by Jenni Keer
‘Viral?’ Maisie had been so busy she hadn’t checked since posting it.
‘Maybe not viral,’ he admitted, ‘but it’s been retwittered twenty-eight times and had even more likes.’
Their usual retweet rate was about four, if they were lucky. Twenty-eight in the space of a day was incredible.
‘People are the key,’ she said, putting her best I Am A Wise Marketing Manager face on. ‘Put someone in the photo and you get more engagement. The staff here are friendly, charming and quirky – it’s one of our biggest assets. We need to use this to our advantage.’ She looked up at his mossy eyes and tried not to look too smug. ‘Johnny is an adorable if somewhat Victorian character, all smart and wordy – like an auctioneer should be, and Arthur is chatty and game for anything …’
‘And me?’ he said, earnestly searching her face in response, like he always did when talking to people. A tightness pulled across her chest and there was a silent beat before he spoke again. ‘I’ve been told the camera loves me.’ And then, as if to break the moment, he pulled a ridiculous pouty face, flinging his head back like a diva, with that sheepskin hair of his going absolutely nowhere.
‘You? Hmm …’ She considered her response. He was photogenic and unconventional. She understood why the television company selected him. His cockiness was tongue in cheek because he was down to earth, engaging and – if she was totally honest with herself – quite good-looking. Those eyes – whirlpools of green. And, yeah, despite battling the demons of her inner OCD, the odd sock thing was secretly rather endearing.
‘You’re okay.’ She shrugged. ‘You know? If there’s nothing better available – like a used teabag.’
He punched her playfully on the arm and hopped off the desk.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, yanking his crumpled T-shirt straight, ‘I might let you show me how to post on our social media platforms.’
How very gracious of him.
Chapter 21
Of all the daft activities Nigel partook in, this was the most bonkers. Maisie smiled as he scampered into the middle of his large ceramic food bowl and fell backwards, effectively doing a backflip out onto the sawdust-covered cage floor. Without pausing for applause, he flipped to his front, and launched himself at the bowl again. This, much like his other gymnastic displays, could go on for several minutes.
The contrast of the frenetic auction house to her silent, tiny terraced house was stark. At least she had Nigel to offload to, even though his acquisition had been forced upon her by a guilt-tripping neighbour. The young family next door had bought a kitten a few months ago and Nigel had proved to be the tempting takeaway treat Minky just couldn’t quite get his paws on. After a close shave, the young mum asked her if she knew anyone who would take Nigel on as a matter of urgency because ‘the damn cat’ had worked out how to open the cage door. Cats were too independent for Maisie’s liking and dogs were too messy. A hamster she could just about manage.
‘You are such an attention seeker,’ Maisie joked, casting an eye over her shoulder, flicking through an Antiques Trade Gazette. He was an excellent listener and it was important to have something to talk to, even if it was a four-inch lump of hyperactive fluff that had Olympic-level gymnastic aspirations. He’d been such a life-saver when the whole Gareth thing kicked off.
Her fuzzy orange friend came to the edge of his cage, his tiny paws dangling in front of his splayed white whiskers, and his nose twitching and sniffing the air – ever hopeful of stuffing his expandable cheeks with tasty treats – like fluffy bags for life. Maisie was certain he could smell the lingering aroma of the raspberry and white chocolate muffins she’d baked earlier.
Post the horrifying tonsil-tickling scene in the basement of Wickerman’s, an apologetic Gareth had scampered after her up the stairs, words of justification tumbling from his unfaithful lips. Eight months of toying with each other, of shy looks and accidental-on-purpose body contact. And another six months of a burgeoning relationship where she truly believed she’d found someone she had a future with. And then total betrayal. Remaining in the job had been impossible; he was the team leader and their desks were opposite each other, for goodness’ sake. No, she’d been right to quit. And as an article about the sale of David Bowie’s estate in the Gazette caught her eye, the passion she had for all aspects of her new job was proof of that.
