by Jenni Keer
‘Thank goodness. Where is he?’
She opened her hands to reveal a cradled Nigel, bright eyes like jet beads and, unusually for her immaculate house, cobwebs hanging from his whiskers.
‘He’s a hamster?’ Theo looked horrified. ‘I thought we were looking for a child!’
Chapter 30
Nigel was so exhausted by his impromptu expedition that he trundled into his tiny plastic house for a sleep whilst Theo examined the tea set.
‘Love the pattern,’ he said, turning a cup around in his hands. ‘I’m all for the asymmetrical, and challenging traditional design. I agree with Johnny – quirky but not old. I would guess at Eighties as well. The little symbol is curious. Not a factory mark or artist’s monogram because each one is different.’ He turned the cups and saucers over and started to match the symbols. All the cups had a matching saucer and the tea plates matched three of those.
‘Are they numbers?’ Maisie said.
‘I think it’s the Theban alphabet – you might know it as the witches’ alphabet? I recognise the little m shapes because we’ve had jewellery pass through our hands with these symbols on before.’
‘Witches’ alphabet? You are winding me up?’
‘Someone’s little joke, for sure. Wiccan symbols on a hip-hop design tea set, in a low-grade china that no one can trace. Something a modern potter knocked up when they were bored – a total mishmash of nonsense.’
‘But it’s over a hundred years old,’ Maisie insisted.
‘Nah. Eighties – maybe Seventies.’
‘This set is pre-World War One. Irene, Meredith and Essie all said so.’
Theo pulled his phone from his trouser pocket and with a lazy flick of his thumb he called up the Wiccan alphabet. His eye flicked between the black marks and his screen. ‘It’s just random letters that don’t make any sense,’ he said. ‘Collectable for curiosity value though. I’ll see what else I can find out. So …’ He flopped onto her sofa, dislodging her perfectly positioned cushions. Leaning back and lazily crossing one leg over the other, he asked, ‘What’s really going on in that spare room of yours?’
‘Never you mind,’ she said. ‘Let me pour you a drink whilst I start the food.’
There was now quite a lot of alcohol in the house. Lisa had persuaded her to add several bottles to the weekly shop, saying they could bond over a drink or two. They’d be cemented together if she wasn’t careful.
‘The Modern Design Sale was a great success,’ she said, deftly changing the subject. ‘I noticed the Mdina glass vase sold for two hundred – beautiful aquamarine blues and earthy browns swirling around in a bubble of clear glass – very reminiscent of the ocean.’ She handed him a glass of red.
‘Ella grew up by the sea and she said the same. Her tiny flat is an homage to the coast. Out of her price range though,’ Theo said, as Maisie tried not to mind that he’d been socialising with her elegant colleague outside work.
Maisie had noticed, however, Ella successfully bid for a couple of Nineteen-Forties wooden armchairs in the sale, the backs and seats upholstered in awful bobbly grey fabric. Nothing about the chairs had a coastal connection and Maisie wondered what Ella could possibly want with the ugly old things. If she could only get her colleague to engage in conversation she could ask, but every attempt was met with a panicked look and a mumbled excuse to be somewhere else.
‘I think the new series of Wot a Lot! airing last week has helped numbers through the door. Several people turned up eager to hunt you down,’ she said, pouring herself a small glass.
‘Yeah.’ Theo shrugged. ‘Three ladies asked for selfies. I refused, naturally, but I did sign two Gildersleeve’s leaflets and a woman’s arm.’
Maisie was irrationally jealous to hear he’d been scribbling all over some lovesick groupie and took an extra big gulp of her extra small wine.
‘And it’s two gold stars to you now,’ Theo said. ‘Some of the highest bidders were online. Mind you, some posh woman Johnny knows from Norfolk had her nose put out of joint when the competition pushed up the prices of the vintage fabrics. She’s used to getting the curtains for a steal.’
‘But the lively atmosphere was down to the locals and specialist dealers you’d contacted ahead of the sale,’ she conceded. ‘And possibly the breathless groupies.’
They exchanged a smile, happy they could be accepting of each other’s point of view.
