by Jenni Keer
‘Well, yes. He’s like a sort of manager, I suppose. Deals with all the day-to-day stuff. Didn’t you know?’
No she jolly well didn’t – she hadn’t even known he was an employee until that morning. Johnny was drip-feeding important information about her job – information that could have saved her considerable embarrassment and her manager from unprovoked grievous bodily harm.
Arthur barely paused, not needing any verbal responses from his audience. ‘Everything will be rather more ship-shape now he’s back. Don’t get me wrong, Johnny’s a wonder, but we were all so surprised that the Wot a Lot! crew wanted Theo – particularly Johnny, who between you and me rather fancied himself as a charismatic, less orange, David Dickinson figure. But they insisted on our Theo – and why wouldn’t you? They said he had great visual appeal and the researcher I spoke to thought he’d pull in a younger audience, particularly the females.’
‘But isn’t he a bit erm … untidy for television? Don’t they want experts in suits with clipped accents and neatly combed hair?’
‘Nonsense. Look at them popular characters on the telly, like Columbo?’ The reference meant nothing to Maisie. ‘The public loves quirky.’
‘Johnny’s quirky. Theo’s a bit … scruffy.’ And that was her being polite. She knew it was wrong to stereotype but the majority of gay men she’d come across had been immaculately turned out. Theo’s jeans weren’t distressed, they were positively traumatised, and the hand-knitted jumper he was sporting was so misshapen, she couldn’t be sure which member of the animal kingdom it had been knitted for – possibly a rhinoceros. No wonder she’d mistaken him for a ne’er-do-well, loitering around the back of a dimly lit saleroom.
‘To my way of thinking, Johnny is a caricature of himself,’ Arthur said. ‘And twiddly moustached, eccentric antiques experts are ten a penny. Handsome, young, wiry-haired men full of charm sporting a pair of sparkly eyes – now that’s going to get the pulses of the female audience racing.’
And possibly about five per cent of the men, she conceded. Although Maisie’s encounters with Theo had been less than positive, she saw Arthur’s point. She could quite understand Johnny being too much of a handful for TV. The flowery language and ostentatious clothes had been done by other so-called experts, and possibly more successfully.
‘Theo really knows his stuff, you see? Everyone expects antiques experts to be as old as the items they’re valuing but our Theo has nearly fifteen years of experience under his belt. If I had a pound for the number of times clients have come in here and asked to speak to one of the experts, thinking Theo was a junior member of staff … But oh, those patronising faces soon vanish when they realise he knows what he’s talking about. I take my cap off to him, and Johnny come to that. Have you seen the mind-boggling range of things we handle? Everything from pushchairs to antiquarian books. And they have to know about it all – the history, the value and the current market.’
‘Ah, there you are, Arthur.’ Theo appeared in the doorway and slouched a hip against the architrave, two empty coffee cups dangling from a curled forefinger. The knitted hat was back on, his sheepskin hair wrestled into its woolly confines, and he had a look of nonchalance about him. ‘Keeping our resident pit bull from her work?’
‘No, no,’ Arthur protested, ‘I was telling her how much I admired you and Johnny, and how knowledgeable you both are.’
Theo smiled. ‘I know, old boy. I’m teasing.’
‘Let me take those cups for you, sir. I’ll rinse them out.’ The cups were removed from Theo’s fingers before Arthur had finished speaking and the old man disappeared kitchen-wards.
‘I wish he’d stop with the sir thing. It’s embarrassing,’ Theo said, still leaning at an I’ve Got Nothing Better To Do And All The Time In The World To Do It angle.
‘It’s a form of respect,’ Maisie said. ‘He’s from an age where hierarchy mattered more than it does today. It’s endearing. Whilst I’ve got you …’ She efficiently saved the piece she was working on and slid her chair back. ‘Can I take a photo of you for the website?’
Theo gave his wonky grin. ‘Snap away.’
‘What, now? With the hat?’ Maisie asked.
‘Yeah, sure, with the hat.’
‘Oh, okay, if it’s your thing.’
