He was gone again. Toby studied the clouds, the meadows, the river and the cows and, minutely, the signature. He went to Mr Old’s ragged shelf of reference books and took down an almost dismembered copy of English Landscape Painters. There was no mention of Frederick Sunderland.
He was there early and had already unlocked the shop when Mr Old arrived in the morning. ‘How was it?’ his employer inquired. ‘I hope you had a better day than me. All the way to Northampton for a load of junk.’
‘The Staffordshire dog from the window went,’ said Toby cautiously. ‘Actually Mr Pope-Harvey sold it. Fifty pounds and I gave him five commission.’
Mr Old’s tangled eyebrows rose. ‘What was Percy doing selling the goods?’ he asked, a frown merging with the eyebrows.
Toby took a deep breath and said: ‘I had to leave the shop. I had to go to the bank for some money.’
‘The bank! Oh, my God what …’
‘It was my money,’ Toby assured him hurriedly. ‘I bought half of it with my money. It’s a bargain….’ he said.
‘What?’ asked Mr Old visibly forcing himself to calm. ‘What is this bargain?’
Toby went to the side room. He returned with the painting. ‘Landscape,’ he announced. ‘River scene with meadows and cows. Frederick Sunderland.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Mr Old shaking his head violently. ‘And you can’t shift pretty pictures, not these days….’ He picked up the frame and at once softened. ‘Not bad, though, is it. Nice puffy clouds. The name does ring a bell come to think of it. Sunderland. Not well known. He looked hard at Toby: ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘He wanted four hundred,’ swallowed the young man. ‘But it had to be right there and then or he was going to have to sell it elsewhere.’
‘How much?’ repeated Mr Old with slight emphasis.
‘Three hundred. I put a hundred and fifty and the other half was the money you left. I hope it’s going to be all right.’
Mr Old again shook his head but more gently. ‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure. But you gave it a try. Can’t blame you for that. Do you want your money back now, if it’s from your savings?’
‘Oh no. I didn’t mean that. No, I’ll take the risk with you.’
The proprietor laughed. ‘Good boy. Maybe you’ll make a fortune one day.’
‘I’d just like to make something on this.’
‘We can always hope.’ He jabbed an inquiring look at Toby. ‘How are we going to shift it?’
‘Pettifer’s,’ said Toby firmly. ‘They’ve got a sale next Thursday. I rang them. They’ll get it in the catalogue.’
‘You have been on the go,’ approved Mr Old. ‘Well, why not? We’ll put it in and wait and see. This business is all about waiting and seeing.’
Pettifer’s auction rooms was on the brow of Richmond Hill overlooking the crowded old roofs of the once-royal town and the Thames.
‘Christie’s it is not,’ said Mr Old as they trudged up the hill. ‘General antiques and chattels.’
Mrs Old had been persuaded to sit in the shop. ‘She won’t sell anything,’ forecast her husband phlegmatically. ‘She might even give something away but she won’t sell. Never gets it right. Once she sold a silver sauce-boat for eight seventy-five, our serial number on the label. Thought it was the price.’
Toby had slept badly the previous night. ‘Will it fetch the money do you think?’ he asked repeating the question insistent through his dreams. ‘We’ve got a reserve,’ shrugged Mr Old. ‘Three hundred. What it cost. If it don’t move we’ll keep it in the shop. Every day it gets older, remember. And the artist might become popular. Andrew Lloyd Webber might buy him. Stranger things have happened.’
He did not appear convinced. They entered a room copious and dusty as a cavern. It was a gloomy day and the lights only served to cast shadows. There were stacks of furniture, prints, boxes of crockery, and ugly ornaments. A sad moose head stared from a wall. ‘Not much here, by the look of it,’ sniffed Mr Old. He picked up a clock and said: ‘Early Fred Astaire.’
‘Where’s our Sunderland?’ inquired Toby anxiously. His eyes travelled along the pictures hung askew on the wall. ‘Down on the left,’ said his employer. ‘Right down. See it?’
‘Hardly. Who’s going to see it there?’ The youth surveyed the motley people cruising the sale goods, shuffling, picking up, putting down, feeling, occasionally smelling, and shuffling on. Each clutched a curled catalogue and they went about their business all but silently.