‘A few of the pieces were from Meredith Mayhew’s estate,’ he said. ‘Arthur told me about your connection with the teapot. I held them back for this sale; the Danish teak cabinet and the Ercol dining chairs.’
‘Johnny’s fusty country-made antiques and twiddly, over-fussy Victoriana are delightful in their own way, but I’m postmodern all the way and enjoy artists and designers who challenge tradition,’ she admitted. ‘I like the way an abstract can screw with your head in a way that something like a Stubbs never could. He painted a horse and it looked like a horse – there’s no room for any other interpretation.’
‘Really? I didn’t have you pegged as that sort of girl at all. You seem too ordered and tidy-minded to appreciate a canvas splattered with random dribbles of colour – Johnny’s take on modern art, by the way, not mine.’
Maisie gave a smug smile. She liked the thought she wasn’t totally readable and could surprise people. It was easy to label a neat freak as boring and she was far from that.
‘Meredith showed me a Kandinsky many years ago and it was the first time I’d seen art that didn’t look like a recognisable object and it stuck with me – probably even subconsciously influencing my chequerboard kitchen floor. I’ve really enjoyed learning more about twentieth-century design since working at Gildersleeve’s. But then, it’s all about context and setting. The simple lines of Meredith’s G Plan furniture never struck me before because her house was so cluttered that the objects were lost. Take a few statement pieces and arrange them in a tidy, ordered space and they can really shine.’
‘Yeah, I had noticed you were a bit OCD. Can’t find a darn thing in the office now you’ve started fussing around the place.’ He smiled to reassure her he was teasing. ‘As for some great post-war design – you must come to my house one day – it’s crammed full of interesting bits and pieces. I buy things because I love them and then find I don’t have anywhere to put them.’ He rolled his eyes.
If Theo lived in a cluttered postmodernist house and Johnny, who she knew from snatched conversations, lived in a period thatched cottage in a tiny village on the outskirts of Tattlesham, full of Georgian dark wood country furniture and dripping with Victorian artefacts, then their friendship, as well as their working life, would be all the richer. She could see that now.
‘Don’t you find it comical,’ she continued her musings, ‘that Johnny is the one embracing technology when, by rights, he should be listening to a wind-up gramophone and walking about with a Wee Willie Winkie candlestick holder, and you’re the one who struggles with it.’
‘I’m just wary of it, that’s all.’
‘You watch too many dystopian conspiracy films,’ said Maisie. ‘Probably on an eight-millimetre cine film reel.’ She was slipping back into the easy relationship she’d had with her boss before her world was nudged by the revelation he wasn’t Johnny’s boyfriend. And it felt fantastic.
‘Actually, I love a good film. I spent a lot, and I mean a lot, of time watching TV as a kid. Mum’s idea of a babysitter, I guess. I’m currently re-watching my entire Eighties Betamax collection.’
‘So why the Eighties? I know it’s your favourite era but you weren’t born until the end of the decade.’
‘I guess because it was when my parents did their living, before they were lumbered with a kid, so I was heavily influenced by the Eighties growing up. I’m all-embracing when it comes to that period – even my house is 1985. A typical half-timber clad box with an integral garage – what’s not to love? And it’s full of funky furniture in bold primary colours. Can’t be doing with this mod
ern trend for shades of grey …’
‘Indeed, at least fifty different shades, I’m reliably informed.’
Theo groaned. ‘You know what I mean.’
Maisie wiggled her eyebrows. ‘I suspect I do.’
She began the risotto, Theo following her out to the kitchen and leaning against the doorframe as she tossed a large knob of butter in the pan and added a splash of extra virgin.
‘We now have nearly a thousand Twitter followers,’ she said, as the rice slid into the pan and the creamy smell of melted butter curled around the room. ‘And Arthur is going down a storm.’
‘Don’t push your luck, young lady. Still not convinced about that one. I’m all for fun but let’s keep it professional, eh? I have to look out for the old fella. He gets enough stick from Johnny, who between you and me was never happy about his appointment in the first place.’
‘Then why on earth did he get the job?’ Maisie was confused.
Theo looked down at his feet and let out a long breath, shrugging his shoulders in resignation. ‘Because he desperately needed one.’