‘My thing? It keeps my head warm. Are trousers and jumpers your thing?’ There was a slow curl of the lip, as he continued to lean in a lackadaisical manner against the doorframe.
‘I meant, if you think more people will recognise you with it on. I want the friendly and informal nature of the company to come across on the website.’ She’d expected him to remove the hat, but now she thought about it, marketing Gildersleeve’s as a company of smartly dressed businessmen was missing the point. ‘It’s one of our strengths.’
‘You’re not going to plaster my mug shot all over social media though, are you? Johnny’s been banging on about our inadequate online presence for months but I’m rather more cautious when it comes to the power of the internet. It can make and it can break.’
‘Not if you don’t want me to. But don’t underestimate it as an advertising tool. And posts with people in always garner more likes than those without. We found that at the brewery.’
‘Ah, yes. Johnny told me you were a high-flying marketing assistant at Wickerman’s. Don’t know why you left a cushy number like that to come and work here? The promotion prospects aren’t great. And the canteen pretty much consists of that dodgy-looking biscuit tin in reception.’
‘It was a personal move.’ She shrugged. ‘Not every life decision has to be based on material or hierarchical gain.’
Both his eyebrows bobbed up to greet the hat. ‘Couldn’t agree more. Go on then. Snap away.’
‘And you’re sure you don’t want to um, freshen up?’
‘Nah. What you see is what you get. Crumpled shirt and all.’
She pulled the camera out from the low drawer in her tidy and ordered desk and put the flash on to compensate for the low light levels.
‘Macaroni cheese,’ he said. The button clicked a few times – she wanted to make sure she got a decent shot – and she let the camera drop. Their eyes held for a few moments until it became obvious neither had anything to say. Theo coughed as she bowed her head and began to scroll through the images.
‘Anyway, I came here for Arthur and he’s scuttled off. I need some help with shifting a dresser.’
‘Get one of the others to help,’ the accounts lady called from the front office. ‘They’re younger and stronger.’
Theo twisted his head back over his shoulder. ‘No, it’s Arthur I need. He’s the best in the business.’
On cue, Arthur shuffled back into reception and a wide grin spread across his wrinkled cheeks as he caught the end of the conversation. ‘Right you are, sir. I’ll be there straight away. I know we were mid-chat, Maisie, but I’m needed by the boss,’ Arthur apologised, and Maisie nodded a disappointed but understanding nod.
As they disappeared, Maisie uploaded the photo of Theo and her stomach flipped as she studied his twinkly green eyes and wide smile. She flapped the open neck of her blouse in an attempt to cool a sudden rush of heat from nowhere. Yep, she totally understood where the Wot a Lot! researcher was coming from …
Chapter 10
Staff were required to stay until eight for Thursday night viewings, so there was no time to artistically express her pent-up emotions in the spare room when she finally arrived home that night. After her unintentional assault on Theo, the consequent shake-up of her contented little work bubble and the complicated feelings she couldn’t quite decipher for her new boss, she had a burning desire to splash a lot of flare red about and then smear some sharp lines of black through the whole lot.
The following day was sale day. Friday was always the best day at any job but at Gildersleeve’s it was more so. It saw the culmination of all the hard work throughout the week, and buzzing staff milling about the premises as items hit higher prices tha
n expected and nail-biting bidding wars played out in the salerooms. Maisie was particularly excited about this week’s sale because Meredith’s teapot was one of the lots.
After offloading her embarrassing day on to Nigel, she wandered upstairs in search of a book that had occupied her thoughts since she’d stumbled on Meredith’s box of miscellaneous kitchenalia. When she was younger, it had lived under her pillow and only when she was certain Zoe was asleep, would she sneak her pink torch out from the bedside table drawer and take both book and torch deep under the covers. She knew the book so well she hadn’t looked at it much in recent years, but with thoughts of Meredith flooding her head, it was suddenly important for her to physically hold it again.