‘They’ll spot it, those that want to,’ remarked Mr Old. ‘Don’t fret, there’s a few around here that could spot a Hogarth under a pile of rotten rugs. Mind you there’s others who wouldn’t know any better than to buy a ruddy rossignol.’
They sat down on a sofa from which the stuffing was oozing. Mr Old pushed the horsehair back into its split. ‘Nice piece,’ he approved. The arm moved under his touch. ‘Soon fit back together again. Peep at the back, pretty curve. You don’t see curves like that now.’
‘Will you buy it?’ asked Toby turning and looking.
‘And carry it on my back? Or yours?’ smiled the dealer. ‘It’s not that good. It’s just a shame they let things go like that. Looks like a goat’s been sleeping on it.’
‘Who was Rossignol?’ asked Toby. ‘A painter?’
‘A nightingale, a singing bird,’ said Mr Old. ‘That’s a rossignol. It means a bit of junk. You buy something, some piece, some ornament, and it sticks in the shop for years and years, singing at you, taunting.’
‘I see. I hope Frederick Sunderland doesn’t turn out to be a rossignol.’
Two men in bulging overcoats, buttonholes torn, strolled towards their picture and stood sniggering at it. ‘They’re laughing,’ whispered Toby horrified.
Mr Old was unimpressed. ‘Charlie Parks and Tom Dingle, a right pair. Up to everything.’
The men remained pointing and smirking at the painting. Dingle took it from the wall and examined the back. Then held it at arm’s length and curled their lips. They replaced it untidily on the hook and went away shaking their heads.
‘A good sign,’ whispered Mr Old. ‘Trying to frighten others away. Laughing it down.’
‘I’ve got my savings riding on that,’ said Toby sombrely. He grimaced towards the men at the far side of the room.
‘It’s done now,’ counselled the dealer. ‘Forget it.’ He glanced with mock ruefulness at the boy. ‘You’ve put me in it too, remember. This could mean ruin.’
Toby glanced at him concernedly, then grinned as he saw his expression. ‘It could be a killing,’ he suggested.
‘Yes,’ nodded Mr Old. ‘Ours.’
The saleroom was filling. People entered engulfed in coats and scarves and shawls although the dim room was warmed by two gas fires which were to be sold. Some sat in the rows of chairs and sofas, others lounged against furniture or stood at the back of the room reading their catalogues close to their eyes in the indifferent light. ‘Lots of bidders,’ suggested Toby looking around.
Mr Old half revolved. ‘Come in out of the cold, most of them.’
‘Nobody looks as though they’ve got much money,’ whispered Toby.
‘Them that has don’t show it, not if they’re wise,’ remarked his companion. He checked his pocket watch, drawing it from his deep waistcoat pocket like an angler carefully landing a prize fish. Almost as if the action had prompted him, the auctioneer appeared, a short, brisk man wearing a green coat. ‘Mr Mobley,’ said Mr Old. ‘Very knowledgeable – about chattels.’
Mr Mobley sat behind the raised desk and banged it with his gavel as if to test its sound or safeness, and bringing the room to order. He surveyed the prospective bidders.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We have an interesting sale today. Three hundred and something lots. So I will begin without more ado. Lot one. A dressing-table case with costume jewellery…. What am I bid …?’
Toby watched, his eyes moving around the room, and listened. After ten lo
ts Mr Old bid for, and got, a box of miscellaneous cufflinks and an ebony hairbrush in a case. Three pounds.
They had to wait for almost a hundred lots before the painting came up. Toby, counting the numbers past, felt stifled. ‘Calm, calm,’ advised Mr Old as their moment neared. ‘This, son, is the time for nerves of steel.’
‘Lot ninety-eight,’ intoned Mr Mobley. He checked around the room over his glasses as if to ascertain the people were still there. ‘Nice little painting. Frederick Sunderland. Signed and dated, eighteen seventy-three. “The Thames at Chertsey”.’ He examined the audience again. ‘What am I bid? Who will start me off at two hundred and fifty pounds?’ There was a snort from the middle of the room.
Toby felt his heart quicken and then slow as no bid came. It was as though everyone had conspired to remain silent. He could hear the mass breathing. He glanced at Mr Old who, still dreamily studying the auctioneer, responded by tapping his wrist reassuringly.
