure, Nicky, as always. You got time for a coffee? You couldn’t nip out the back and make me one? I’ve got a bit of a drive today, heading up north. Pretty sure there’s more to be had up where I got this lot from. Might sniff around a while up there.’
Nicole had no intention of ‘nipping out the back’. Leaving Wick alone in the shop was the last thing she was going to do.
‘Sorry, Wick, I ran out of coffee yesterday – meant to buy some more, but I forgot. The bakery across the road does good coffee, most days.’
Wick looked at her from under his hooded eyes, before turning to look out the shop window at the place she’d mentioned.
‘Right then, next time,’ and he sidled out of the shop the same way he came in, crablike and suspiciously.
Nicole reached for the bottle of glass cleaner, and sprayed the spot where Wick had leant on the counter. Intuitively she knew it wouldn’t dispel the sick feeling in her stomach that he’d swindled some old lady out of her treasures. If he was happy with what she’d offered him, he wouldn’t have paid even half that for them in the first place.
After wiping away all evidence of his being there, she transcribed her new inventory into the purchases book, wondering what Sarah would say when she returned from next door.
THE MEN
Wiremu struggled to his feet, the ragged sounds of the crowd ringing in his ears. Joe reared up, ready for a second go, when the onlookers fell eerily silent.
Sensing an opportunity, Wiremu shot through a gap between two roughshod settlers, legging it for home before Jowl could refocus his attention, distracted as he was by the sudden hush.
The injured native struggled through the scrubby brush clinging to the hillside, vicious fingers of cutty grass slicing into his limbs. He stumbled, falling heavily onto pitted lava rocks, smashing his knees on the unforgiving surface. Rolling onto his side, he stifled his screams with his fist, panting with the pain, controlling it. From his vantage point, the tableau below was an arresting sight.
Joe Jowl was standing over Jimmy, who appeared to be supplicating to his brother. As if with a single thought, the surrounding crowd was backing away, in an ever-widening circle, almost balletic in its formation. One by one, spectators peeled away, hurrying away in twos and threes, all looking furtively back at the Jowl brothers – whether in fear or amusement, Wiremu couldn’t tell. He looked in vain for the girl, who was nowhere to be seen, indicating that she too had escaped.
Rolling painfully to his feet, he stood up. He still had a mill to repair, although in this condition it was going to take him much longer to get to work. He only hoped Vaughan Hughes would wait for him; he needed to have that grindstone fixed. His injuries could wait, but the wheat couldn’t.
Reaching the mill, the sun high overhead, he leaned against the wooden doorway. Most days he paused to admire this marvel of engineering. He recognised he’d already strayed far from his tribal roots, and that sat a little uneasily within his soul, but needs must. And he had to do what he could to feed his family. After that, he would do his best to feed his soul.
THE JOURNEY
The Raja rearranged his aching legs on the divan. The road to Delhi had never seemed so long, or so rough. Monsoons had wreaked their usual havoc on the roads, reducing them to a morass of churned-up mud and broken wheels abandoned by travellers who’d gone before. But there were pros and cons with eve
ry season; at least the rains had lowered the temperature to a bearable level – more so for his staff. He was unlikely to be affected by muddied roads or pouring rains. That was what servants were for.
He was frustrated at losing time. Each day his journey was delayed, Sarah Williams drew further away from him. Not for the first time that afternoon, he rapped on the roof of his gharry – his carriage – urging his gharry-wallah to move the bullocks faster, which was as hard as swatting away the mosquitoes lingering in the humid air. For good measure, he rapped on the roof a second time, the carved ivory lion head and ebony walking stick creating a satisfying thud against the silk-covered ceiling. He sank back into the cushions, their soft caress reminiscent of Sarah’s hands upon his chest, her words in his ear.
He was certain that once he arrived in Delhi and found her, she’d snap out of the grief consuming her. In his mind, he entertained the idea that she’d be happy to be ensconced in one of his homes. Closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to drift, luxuriating in the freedom only available in daydreams. Freedom where, released from cultural expectations, following your heart’s desire is easier than breathing.
He did have other business in Delhi to attend to while Sarah was being tracked down. His land holdings were extensive, but he feared that his business portfolio was not diverse enough. He’d inherited a successful export business, sending Indian textiles to the buoyant British market, or rather the currently buoyant market. This latest civil unrest unnerved him. His family had done well working with the British, dabbling in both indigo and opium, and although their foreign overlords considered themselves the masters of India, he felt this was a passing phase, as history had shown throughout time. Everything passes, and history repeats. He maintained publicly that he was coming to Delhi to investigate the resurgence of demand for cotton; whether expanding his investment in this quick cash crop would be beneficial to his people.
The Last Letter Page 12