Arrivals & Departures

by Leslie Thomas

  As they drove the late autumn afternoon brightened briefly, the clouds hemmed by the sun. Rona said: ‘When I was watching those people in Departures, I had a feeling that Mother and I must soon be on our way. We can’t stay here forever.’

  ‘You have a lot of things to do at home, I imagine,’ he said. He felt abruptly sad.

  Rona looked straight ahead. ‘Not too many,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Apart from getting my life straight, starting over. I left a vacuum in California.’ She smiled slighyly, still looking to the front. ‘My mother is not going to like going. I swear she really believes she’s here forever. But … we really have to go home.’ She hesitated. ‘Where we belong.’

  ‘It’s necessary to belong somewhere,’ he said. ‘In my case I sometimes wonder where.’

  ‘You are not very happy, are you.’

  ‘Adele and I? Oh, we’re like a lot of married people, I suppose. We’ve drifted a bit away from each other.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Without our noticing it. Our interests are opposites. She’s always buzzing around on committees and suchlike and I’m frequently away. A few years ago she had a good job but it didn’t fit with mine, so she quit but, looking back, it was probably a mistake. Now it’s too late. It’s what’s called a quiet marriage.’

  Rona gave a short laugh. ‘Mine was so quiet I hardly noticed it – until he wasn’t there. I was the one with the career. I was in a lawyer’s office, I loved it, and I let it take up my life. Jeff was a steady sort of guy. He was an accountant with a computer company. He just wandered away with somebody else, older. That’s what hurt.’

  A silence fell between them but as they turned off the main road, her eye was taken by a cloud of seagulls, like white paper floating in cold sunlight, wheeling and dipping over the horizon of hedge and muddy bank. Richardson saw that they had caught her attention.

  ‘It’s a rubbish tip,’ he said. ‘When the lorries come to dump the stuff the gulls are waiting for them. I wonder if they ever see the sea.’

  ‘Edward, do you mind if we take a look?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to photograph them.’

  Richardson pulled the car off the road. A gate, draped with pieces of torn cloth like the remnants of some long-ago celebration, was open. The entrance was paved with cinders and gravel, scored with wheel marks. A man, rough and walking with a crouch, came along the path, skirting a bank of weedy debris. He was carrying two full sacks on a pole balanced on his shoulders like a yoke. He was calling to them. Edward lowered the window. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said you won’t find much up there today,’ shouted the man above the din of the gulls. ‘Gypsies got here first.’

  ‘Thanks,’ responded Richardson uncertainly. He smiled at Rona. ‘And I was hoping to find treasure.’

  ‘Why don’t we go see,’ she suggested quietly. ‘Maybe we will.’

  He drove through the tip valley, the slopes rising thirty feet on either side. Much had grown over with tenacious greenery. The gulls were ahead, diving and screaming. The track became muddier, more savagely rutted. They turned another bend and came to an area piled with newer rubbish, jagged metal and broken crates, cascades of cans and cartons. A tip-up truck was discharging its load, its back canting. The gulls, unable to wait, grabbed at the trash as it slid to the slope. A man in orange overalls, luminous as a clown, stood observing the snatching birds. They whirled around him madly but he remained unmoving. In the cab of the lorry another orange man had a newspaper to his face. Both heard the car but having turned, went back to what they were doing.

  There was room behind the truck and Richardson drove around it. The outside man took the trouble to wave, like a traveller meeting others unexpectedly in a strange and wasted land. There was a firm area, lined with cinders at one side. ‘Will this do?’ he asked.

  ‘Just fine,’ Rona said, keeping her eyes on the gulls. She took a camera with a long snout lens from her large holdall and climbed from the car. He got out and standing at a distance, watched her taking the photographs. She was wearing grey trousers and a blue tweed jacket. She stood, firmly, legs astride, her dark hair pushed by the rubbish dump wind. The gulls swooped and screamed. And now, now of all times, he reflected, she was talking of going home.

  She completed the photographing quickly and climbed back into the car. ‘That was terrific,’ she smiled. ‘Unusual situation, to say the least.’

  ‘You’ll use it in a painting or a sketch?’

  ‘Sometime. I think they’re great as just pictures.’

  He started the engine and reversed the vehicle carefully against the opposite bank of debris. As they drove past the tip-up truck, its back portion now returned to the horizontal, the dungareed man who had been standing at the side called: ‘Nice day for the seaside!’ He and his companion in the cab laughed.