‘All right,’ sighed the auctioneer. ‘Two thirty.’
‘Two thirty then,’ said the man called Charlie Parks, raising a dirty-nailed finger from the sleeve of his overcoat. It was as if he were doing a favour. Toby looked aghast.
‘Two forty anywhere?’ inquired Mr Mobley apparently without much hope. Then with relief: ‘Ah, I have two forty.’ He pointed to the rear of the room and then peered at Charlie Parks. ‘Two fifty?’ he asked.
‘Two fifty,’ muttered Charlie wearily.
‘Two sixty at the back,’ pointed Mr Mobley. ‘And two seventy to the left. Three hundred anywhere? It’s worth it. Pleasant little painting. Chertsey and the Thames.’
He got three hundred. Toby’s head was darting around. Mr Old remained immobile. ‘Three hundred and fifty,’ signalled someone. They were in profit! ‘Three seventy-five,’ muttered Charlie Parks apparently disgusted. ‘Three seventy-bloody-five,’ he muttered to the man Dingle at his side. ‘Must be mad.’
‘Four hundred,’ bid Dingle loudly. Parks glanced at him and went to four fifty. Dingle said four seventy-five. The bidder at the rear went to five hundred. Toby was crouched over with his eyes squeezed together. ‘Go on, go on,’ he whispered.
The bidding stalled. ‘Five hundred I’m bid. At the back,’ said Mr Mobley sounding surprised but pleased. ‘Five twenty, new bidder.’
Charlie Parks turned in his encumbering coat, his face as heavy, trying to see the new bidder. ‘Five fifty and that’s it,’ he grunted towards the rostrum.
‘Five seventy-five,’ nodded his companion Dingle.
‘Christ,’ swore Charlie. ‘Six hundred and no more.’
He got it. ‘Going going gone!’ said Mr Mobley with a small sniff as if he were pleased to have scored over the dealers. ‘Lot ninety-nine.’
With restrained joy Mr Old and Toby walked down Richmond Hill. ‘I think we ought to treat ourselves to some lunch,’ suggested the dealer. ‘There’s a pub just along here. Good steak and kidney. Do you drink?’
‘I will today,’ promised Toby. ‘Six hundred pounds!’
‘Five fifty when we’ve paid for Pettifer’s percentage and our lunch. It was a decent little painting though. You’ve got a good eye.’
They went into the bar. Full of happiness Toby sat in a corner while his employer bought two pints of bitter and ordered the steak and kidney. Toby stared at the pint tankards being borne towards him. This was a new day for him, a new life. He took the tankard, studied the column of liquid amber and took a sip. It was bitter on the tongue. He made himself drink. ‘I didn’t realise it was called “The Thames at Chertsey”,’ he mentioned.
‘It seemed like a nice title for it,’ said Mr Old. ‘Gave it a bit of local interest. People like local interest.’
Toby regarded him narrowly. ‘Then it wasn’t?’
‘Suffolk by the look of it,’ shrugged Mr Old. ‘But it could have been anywhere, I mean, couldn’t it? Sky, bank of river, fields, buttercups, cows. Anywhere.’ He became pensive. ‘But somehow it looked very much like Chertsey. Same sort of buttercups.’
Toby watched him with awe. ‘Why did you buy the cufflinks?’ he asked.
‘Oh, out of boredom,’ replied the dealer gently. He drank his beer. ‘But it let the auctioneer know I was in the room. Might even get a pair to match up.’ He took the worn box from his pocket. ‘And it’s a good hairbrush. Good back.’
A girl came with their food. Mr Old broke open the pie crust and observed the escaping steam with approval. Toby ate hungrily and sipped the beer gingerly. ‘Good job the bidding started up again,’ he said. ‘I thought it had stuck. I wonder who began bidding again.’
‘I wonder,’ said Mr Old. He opened the box of cufflinks. ‘Now look at that,’ he observed happily. He took one of the pieces out. ‘Bit of onyx if I’m not mistaken. That would make a lady’s ring.’
‘Homelea,’
Anglia Road,
Hounslow,
Middlesex,
England,
Great Britain
2nd November
My Dear Father and My Dear Mother,
I was sorry to hear about the landslide and Uncle Sammi and Marika and the family all hope that the Ritz cinema can be rebuilt as soon as possible. Also the fire in the tyre depot.
