by Jenni Keer
Maisie was heavy-hearted, and still hadn’t got over Arthur’s tragic revelation. She’d had a long conversation with Theo, both racked with guilt and thinking how awful it must be to have no one. At least Irene had Essie and, if she sanded down her jaggedy bits, possibly Joanie.
‘I have most of the set now and am only missing Cynthia’s plates,’ Maisie said to the wheezy Irene. Naked Man was sound asleep in the corner chair, covered with a crocheted blanket. ‘But with everything you’ve told me, I can’t imagine tracking them down so I guess this is where their story ends. But I will use the pieces I have and think fondly of Meredith when I do.’
It was frustrating to be so close yet so far away. She was convinced Verity’s tea set had been the key to reuniting her own family and that it had chosen her, all those years ago in Meredith’s front room.
‘I suppose I’m pleased you’re pleased,’ said Irene, tutting at the tulips for the umpteenth time. They’d been unceremoniously dumped in a vase, still in their cellophane and not so much as a ‘How kind’. Some people were simply not flower people.
There was a knock at the door and Maisie’s mum popped in with a tray of tea and biscuits.
‘Thought I’d join you for a cuppa on my tea break. Lisa has a queue halfway down the corridor so I daren’t hold her up or she’ll be here until one or both of us turn into pumpkins. Aren’t you interested in a make-over, Irene?’ she asked, sliding the tray onto the table between them.
‘Had enough make-up slapped over my face to last a lifetime. Besides, not over keen on being sat in front of a mirror, staring at a reminder that ton-ups in the dark, without a helmet, high on drugs wasn’t my finest hour.’
‘Ton-ups?’ Maisie’s mother enquired.
‘Hitting a hundred miles an hour on the back of a lad’s motorbike. You had to get your thrills where you could in them days.’
‘Anyone for a Jammy Dodger?’ Maisie’s mum asked, as she settled into the spare chair next to her daughter. Irene grabbed a handful. ‘Don’t let me forget the time, though. I have a meeting at eleven with a gentleman interested in initiating an Adopt a Gran scheme.’
Irene embarked on a prolonged coughing fit. ‘Adopt a Gran? Bloody bonkers, if you ask me. Adopt something useful, like a puppy or an elephant in Sri Lanka. We’re all past our prime. It would be like adopting an empty tube of toothpaste. We all know we’re here to die.’
‘Come now, Irene.’ Maisie’s mum jollied the old lady along. ‘Everyone is going to pass away at some point. No need to get maudlin about it. Some of our residents have been here for years, enjoying a rich and fulfilled life. Just because you need a bit of help to get about doesn’t mean you’re no use to anyone.’
‘Rubbish. I’m not going to be doing any enjoying of anything any time soon. And I don’t count endless games of stupid bingo or sticking paper flowers on Easter straw bonnets fulfilling. Much rather be nursing a bottle of gin or playing poker for fags. I don’t even have the energy to take advantage of my naked stalker.’ She nodded over to her sleeping boyfriend. ‘Besides, the sodding tubes and bottles would only get in the way. Fancy that,’ she mused, ‘never thought I’d be too old for a no-strings offer of sex.’
‘Some of the younger generations don’t have older family around, Irene,’ Maisie’s mum chastised, ignoring the sex reference. ‘There are people out there who have lost parents and grandparents and are looking to fill that gap in their lives. It’s not all for your benefit, you know. You have a wisdom and a life experience that could benefit those prepared to listen. Just because you can’t cartwheel down the corridor, doesn’t mean you aren’t useful.’
‘Hrumph,’ muttered Irene.
‘I’m genuinely excited by the scheme,’ her mum said to Maisie. ‘We’ve got several residents who never have visitors and it breaks my heart when they don’t get so much as a Christmas card.’ There was a familiar moistness around her mum’s eyes and Maisie wondered if she ever made it through a whole day without crying.
‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ said Maisie, thinking of Arthur.