  ‘There’s a harbour called Bosham,’ said Richardson as they left the gate and regained the road. He turned towards the motorway. ‘In Sussex. It’s famous for waterbirds, especially at this time of the year.’

  ‘Winter feeders,’ she said. ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Hour and a half’s drive,’ he calculated. ‘Not much more. It’s the place where, so they tell you at school, King Canute ordered the tide to go back and it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Now that’s a story we didn’t learn,’ she smiled. ‘So he got wet?’

  ‘Very. It wasn’t his fault. It was his hangers-on who convinced him he was all-powerful. It’s a lovely place, a big, flat harbour, lots of mud at low tide.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  He took a breath. ‘I’ll run you down, if you like.’

  For a moment she did not reply. Then she said: ‘Thank you, I’d like that.’ She did not look at him. ‘When can it be?’

  ‘This trip to Australia is a there-and-back job, a few days. I’ll be home by Sunday of next week. Perhaps we could fix it for Monday, say. If that suits you.’ He glanced at her. ‘You won’t be heading for the States before then, will you?’

  Rona laughed briefly. ‘I’m not in that much of a hurry,’ she said. ‘It will take a while to break it to Mother. I’d like to come with you, Edward. Very much.’

  ‘Toby,’ Mr Old said, ‘today is the day you take charge.’ Toby straightened up from the cabinet he was polishing. Its base was peppered with worm holes. ‘Done with a shotgun by the look of it,’ said Mr Old. ‘Worms go in slow.’ He appeared to count the holes, then said: ‘You’ve been here long enough now, haven’t you. You know silver from brass, pottery from porcelain, a Klee from a Canaletto.’

  ‘A Klee?’ asked Toby.

  ‘No matter. Nobody is likely to bring one in, nor a Canaletto for that matter. I’m going to see some stuff in Northampton, rush job. The chap was only cremated yesterday but his widow’s in a hurry, and you know my Mrs Old, she doesn’t enjoy coming to the shop, mixing with the general public, such as we get of them. And her dogs are having their nails clipped. So it’s you, boy. It’s your big chance.’

  ‘All right, Mr Old,’ smiled Toby. ‘I’ll be okay. I won’t buy anything that I don’t think is worth it.’

  ‘Don’t buy anything,’ corrected Mr Old, louder than he had intended. ‘Nothing at all. Not even the Crown Jewels, all right? Just sell. Make out it’s a trade price you’re giving them. Tell them a story about what they’re buying, like it is said it belonged to Augustus John or Jack the Ripper. You know the sort of thing. Provoke a bit of interest.’

  ‘I know,’ said Toby. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Let me see though, yes, that knocker from Brighton might be in. Percival Pope-Harvey, as he calls himself. You’ve seen him, the grubby one. He’ll bring in some stuff he’s bought for a song and he’ll want paying, so I’ll leave some cash. But nothing over twenty-five pounds and nothing chipped or damaged. He never has anything worth more anyway.’

  ‘I remember him,’ Toby said. ‘I’ll manage. I’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘Good lad. I’ll leave a hundred and fifty qui
d. Twenty-five pound limit on each treasure, remember. Whatever he asks halve it and bargain from there. Good experience for you.’

  He picked up a little brown suitcase and went out, blinking anxiously back from the other side of the door. Toby began polishing some brass candlesticks and he waved with the duster. He waited five minutes and then went out of the door. Mr Old had vanished. The street was chilly but busy. Toby, with a proprietorial puff, stood and looked up and down the autumn hill. Windsor Castle was draped in mist. He was wearing his paisley waistcoat that day, and he thrust his thumbs into the pockets and returned inside.

  All day after his long return from Dee’s house every part of him had ached, particularly his pride. The following evening, tempted, he had telephoned Liz but she informed him that she was considering a proposal from somebody more mature and might or might not be in touch with him at some later date. There was also the matter of his parents. Sadly he wondered how long they would be together; if they parted what would happen to him?

  The door sounded and two wispy women stumbled into the shop and approached the counter holding each other up. ‘We would like to see someone senior,’ demanded one. Her feathery grey hat looked like the continuation of her hair. Her face was lined with veins and her eyes streaming. Her companion appeared to walk with closed eyes and he thought she might be blind until the lids lifted and she picked up an old chemist’s bottle from the junk tray on the counter and sniffed it. Her lids dropped again. ‘Quite revolting,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m in charge,’ said Toby firmly to the one who had wanted to speak to someone senior.