It was where she knew it would be, amongst the oversized volumes and nestled between a photography manual and a guide to logo design. Sometimes it was hard deciding whether to sort according to subject matter or size. Or – if she had her way and as impractical as it was – colour.
Flicking through the familiar pages, her hand tracing the images within, she realised the teapot and this book were so inextricably linked, that she simply must be the winning bidder on sale day. After all, it was her curiosity about the teapot that had led Meredith to give her the book in the first place.
‘Why does your pot only have a pattern on one side?’ Maisie asked Meredith, tipping her seven-year-old head to one side and drawing in her eyebrows as she’d seen her teacher do when she wanted the children to know they had her full attention.
Since Mummy and Daddy had decided to live apart (although Maisie was pretty sure Mummy had done most of the deciding) Maisie and her mum often popped in on Meredith in that delightful slice of the afternoon between walking back from school and the number fourteen bus dropping off her rowdy older siblings – when all peace and order was irrevocably shattered.
Maisie was the baby of the house. Her brother and sisters were born within five years, and then there was a gap of another five before she was even thought of – if indeed she’d been thought of at all. It meant she always felt slightly apart from the cluster. So with a houseful of hormonal teenagers, high-pitched screaming and the reverberating echoes of a drum kit being thrashed to within an inch of its life, Maisie trotted behind her mother whenever there was an offer of tea and sympathy next door. It was either sit in a strange old lady’s house and listen to boring grown-up conversation, get caught in the cross-fire of squabbling teenage girls playing tug-of-war with a much coveted halter-neck top, or get shouted at by Ben for walking in front of the PlayStation 2 screen.
Meredith smiled. ‘I suppose it does look rather unfinished. Almost as if the person painting it got bored and went off to do something else. But then that’s what I like most about it. It isn’t uniform or conventional.’
Grown-ups really used ordinary words in the most surprising of places. The only uniform Maisie knew anything about was the mustard-yellow polo shirt and bottle-green jumper she had to wear to school. She felt like a plate of salad in those dumb colours.
‘Gamma loved that it wasn’t dotted with pink flowers like every other tea service around. And yet my mother hated it for those very reasons. Drab old set, she would say. No colour on the damn thing at all. But things don’t have to be colourful to be beautiful. Think of black and white photographs – considerably more atmospheric than colour. And how striking a zebra is when compared to a horse. What do you think, Maisie?’
Even at her young age, she could tell Mrs Mayhew was a retired teacher. She was good at explaining things, would ask Maisie questions that made her think and often actively sought her opinion. Grown-ups normally didn’t care what she thought. If they did, Daddy would still be living at home.
Maisie put her best thinking face on to show her neighbour she was adult enough to take this question seriously – this time she allowed her eyebrows to rise up her forehead in a considered manner. Eyebrows, she noticed, did a lot of talking.
‘I love Lisa’s black and white stripy dress. I think she looks super cool. But colours are fun too. I like Coca-Cola because it’s in red shiny cans—’
‘Not that she drinks lots of fizzy drinks, Meredith,’ her mother interrupted, keen to be seen as a responsible and caring parent by their neighbour.
‘But if everything was black and white, like in the old days,’ Maisie continued, ‘you wouldn’t be able to tell things apart.’ Now wasn’t the time to admit she had lots of Coca-Cola at Daddy’s house. In fact, she pretty much got whatever she asked for, on the condition she didn’t run back and tell Mummy.
‘I do so love a child who knows her own mind,’ Meredith said, much to Maisie’s delight. ‘You are quite right, young lady. Variety is key. It doesn’t matter how wonderful something is, if it becomes too commonplace, it loses its appeal.’
‘Someone tell that to my wandering husband,’ her mum muttered, under her breath.
‘So if everyone had your teapot it wouldn’t be special any more?’ Maisie was trying to follow the logic. Just when she thought she’d grasped something, adults threw something else into the mix.