The magazine was a couple of years out of date but it mentioned the sale of his extensive late-twentieth-century furniture collection. The pieces were colourful and quirky: clean lines and geometric shapes, in plastics and laminates. It appealed to her, more than the fusty antique furniture that Johnny got excited about – even after he’d explained that the centuries-old ring marks and worm holes were part of the appeal.
‘Why would one be tempted to procure antiques if they’ve been cleaned back and polished to look like new?’ he said. ‘Because the kicks and scratches, the patina and frayed edges tell of its age and hint of its past life. All part of the charm, dah-ling, part of the charm.’
Secretly, Maisie wanted to say why indeed? Buy new. Cup rings freaked her out and were the reason she placed coasters on every surface her mother night be tempted to rest her coffee mug. But she understood why people wanted their valuable antiques to look antique.
‘Did you know David Bowie studied art and design before his music career took off?’ Maisie said aloud, even though she was the only human being in the room. She was looking at an image of the Peter Shire ‘Big Sur’ sofa – primary colours, geometric shapes and a curious asymmetry. It instantly reminded her of the Kandinsky from the book Meredith had given her all those years ago, because it wasn’t the impressionists that she returned to again and again, it was the cubists and abstract artists. In fact, the spine was creased so definitely down its length that the book fell open at the Kandinsky every single time.
Meredith had assured her young self it was okay not to understand what was going on in a painting and that had been liberating to the point where Maisie actively preferred art when she had no clue what she was looking at and her mind was free to play with and interpret the shapes and colours as she saw fit. What was even more liberating was that one day an abstract painting might resemble a landscape – as the artist intended – but another day, perhaps coupled with a change of Maisie’s mood, it would be simply litter on a beach.
The doorbell went and she put the magazine down to receive her guest.
‘I’m early, aren’t I?’ Arthur looked anxious, standing in her fastidiously swept two-metre-square concrete area of front garden, the former flower border now a strip of blue slate with a single low-growing shrub in the centre. His shirt was crumpled and he was clutching a terracotta flowerpot.
‘Not at all, come in.’ Maisie opened the door to her narrow house, and because the hall didn’t give space for her to step aside, she turned and led the way to the kitchen. Without her dad’s generous contribution to the rent deposit she would still be living with her mum and knew she was lucky to have this minuscule mid-terrace to call her own.
‘This is for you. It’s from my garden. I potted it up after you said you liked them.’ Arthur held out the flowerpot, which she could now see contained a primrose. ‘Before you know it you’ll have a nice little patch of them. They’re fine with a bit of shade, and like damp soil. The name comes from the Latin, prima rosa, meaning the first rose of the year. Isn’t that pretty? It will flower in the next few weeks. April the nineteenth is national Primrose Day and we had a little stillborn many years ago in April so we called her Primrose …’
‘How thoughtful,’ Maisie said, taking the gift but not knowing what to say about the last piece of heart-breaking information. She placed it on a folded newspaper on the kitchen table. But Arthur wasn’t after sympathy and didn’t pause for platitudes. She began the tea-making ritual – first swishing out Meredith’s pot with hot water.
‘When I was a boy, the banks were full of them, especially down by the river. Mother used to pick them – which of
course you can’t do nowadays – and put them in little green glass vases on the kitchen windowsill. “And in the wood, where often you and I upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie …” That’s a bit of Shakespeare, that is. Don’t reckon you expected a washed-up old boy like me to know anything cultural?’
‘You’re not washed up, Arthur, or old. Age is merely a number,’ Maisie said, this time rolling out a platitude, as the conversation wasn’t as delicate. ‘You are a very valuable member of the Gildersleeve’s team. I know Theo thinks an awful lot of you.’
There was the hint of a smile and he reached out his knobbly hand to spin the flowerpot forty-five degrees, as though positioning the plant just so was the most important thing at that moment.
‘We’re going to use the black and white cups as you were so clever to spot them,’ Maisie said, lifting them down from the shelf and placing them in front of Arthur. The tea had brewed, the muffins were placed on a smaller white tea plate (as she felt it co-ordinated sufficiently with the tea set) and two white napkins were taken from the drawer under the cutlery. She poured the tea.