Maisie frowned, stirring the rice and adding the first ladleful of hot stock. Theo looked up.
‘I’ve lived around the corner from Arthur for a couple of years now. Lovely chap, worked at the foundry all his life. No trouble to anyone and always happy to help shovel snow from a neighbour’s drive, or rummage through his shed for the right-sized washer to mend a leaky tap – that kind of thing. He retired not long after I bought the house and I used to stop and chat to him as he pottered about his front garden. He would talk about his life, always cheery and positive, never self-pitying. But I noticed his non-stop chatting could come across as an ambush – especially to those rushing past on their way to work, or busy young mothers with a trillion and one demands on their time.’
Poor Arthur. He was so desperate to make friends but his need for conversation was such that he often forgot to let the other person contribute.
‘I’ve seen passing neighbours call out a cheery hi and find themselves sucked into a forty-five-minute conversation,’ Theo said. ‘You’ve seen him do it at work. It took me a while, but eventually I realised he was pottering out the front on purpose. The flower beds were so over-tended that weeds didn’t bother to try. The gardening didn’t need tending – the old man did.’
‘I don’t understand. He’s got his wife and his hobbies.’
‘But after his retirement, I guess she needed space too. And Arthur is a proud man. His job kept him going, made him feel useful and gave his life a purpose. When that finished he was lost.’
‘I agree, he doesn’t look for sympathy. He told me they’d had a stillborn but barely paused to acknowledge it,’ Maisie said.
‘He only mentioned Primrose to me once and that was because he was dead-heading some at the time, but he gabbled on, like with you, and there wasn’t an opportunity for me to offer any words of condolence. Their tale had a happy ending, however, because I happen to know Pam spends a lot of time with their surviving daughter.’
Maisie was beginning to understand. Theo had offered Arthur a job, even though Gildersleeve’s didn’t technically need him. It made her like him even more.
‘But don’t think for a moment it’s a one-way street. He may not be productive in terms of wardrobe lifting or organisation but Arthur has other strengths. When he chats to customers, he remembers what they are looking for and is able to point out items of interest in the sale. He’s also quite knowledgeable and either answers their questions or finds someone who can. Gildersleeve’s would be lost without him – as would I. He’s like a surrogate dad to me.’ It was another indirect reference to a family life Theo never elaborated on.
‘You really are as lovely as Johnny says you are,’ and she gave him the biggest, widest smile, briefly resting her hand on top of his warm fingers. The delicious smells weren’t the only thing circling the space between them. There was an invisible mist of pheromones that were equally enticing. Neither of them moved for a moment until the sizzle from the pan reminded her that the meal needed her attention.
Maisie focused on her culinary efforts and within a few minutes Theo was making appreciative noises as he scooped up forkfuls of risotto, the tea set returned to its shelf as they sat at her tiny dining table.
‘Do you always eat in here – setting the table with five-star restaurant pretensions? The only thing missing is the fish fork,’ he joked.
‘That’s because there is no fish course.’ Her face was inscrutable. She didn’t mind him teasing her because there was no edge to his comments, and so she played along, enjoying their gentle teasing. ‘Quite frankly, I’m surprised you knew what the napkin was for.’
He broke first, unable to stop a smile creeping out from the edges of his mouth.
‘Yeah, well, my childhood was more food on the go. I was one of those kids who appreciated the leak-proof inner of the Coco Pops packet because it meant less washing-up.’
‘Seriously? Oh, Theo. You need a good woman to take you in hand.’
‘Are you offering?’
And there it was again – the pheromone-thick atmosphere making it hard to focus on anything other than his aftershave and those mesmerising green eyes. There was silence as she contemplated her response. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced they would be a good fit.
‘I’d quite like—’
There was a crash as the front door was flung open and Lisa tumbled into the room. Theo stood up immediately and Maisie didn’t get to finish her sentence.
‘Sorry to interrupt the shagging but I ran out of money. Settle the taxi for me – there’s a doll,’ she said to Maisie, before sliding onto the sofa and beaming at Theo. ‘It’s about time my little sis got back on the horse after that two-timing rat cheated on her. You must be the mysterious bloke she won’t talk about.’