‘Exactly, and according to Gamma, this teapot is particularly interesting for reasons she never properly explained – at least not to me or my sisters. If she elaborated to my mother, sadly that information went with her to the grave.’ She stroked the spout, running her finger along it carefully, and let out a little sigh. ‘Gamma always rabbited on about finding someone to look after the whole set, but in the end, it passed to my mother and I can’t think of anyone less guardian-like she could have left it to. It was divided up between me and my sisters not long after Gamma died. But then I suppose at least it remained in the family even if it wasn’t together.’
‘You have sisters?’ gasped Maisie. Did old ladies have sisters? And if so, were they as much trouble as her own? Lisa, never mind drama queen, was a drama goddess, and kept blaming Mummy and Daddy’s quarrel for everything. And Zoe, rather boringly, had turned to exercise – as if she could work through her worries by pumping weights and running around the estate in Lycra. She was now far too busy to play with Maisie.
‘Five,’ Meredith replied. ‘Including me, that made six girls and I’m the oldest. Which is why I was given the teapot. Talking of which, it’s time to make a fresh brew. You look like you could use another cup, Beverley.’ Meredith swept up the tray of tea-making paraphernalia and returned to the kitchen.
Maisie was left wondering what made the teapot so special. Could you rub it and get three wishes, like Aladdin’s lamp? Or could you peer into it and see the future, like a crystal ball? She never did find out but perhaps it was one of those things said to a child merely to get an impressed, wide-eyed look. She’d fallen for all that nonsense before: unicorns and tooth fairies. Thank goodness Father Christmas wasn’t one of those silly stories made up by adults – she’d seen him with her own eyes.
A cheery rat-a-tat-tat at the back door interrupted Maisie’s memories and her mother, passing by after a late shift, let herself into the kitchen. As she snuck a home-baked cookie from the plastic tub on the side, Maisie entered. They faced each other and both gave weary smiles, her mother stepping forward to tuck a strand of Maisie’s loose hair behind her daughter’s ear.
‘Don’t hide your pretty face behind your hair. You’ll never get a boyfriend by hiding away.’
There had never been another man for her mother after the divorce; instead she’d launched herself back into the workplace to compensate. She once confided in her youngest daughter there had been a few tentative romantic offers over the years but no one had that dazzling smile, exuded that charming personality, or made her feel her insides would implode with longing as she entertained lustful and wanton thoughts when she was within a ten-metre radius of his intoxicating aftershave.
As soon as Maisie was at secondary school and relatively independent, her mother registered with a handful of job agencies, wondering what on earth she was qualified for with a cavernous twenty-year gap in her CV and no qualific
ations to speak of. Eventually, she took a part-time job in a local care home and over the years worked her way up to duty manager, having found her true vocation. The plus side of being a highly emotional person was she understood and respected the emotions of others. The old dears loved her, and Maisie’s mum, who had survived the horrible teenage years being repeatedly informed by her offspring that she was the worst mother ever, was loved again, by a myriad of doddery but tender-hearted residents.
‘How are things?’ her mum asked, as she slipped her coat off and helped herself to a second cookie. Her shoulders drooped and her face was pale and drawn.
‘Good,’ but Maisie didn’t return the question. It was obvious her mum had not had a good day. ‘Lost another one?’ she asked, flicking on the kettle.
‘Oh, sweetheart, sometimes I can’t bear it.’ Any pretence things were okay was now gone. A salty tear dribbled down her soft cheek and dangled from her jaw. ‘Such a darling. Thought she was still eighteen and didn’t understand why her mother never came to collect her. Every day she waited in reception, black leather quilted handbag at her feet, wringing her tiny hands together. She was the sweetest, meekest soul you’d ever find. And one of the few residents who wasn’t unduly alarmed by our in-house streaker. Honestly, he’s going to give someone a heart attack one of these days. Waving everything about and shouting, “Suck on this, ladies – dentures optional.”’
She tried to summon some joy from her heavy heart but it had clearly sunk too low for her to reach. Maisie embraced her mother and kissed the top of her head, noticing a few more wiry grey hairs. They gave a marbled appearance to her mum’s thick, wavy bob, but she was in pretty good shape for a woman of nearly sixty.