‘To Meredith.’ She lifted her cup to toast the lady who had played a small but significant part in her youth, and who had possibly saved her mother from a total breakdown at a difficult time in their lives. ‘A good friend to me in times gone by. And to Irene for the cups, even though she doesn’t particularly like them.’
‘Irene and Meredith?’ Arthur’s voice sounded unsure as his eyes narrowed. ‘Not the Mayhew sisters?’
‘You know them?’ She jerked her head back, nearly slopping tea into her saucer.
‘Everybody about these parts knew the Mayhew sisters.’ He laughed. ‘They were a rum lot. I still see Essie about town occasionally, but not to talk to. I feel a bit shy about approaching her after all these years. I’m not rightly sure I’d know what to say …’
He didn’t have that problem with anyone else but she didn’t like to point that out. ‘You’re one of the friendliest people I’ve ever come across and I’ve never known you to be backwards in coming forwards.’
‘Ah, well, we have history. She was practically the same age as me and I rather set my cap at her when we were younger but never quite got up the courage to ask her out, and then she met Frank and that particular boat sailed far out to sea, with me still standing on the shore.’
This unexpected connection made her feel optimistic about her quest. If nothing else, Arthur knowing the Mayhews was another potential source of leads.
‘Went to school with the youngest four,’ he continued, ‘but there was a big gap between them and the oldest girls – it was the war, you understand? Their dad was on the Western Front. Lucky to come back when so many young men didn’t. And them girls were all pretty as postcards, but some more headstrong than a bull chasing a cow in heat through the pasture …’ Which certainly conjured up an interesting image of the sisters.
Maisie explained how the set had been split between the Mayhew girls many years ago, how Meredith had recently passed away and about her visit to Irene.
‘How sad. I liked Meredith. Always full of interesting bits of information – you could tell she was a teacher.’ He took a long, slow sip of his tea and his eyes brightened up. ‘I wonder if Essie and Frank still live on the Forest estate? Maybe I’ll pop by one day when I’m feeling brave. And I could get the bus to Willow Tree House to see Irene. Goodness—’ he chuckled to himself ‘—it must be nearly fifty years – always was the rebellious twin. A pretty gal in her day though. Wanted to be a model but a bit thin for my tastes.’ It was nice to know there were men out there who appreciated the curvier woman.
‘And the other sisters?’ Maisie wondered if Arthur had any useful information to impart.
‘Phyllis and Joanie were the quiet ones. But Phyllis never stood a chance – picked a bully as a husband. Cynthia got ill, I think, but I don’t rightly remember the details. They all seemed to have a run of bad luck, what with one thing and another. And then there was Essie …’ His voice trailed off. Maisie waited but he didn’t elaborate. He took a swig of his tea and broke out into another smile. ‘But there. Doesn’t do to dwell.’
‘More tea, Arthur? I know Saturdays are your shopping days and I don’t want Pam worrying.’
‘You’re all right, love. She knows I was stopping to see you before I went into town. More tea would be lovely. It will give me a chance to tell you all about my time at Gildersleeve’s and some of the wonderful things I’ve been learning …’ and he settled back into the chair – clearly going nowhere for the immediate future.
Chapter 22
As the calendar hurtled towards an early Easter, Johnny asked Maisie if she was available to work the Sunday before the bank holiday weekend.
‘Are we behind then?’ she queried, thinking that between them Gildersleeve’s seemed much more efficient and orderly since her arrival in January, despite the imminent online catalogue launch.
‘On the contrary although, lamentably, the work I speak of will be unpaid …’ Her heart sank. ‘Off site …’ She perked up. ‘And I will delve into the deepest pocket of my twin pleated trousers, brush down my calf leather wallet and treat you to lunch.’
It sounded intriguing. ‘Okay, you’re on.’