Here the fire engines, police and rescue crews are always dashing around making terrible noises with their sirens but nobody seems to take any notice of them. At London Airport (Heathrow) there are always small alarms but not big ones fortunately.
My work goes well but I have no news of promotion. My friends the porters are teaching me more English words that do not appear in the dictionary. Some I fear are not to be written down.
Uncle Sammi’s business progresses well and when he starts the minicab service I am going to learn to drive. This is called moonlighting.
If you cannot understand some of the words in my letters ask Asif at the Pavilion café as he lived here in Croydon, London, and he will tell you. Otherwise you will be up the creek.
Your loving son,
Nazar (Barry)
Twelve
This part of Airport country was a ragged land of cabbage fields, used car sites hung with washed-out flags, strips of pebble-dashed houses and small shops, garden centres lined with gnomes, gravel pits, industrial sites and musty yards. Pearl surveyed it from the taxi. Ancient inns had been provided with plastic beams and even battlements to make them appear quaint. Jolly giants with gaping mouths awaited children.
It was a country of motor fumes, litter trapped against railings, people beleaguered at bus stops, and over the snorting of the traffic the regular roaring of aircraft moving on the Heathrow conveyor belt.
But, as often happened in that region, the way quite abruptly turned into what must once have been a perfect English village. Laleham was noted in the Domesday Book and, although it was difficult now to isolate it from the late twentieth century, it remained doggedly beautiful, clinging to its curve in the River Thames, if only just.
There were some distinguished pale-faced Georgian and Regency houses, a row of rural cottages, a lane leading to the river, and two ancient inns. On this early winter’s afternoon the red bricks of the church tower glowed.
Pearl got out of the taxi by the frowning gate and the driver turned across the road and parked by a sparse green triangle at the head of Blacksmith’s Lane. Immediately outside the gate was a garage workshop with cars parked against the church wall. The gate creaked slowly as she opened it. This was going to be a difficult time for her. It was a confined churchyard, its gravestones lolling against each other and the branches of its yews entangled. She went into the porch and turned the door handle. It was locked.
‘We have to, unfortunately,’ said a cheerful voice behind her. ‘Thieves today are neither religious nor particular.’ He was young, had a bald front to his head like a badge, and wore a jazzy pullover. She liked him at once. ‘I’m the vicar,’ he said. ‘Charles Grey. You’d like to see the church I take it?’
‘That’s w
hy I came,’ said Pearl. ‘I’m Pearl Collingwood. From Bedmansworth.’
He unlocked the door. ‘That doesn’t sound like a Bedmansworth accent,’ he suggested.
‘It’s not,’ she agreed. ‘It’s more Los Angeles. But I live in Bedmansworth, and I have for a long time.’
The church, with its brick tower, had appeared massive from the outside but, she was glad to find, its interior was reduced, comfortable. Heavy stone columns and brick arches which lined the nave would have supported a much weightier building. ‘Please look around,’ invited Charles Grey. ‘I’ll be in the vestry if you would like to know anything.’
‘I do,’ she said in her firm way. ‘But I need to find it myself.’
He was accustomed to hearing people’s needs. He bowed to hers and went towards the vestry. Pearl was already searching, staring up to the ribs of the roof, along the small, worn pews. She was at once relieved and sorry that she had not gone in there alone. But now she was by herself; trying to imagine what it had been like. Even the altar was subdued, hardly noticeable in the dim daylight; the chancel was lined with memorial tablets like pictures on the walls of a gallery. Pearl began to read them, some with difficulty, for they were old, and the light was not good. There were rhymes to soldiers, dead in forgotten skirmishes; praise for a churchwarden and more for a Lord and Lady. The one she was seeking was not there.
She walked to the side aisle. The stone columns had been scoured deeply with initials and she wondered who could have done that. The vicar came briskly through the church and saw her. ‘How are you progressing?’ She was touching the cool stone of the columns and she said: ‘Why would people carve their initials in a church?’
‘Vandalism has been around a long time,’ he shrugged. He peered at the incisions as though he had never noticed them. ‘Visitors, I suppose. I hardly think that worshippers would have been able to do that. Not unless it was a very long sermon. Did you find what you were looking for?’
Arrivals & Departures Page 29