Still relatively young and sprightly at seventy, would there come a time when he found himself in a care home with no family to visit? Perhaps before he’d met Theo and her this might have been his fate, but she knew neither of them would let that happen now. Poor Theo, she’d never seen him look so upset – blaming himself for missing the signs and lamenting the loneliness of old age.
After a few minutes of tea and chatter, there was a knock at the door and it swung open to reveal a slim girl in a navy blue and white care home tunic.
‘Your appointment has arrived, Beverley.’
Maisie and her mother walked together down the long, carpeted corridor towards the main reception.
‘I’ll drop Lisa back later,’ said her mum.
‘Really? I don’t think she was planning on staying for long.’
‘It’s her idea. She doesn’t want to disappoint anyone.’
Maisie shrugged. She knew Lisa was struggling, rattling around the house all day, but had rather expected her to find a more self-serving outlet for her energies.
‘And it’s kind of you to visit Irene. She’s not the easiest person to get along with. There are so many chips on her shoulder you could serve them with a nice piece of battered fish.’
‘I don’t mind. I find the history of the Mayhews both interesting and terribly sad, and she did give me her cups and saucers for nothing. I feel sorry for her and wonder how her life would have turned out if she hadn’t come flying off the back of a motorbike and lost her promising career. I saw some of her modelling photos. She was very pretty, in a gawky, baby-owl-eyed way. Fancy having it all snatched away.’
‘You can’t spend your time thinking about what ifs, love. Maybe she’d have been picked up, been the next Twiggy, led a hedonistic life and ended up dead of a drug overdose at twenty-five.’
It was true. You couldn’t regret the might have beens because there was no certainty the outcome would have been any happier.
They rounded the corridor and her mother typed a four-digit combination into a tiny keypad to allow them access to the reception area.
Maisie looked over to the corner seating where a scruffy young man was sprawled across the sofa, one leg flung carelessly across the other.
‘Theo, isn’t it?’ her mum said, extending a hand. ‘Come through.’
Chapter 41
‘Adopt a Gran?’ Maisie placed a steaming, smoky-smelling mug of hot coffee on her desk, as she spoke to the top of Theo’s springy head.
He didn’t look up from where he was countersigning a pile of cheques and broke out in a broad grin.
‘No thanks. I’ve just got myself a shiny new one.’
‘Shiny maybe. New? Old Mrs Leggit is ninety, if she’s a day.’
‘I had no idea of your connection to Willow Tree House, by the way. It was just after Arthur and everything …’ He looked lost and Maisie wanted to scoop him up and hug him.
She slipped into her swivelly chair and nudged his elbow. ‘It’s sweet. I think it’s a great idea. Mum is always desperate for visitors to help with activities at the home. She’s even managed to rope Lisa in.’
Theo scratched his head with the end of his Biro. ‘Yeah, one of my better ideas. Mutually beneficial though; she’s an amazing old bird. Lived a colourful life. Grew up in the west country and mixed with some of the great post-war potters, including Bernard Leach. Thought I might get her pass stamped and bring her to an auction viewing. Women love poking around other people’s possessions and reliving memories.’
‘Let’s hope it’s not a week when we have another coffin in then, or the poking might lead to premonition rather than a memory.’ Theo gave her a mock-stern look. ‘I was joking,’ Maisie said hastily.
‘Pretty sure the coffin was a one-off.’
‘Like me – I’m a one-off,’ she said, tossing back her head and pulling a playful pout.
‘Yeah,’ Theo said, and then cleared
his throat. ‘Arthur said you’ve given up on the last of the tea set. That’s not going to sit well with the lady who broke out in a cold sweat when she saw that chess set was missing a bishop last week.’
‘I like things to match and be whole. It’s not a crime.’
‘You do know that that’s the joy of antiques?’
‘What is?’
‘Their imperfections. If they all survived beautifully intact and looked as good as the day they were made, not only would people not believe their age, but they would also lose something. Think of a highly scrubbed pine refectory table or a well-thumbed book. They’ve lived a life and been appreciated.’ He looked at her intently for a few moments and then lazily shoved his chair back. ‘I want to show you something. Come with me.’