The Easter weekend was set to be hectic. Zoe and Oliver were due back and her mum had organised a welcome home party for the bank holiday Monday. She’d also roped Maisie into a myriad of craft activities for the care home when she’d popped round unexpectedly the previous evening – catching an embarrassed Maisie mid-splatterings and forcing her to leap into the shower to scrub away at the lemon-yellow hue from her elbows. They’d made some interesting shapes on the canvas – and let’s face it, if Jackson Pollock could walk across his paintings and incorporate a few cigarette butts to connect with his art, her elbows were fair game. Sometimes she got so carried away, with her rock music on full blast, and so swept up with the emotions her art unleashed that other body parts had been employed as well.
Her mum had stopped asking to see her paintings because Maisie continually protested she was still in the experimental stage – they weren’t ready to be seen. However, she was pretty sure her mother was expecting twee watercolours of Tattlesham landmarks or beautifully arranged fruit bowls. Not the enthusiastic efforts of a disturbed four-year-old on amphetamines.
‘Any chance my clever Mary Berry-esque daughter could rustle up some cakes for the Easter cake sale?’ her mother had asked, as she’d scrambled downstairs and into the living room, hair up in a towel turban and mumbling excuses for not hearing her mother’s shouts. ‘I know it’s a couple of weeks away but I’m giving you plenty of notice. And if you’re free on the Sunday, I’d love you to judge the Easter bonnet competition? Some of the old dears have already started making paper flowers. They take it all very seriously …’ So, of course, she’d agreed.
Maisie returned her thoughts to Johnny’s mysterious off-site work commitment. ‘So what will we be doing? A probate valuation?’
‘No, you, myself and the Adonis of a man we know as Theodore shall be heading out to the glorious east coast of this fair county to peruse the prestigious Aldeburgh Antiques and Fine Art Fair. I go every year to keep my eye on the current retail prices and to talk to the dealers about shifts in the market. It is always most enlightening and they do serve the most exquisite ethically farmed home-made sausage rolls.’
Maisie couldn’t deny a flash of exhilaration when she heard Theo was going to be part of the excursion. Finally – an opportunity to see how the romantic landscape lay.
That Sunday, Johnny drove them to the coast in his sleek but dated Mercedes. An exuberant fair organiser greeted the men like long-lost friends before walking them down a long corridor to an enormous stand-fitted hall in the private school where the event was being held.
Maisie gazed agog at the rows and rows of stands, each with their company name above their allocated six-by-ten-foot space. There was everything from English count
ry furniture to clocks, early metal-ware to erotic art. They wandered around the venue at a leisurely pace, talking to the dealers and picking their brains. Maisie listened patiently to the immaculately turned-out lady complaining she couldn’t shift her bow-fronts but had seen a revival in oriental, and to a stout bespectacled man from the television who announced the bottom had fallen out of the cut glass market.
Three hours later, Theo and Maisie sat in the pop-up café eating delicious hot sausage rolls whilst Johnny indulged in the world’s most generous slice of coffee and walnut cake at a neighbouring table with the organiser.
‘I know he seems to be coping after the split but underneath he’s struggling. Seven years is a long time to be with someone,’ said Theo, looking fondly at his flamboyant friend.
‘It will take him a while to readjust,’ Maisie agreed. ‘I came out of a relationship at Christmas. It’s hard.’ It wasn’t that she missed Gareth any more, but after all those months of someone to confide in, someone to hold her, she felt a keen loneliness that was almost worse than her single days before she’d been with him. Nigel was a good listener but his scrappy little arms were never going to cut the mustard in the hug department.
Theo studied her face again and scrunched up his brow. ‘Yes, I guess time and space are needed after any break-up.’
‘He’s lucky to have a friend like you,’ she said. ‘How did you meet?’
‘Gildersleeve’s were looking for a part-timer and I needed some cash, so I fitted the job around my A Levels. Johnny and I hit it off big time and he gave me holiday work through uni. Any career plans I thought I had were totally banjaxed when I was slowly but inadvertently sucked into this fascinating and glorious world. Fast forward fifteen years and the auction house is my life.’
Theo pulled his gaze away from the animated Johnny, who was turquoise legs akimbo and spouting his usual exotic vocabulary, and locked eyes with Maisie again.