  ‘Do you know about ancient things then,’ she asked archly.

  ‘Quite a bit,’ he replied eyeing the pair. ‘But I can’t buy anything today.’

  They regarded each other and then him with a sort of shock. ‘We’re not selling,’ said the one with the closed eyes. ‘We’re too proud for that, aren’t we, Clementina.’

  ‘Far too proud,’ confirmed Clementina wiping her cheeks. ‘Far too proud, dear.’

  ‘Oh, beg your pardon. What was it then?’

  ‘The little Staffordshire dog in your window. We’d like to see it. It matches one we already have.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Toby. ‘Beautiful little figure isn’t it. Very early Staffordshire. It’s in one of the books. I think it’s possible, it may just have come from …,’ he nodded towards the door and up the hill, ‘… across the road.’

  ‘Windsor Castle? Good gracious, why would HM want to sell a Staffordshire dog?’ The eyes disconcertingly remained shut as if she did not want to see him.

  ‘Perhaps the other one was broken,’ said Clementina caustically.

  The situation seemed to be moving away from him, so Toby went to the window. He took the Staffordshire dog from the display and brought it to them. They held it, turned it, looked at it upside down, and muttered over it. ‘How much?’ asked the first lady.

  ‘Fifty,’ announced Toby firmly. Then: ‘I could make a small reduction. Trade, is it?’

  ‘I think I could manage fifty,’ intoned the second lady. ‘We are not trade,’ she added icily. Lifting her lids she stared at her companion’s clutched purse. ‘Half each.’

  Toby watched with increasing horror as they each painstakingly counted out twenty-five pence. ‘There,’ they said in unison. Clementina said: ‘We’d like it wrapped up.’

  ‘F-Fifty pounds,’ stammered Toby. ‘It’s fifty pounds.’

  Both regarded him as if he had gone mad. They began sliding their coins away. ‘Good morning,’ they said as they turned and left.

  ‘Good morning,’ whispered Toby. He put the dog back in the window and sat, still stunned, behind the counter. The door immediately opened and admitted a tiny and grimy man he recognised as Percival Pope-Harvey. ‘Do I have some bargains for you,’ he promised.

  ‘Mr Old’s away for the day,’ said Toby diffidently. He steadied his voice: ‘I’m in sole charge.’

  ‘Then,’ said Percy. ‘Who is a lucky boy? It’s your chance to earn a fortune.’ He carried an eroded carpet bag, with chapped leather handles. This he opened, looking up with surprisingly fierce eyes. ‘I’m a knocker,’ he said as if it were a secret he was reluctant to share. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  Toby said carefully: ‘You knock on doors and … see …’

  ‘See what treasures they’ve hoarded inside,’ agreed the visitor. ‘Sometimes people have stuff they’ve had for years and they’re short of money and they don’t realise what their bits and pieces will fetch. I help them to realise.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  Putting both hands into the carpet bag, Percy said: ‘And today I’ve got something better than ever. One item only, but better than ever.’ He kept his hands within the bag as though to sustain the suspense. ‘Want a look at it?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ stumbled Toby. ‘But Mr Old said that …’

  ‘It don’t matter what Mr Old said, son…. What’s your name?’

  ‘Richardson,’ said Toby assuming a businesslike tone. ‘Tobias Richardson.’

  ‘To-buy-us!’ exclaimed Percy. ‘What a good name for antiques!’

  ‘Yes … I suppose it is. I’ve never thought of that.’

  ‘In this trade you have to think of every single thing, every angle,’ warned the visitor, wagging a grimy finger. He had taken one hand from the bag but had still not revealed what he was holding within but now, his eyes switching to right and left, like a spy, he withdrew a small framed picture.

  ‘I can’t buy any Klees,’ said Toby.

  ‘Klee! Klee! This is not a Klee, not any skinny thing like that. This, look at it will you, is a lovely little landscape.’ He held up the frame. There was a fluffy sky, a river, meadows and cows. ‘Look at that. Perfect. Signed too. Fred Sunderland. See there in the corner.’ He dived into his pocket and produced an eyeglass. ‘Here, use this. You’ll see it proper.’