They walked over to Saleroom Two. Now that summer was heading their way, each trip to the barns was a sunshine-soaked joy. Her vitamin D levels had definitely increased since her time at Wickerman’s. Every breath in this rural idyll was clean and somehow green, even when combined with dubious odours from the countryside.
‘This is a set of harlequin chairs,’ Theo said, as they walked inside, pointing to a set of six chairs that she now recognised were peculiar to East Anglia. Several had gone through their hands since she’d been working at Gildersleeve’s: square-backed, elm or fruitwood, with wooden concave seats.
‘Pretty chairs but not a set,’ she said.
‘That’s what the term means,’ Theo explained. ‘It’s rare to find a complete set from this period because they were often split up or broken. People buy the same quality, period and style and they work well together. These are all Suffolk Ball Back chairs – see the row of turned balls along the cross rail? These chairs at the front only have two, the rest have three – with this odd chair here having grooves in the turnings. But they’re all elm, and all from about 1840. And in some ways nicer than an identical set.’
She’d heard the phrase harlequin set bandied about by Johnny before; now she understood and the concept did have a certain appeal.
‘To me, the fact they’ve come from different places makes them more interesting – they each have a story to tell. And even though I’m more twentieth-century in my personal tastes, the patina and wear on these chairs add to the charm. If they didn’t have these knocks and bumps, if they were in perfect condition, no one would believe they were nearly two hundred years old,’ Theo finished.
She couldn’t explain to him that the tea set was about so much more. That without all the components her family might never reunite. He’d think she was daft. And he’d probably be right.
Arthur ambled up to them in a black fedora, looking rather like Frank Sinatra, and waving a sheet of paper.
‘Johnny asked if you could photograph these items to showcase on the website,’ he said.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Theo, ‘but remember, not everything has to be pristine or matching to be perfect.’
But she’d already learned that during her time Gildersleeve’s, because she was watching a battered, scruffy, less than pristine man walk out of the barn and into the blinding sunshine and he was perfect to her.
‘Lot 67 …?’ Arthur muttered to himself, scanning the numbered stickers. ‘Well, now, here’s a rum fella and no mistake,’ he said, standing next to a medical skeleton. ‘This skinny little chap will sell well. I can feel it in my bones.’ He bent down to a stuffed otter on the trestle table. ‘Whatcha think? Is it me or is it getting otter in here?’ With his rich Suffolk accent and the incongruous fedora, it was like watching an impromptu comedy skit.
‘Say that again, Arthur,’ she said. ‘All of it.’ She held up her phone to take a short video clip. They played it back, Arthur peering over her shoulder, and she knew it was social media dynamite.
‘With your permission, can I put this on Facebook?’ she asked.
‘Well, now, do I really sound like that? Well, there’s a thing. Of course, my dear, you post away, but I don’t imagine you’ll be getting many of them likes for it. Just a silly old boy prattling on.’
‘I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,’ she said.
By the end of the afternoon, the silly old boy prattling on got more retweets than her usual social media posts and a lot more interaction. Over the next couple of days, she experimented with further clips where Arthur came out with some comedy classics like, ‘Do anyone out there like sitting in their garden and admiring their dahlias? Well, it won’t be long until it’s that time of year again. Jugs of Pimm’s and some factor ten. Git yourselves along to our Yard to see a right nice section of garden furniture.’
The public response was overwhelming. In the space of a week, Arthur became even more of a local celebrity than he’d been with the hats. The in-house response was less enthusiastic.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Theo sounded unusually irritable as he came striding in to the back office, tossing a clipboard across his desk and sending a cascade of papers and empty drink cans onto the carpet. ‘Slapping Arthur all over FaceAche like some circus sideshow. Yes, we’re getting a lot of social media coverage, but it’s at the expense of a dear old man, who you’re using as a stooge. We’re trying to present a professional façade to the world, as we deal in antique artefacts and high-end jewellery. Don’t turn us into some kind of joke.’