Maisie’s insides imploded. Lisa wasn’t particularly tactful at the best of times, but slightly intoxicated all discretion went out the window.
‘Theo is my boss,’ she emphasised.
‘Oh,’ Lisa hiccupped, ‘so it’s someone else you’ve got your eye on?’
Maisie let her sister’s misconception hang there. She’d deal with her feelings for Theo in her own way and in her own time. Perhaps it would keep Theo on his toes if he thought there was competition.
As she pondered this, an angry taxi horn pipped in the distance. Lisa looked expectantly at Maisie, who huffed out to the hall to locate her purse.
Chapter 31
Lisa politely refused Maisie’s invitation to join her at Willow Tree House on the Sunday afternoon – she didn’t do old people apparently, but Maisie knew she was missing out. The residents were always interesting to talk to and many had led fascinating lives. It was all too easy to look at a worn-out body and forget there was still an active mind and vibrancy within. Plus, Naked Man was stalking Irene and their interchanges were highly amusing. His puppy-dog adoration of the sharp-tongued old lady also had an upside for their mother, as she no longer spent half her shift chasing him down. As long as she knew where Irene was, Naked Man was invariably close by.
Lisa chose instead to visit their dad – greatly amused by the mystery reconciliation between her parents. She returned with several bags of shopping, undoubtedly funded by their father, and all of which were promptly scattered across the living room.
Maisie wanted to scream and shout and give her sister a hefty kick up the backside. She sighed as non-matching towels were pulled from her airing cupboard and used with gay abandon. Things weren’t returned to their rightful places, and if they were, they were returned carelessly; books in the wrong order (yes, there was an order to where they lived on the shelf), and cutlery thrown in the drawer and not placed in the correct compartments or even the right way up. She grumbled a couple of times to Lisa, who nodded and said ‘absolutely’ a lot, but still did very little. Ultimately, it was easier to clear up herself.
By the end of t
he weekend, Maisie’s adequate two-bedroomed mid-terrace felt more like a tiny one-man tent, and judging by the state of most of the rooms – a tent at a particularly debaucherous music festival. Returning from the care home she’d also detected a suspiciously festival-like odour drifting from the bathroom and spotted an empty vodka bottle in the rubbish. Her sister clearly felt she was on holiday and was determined to kick back and enjoy herself.
As she sat at her desk that Monday, a million thoughts tumbled around in Maisie’s head and were, apparently, equally visible across her face; from the frustration of her scattered family to the worries about her parents’ truce, from her concerns about Lisa’s real reasons for descending to the turmoil her visit was bringing into Maisie’s ordered little life.
‘Come on – spill.’
Theo leaned a lazy arm up against the back wall of the office and grinned at Maisie as he ripped open a packet of cheese and onion crisps and started to toss them into his open mouth. She knew she was bringing her grumpy mood to work with her but couldn’t help it.
‘Spill what?’
‘Whatever’s got our sunny Maisie all gloomy and introspective.’
Maisie shook her head and straightened the papers in front of her so the bottoms were parallel to the edge of the desk.
‘We can do it in the abstract if it helps,’ he offered. ‘You know? “I have this friend whose chaotic sister has descended …” But you seriously need to offload to someone. You’re giving off the vibe of a coiled spring that’s been stood on by an elephant.’
He’d been understanding about Lisa’s dramatic appearance on Friday night, discreetly excusing himself not long after she’d tumbled into the room. Maisie suspected Lisa’s tactile nature, and the silky dress just about clinging on to her body as she pawed at him, had hastened his decision to leave. But then he’d eaten the meal and cast his eye over the tea set, so what reason did he have to stay?
‘I’m fine. Honestly.’
Theo studied her face for a while and then shrugged his shoulders as he tipped his head back to pour the crisp crumbs into his open mouth. He screwed up the packet and tossed it onto the corner of his desk. Maisie looked at him, deliberately not focusing on the abandoned litter. A whole five seconds ticked by, Theo clearly trying to process why Maisie was giving him the eyeball, and then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the packet and bent down to place it in the waste-paper basket she’d optimistically placed under his desk the week before. The tiniest flicker of a smile played with the corner of her mouth.