  Confused, Toby took the small eyeglass and fitted it with difficulty into his eye. He leaned towards the corner of the painting.

  ‘Other way,’ suggested Percy not unkindly. ‘You got the eyeglass in the wrong way round.’

  Toby felt his face warm. ‘Wondered what was wrong,’ he mumbled.

  ‘That’s all right. We all got to learn. There, take a decko. In the corner. Frederick Sunderland. Clear as clear. And what a nice picture. A gem this is. Mr Old knows me. I’m straight as straight. He knows I’ve got to come here again. I wouldn’t do you.’

  ‘How much?’ Toby faltered.

  ‘Four hundred pounds,’ said the knocker decisively. ‘And that’s a gift.’ He tapped the frame: ‘Fetch a thousand in the right place.’

  Toby gazed at the little picture then transferred his eyes to the man. ‘You’ll … you’ll have to leave it,’ he said. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s gone to Northampton.’

  ‘Ah, Northampton, is it,’ said the knocker thoughtfully. ‘Wonder what treasure trove he’s got there?’ He quickly returned to the situation. ‘I’ve got to sell it today,’ he warned. ‘If not here then to somebody else – and who’ll be lucky then? I’ve come all the way from Hove, you know. Well, Brighton. And I’m not a big business. I can’t afford to carry stock. I have to turn it over.’ He regarded Toby solemnly. ‘This could be the day you make your first killing,’ he said. ‘Only four hundred. For a Frederick Sunderland. And my guarantee that it’s right.’

  Toby heard himself saying: ‘Three hundred.’ His mouth remained agape. Percy appeared hurt. ‘Not a chance,’ he said. Then, kindly again, he leaned forward and confided. ‘Never go down in hundreds when you’re bargaining, son. Nor up. Fifties, yes. Twenties, tens, depending. But never hundreds. He cocked his head half sideways. ‘Three fifty.’

  ‘Three hundred,’ said Toby, amazed at himself.

  Encouragement flooded the knocker’s eyes. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘All right. Done. In cash.’

  ‘I’ll have to get some money from the bank,’ said Tob
y. He had already made his decision. ‘Mr Old only left a hundred and fifty. I’ll get the rest from my deposit account. I’ll go halves with him.’

  ‘What enterprise!’ enthused Percy rubbing his hands. ‘Pure initiative. All right. Off you go. I’ll mind the shop.’ He saw Toby’s concern and held up a hand to stay it. ‘I’ve been coming in here for twenty years.’

  ‘All right,’ the youth said. ‘It’s only up the street. I’ll be a few minutes.’

  He put on his coat making sure his bank deposit book was in the pocket. ‘I’ll get myself a cup of coffee,’ said Percy. He nodded towards the kettle and the instant coffee jar in the corner. ‘I know where everything is. Off you go.’

  Toby ran up the hill and arrived panting at the bank. It took him ten minutes to withdraw all but ten pounds of the money in his deposit account. Then he ran down to the shop again. Percy was sitting benignly behind the counter. ‘Done some business for you,’ he said.

  ‘You have? What was it?’

  ‘Little Staffordshire bow-wow in the window. Nice early one. Fifty to two old women.’

  ‘Fifty? Fifty what?’

  Percy spread the ten five pound notes on the glass counter. ‘There. I reckon I ought to get a fiver commission.’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ exclaimed Toby full of relief. He took the forty-five pounds and put it in his pocket handing Percy a five pound note. He said: ‘They came in and said they thought it was fifty pence this morning.’

  The knocker laughed. ‘Trying it on,’ he said. ‘That’s what, crafty old cows. There’s plenty of that sort. They knew what it was worth all right. Did you cop the rings they had on?’

  ‘Well, thanks so much. I’m ever so grateful, really,’ beamed Toby. ‘I’ve got your cash.’ He put the hundred and fifty on the glass and went to the safe and withdrew Mr Old’s hundred and fifty.

  ‘Share the risk, share the profits,’ nodded the visitor sagely. ‘Except there’s no risk.’ He held out his brown hand and Toby shook it, then he folded the notes in his pocket and went out with a dapper walk. He was back in a moment. ‘If you want to move it quick,’ he advised nodding towards the painting that Toby was studying anxiously. ‘Get it in Pettifier’s auctions in Richmond. It’ll fetch its money.’