Maisie was taken aback by his ill temper as Theo was generally so easy-going but then he’d been unusually grumpy of late. Things with Ella were clearly in those tricky early stages.
‘Arthur knows what I’m doing. I always ask, and I always show him afterwards. You’re not his guardian and he’s not a child. Arthur is perfectly capable of making his own decisions.’
Maisie was equally riled. It was as if every step forward she took with the company, Theo was there peering over her shoulder and pulling her two steps back. Johnny, on the other hand, never checked up on her. If he commented at all it was only to give praise.
‘We’re raising the company profile and giving people a laugh,’ she added.
‘People are laughing at him, not with him.’
A movement caught the corner of her eye and Maisie looked up to see Arthur, who had clearly been standing in the open doorway for some time.
‘Well, now, I think it’s a lovely thing to have lots of people looking at our little videos, and watching me talking. And if they’re laughing at the silly old bugger, in the daft hat, who has an old Suffolk boy way of speaking, that’s all right by me. It’s helping Gildersleeve’s, and we have fun doing it, don’t we, girl?’ He winked at Maisie. ‘And I’d rather do something that makes people smile, even if it’s at my expense, than makes people cry or, worse still, suffer indifference. As much as I appreciate your concern, sir, I can probably speak up for m’self if I need to.’ He nodded deferentially to Theo. ‘Anyhoo, I just popped in to speak to Maisie …’
Knowing her cheeks were aflame, Maisie was pleased to see Theo also looked uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry, Arthur,’ Theo said, gathering up handfuls of papers and, to Maisie’s annoyance, stuffing them higgledy-piggledy into the seat of his desk chair. ‘We shouldn’t have been talking about you behind your back. But you are quite correct; I shouldn’t speak on your behalf. I apologise.’
‘That’s all settled then, because I saw all that there playground equipment come into The Yard yesterday, and I was wondering about some video of me going down the slide – head first?’
‘That lovely young man of yours was in again yesterday to visit Mrs Leggit.’
It was the following week and all her mum could talk about was the Adopt a Gran scheme – which had now made the local newspaper.
‘He’s not my young man. He’s my colleague and technically my boss.’
‘Lovely-looking chap,’ her mum reflected. ‘Surprising hair though. Bet it’s the devil to wash. Wouldn’t have wanted to be his mother trying to comb it out for head lice when he was little.’ Her mum really came out with some odd observations �
� but then she guessed it went with the motherhood territory.
Lisa appeared in the doorway to the living room, her hair spun up into a towelling turban of pale blue and wearing Maisie’s silky bathrobe. She’d been in the bathroom for nearly an hour. This wasn’t unusual but jolly inconvenient when the house only had one loo.
‘What’s for tea?’ asked Lisa.
‘Oh, I’m going out. Sorry. I’ll order you in a takeaway. Not sure what gluten-free options will be available though,’ said Maisie.
Her mother’s mouth dropped open.
‘Surely Lisa is capable of getting herself a meal?’
‘I don’t think she feels great today and I don’t mind,’ Maisie said, as her sister sauntered towards the kitchen and out of earshot. She was mindful Lisa didn’t want her work struggles flagged up to other family members.
‘You run around after her too much,’ her mum chastised, patting Maisie’s knee. ‘Anyway, I only popped by to let you know your father and I are going to see a live band at the Tattlesham Arms together this weekend. I can’t remember the last time I listened to live music. I’ve missed him, sweetheart. We used to have so much fun when we first started going out. I’m not blaming you kids in any way, but things change when you become parents.’
‘But not for the worse?’ Maisie asked.
‘No, you get a lot of joy from your children but there is also a lack of energy and weariness from the role that seeps into your very bones. Honestly, every day with you four was such an emotional roller-coaster of a ride; from the delight of a home-made pasta necklace and being told you are the best mum in the world, to doors slammed in your face and the diplomatic negotiations to avoid World War Three breaking out in the back seat of the car. By the time your dad got home from work I was emotionally spent. Perhaps it was all my fault. Perhaps I had nothing left to give and he sought comfort elsewhere …’