Kitabı oku: «The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows», sayfa 2
‘Head porter, you say?’ Maisie clarified, her forehead creased into a frown, as they walked over to two gigantic farm barns.
‘Don’t ask, dah-ling. Don’t ask.’
Maisie stood in the doorway to Saleroom Two. It was the upmarket version of the larger barn they’d just walked through. Saleroom One held household and modern effects; this was antiques. Both had the large central space divided by trestle tables, strewn with boxes. Larger items, such as furniture, stood around the edge and pictures and rugs hung from the walls.
At the far end stood a glass-fronted cabinet that contained small objects of value, every item proudly displaying a numbered sticker, which Johnny explained was cross-referenced in their printed catalogues. In her efforts to understand the system she looked up the lot number for a pair of silver cufflinks and read the description with a £130–£190 estimate. It seemed a frustratingly vague idea of their value to her.
Having never been to an auction, Maisie was wary of them as a concept. She liked the certainty of wanting an object, knowing its price and being able to purchase it without competition. There were too many elements of chance associated with the random and unstructured nature of bidding for her liking.
Johnny leaned an elbow on the top of the cabinet and ran a hand through his bouncy hair. There was a pause when all she could hear was the echoing footsteps of the porters at the back of the barn.
‘Look, I’ll be brutally honest,’ he said, ‘I’ve only had seven applicants and interviewed three. You are far and away the most impressive candidate and possibly over-qualified for this job. We need marketing skills like yours to help the company grow but you’ll also be asked to lift tables, offer practical help on auction days and even sweep up occasionally.’ His foot toyed with some dead leaves blown in by the wind, letting them crunch beneath his highly polished shoes.
The advert in the local paper had been optimistically worded: Growing firm of Auctioneers seeks individual with marketing and communications skills to contribute to vibrant team. Maisie was beginning to suspect General dogsbody who knows a bit about computers because we’re largely clueless, and who’ll probably be asked to clean the toilets if we’re a man down might be a more accurate job description.
‘However, I promise you won’t have anyone looking over your shoulder or making you account for your movements, and I will genuinely listen to any input and ideas you have. I liked your portfolio, particularly the unusual Wickerman’s beer mats you designed for the Felixstowe Beer Festival. You are clearly creative and focused. But more importantly, I like you.’
For the first time that morning, Johnny looked slightly nervous; tiny beads of sweat forming on his corned beef-coloured brow. He was wringing his hands together and looking intently at her face. ‘So, my darling, I fall procumbent at your alabaster feet, and ask if you are in or out?’
Not quite sure whether being procumbent was a good thing or not, Maisie gazed across the cluttered room of miscellaneous objects, contemplated the joy of a ten-minute commute, and the distinct and welcome lack of potential romantic partners in the workplace.
‘In,’ she said.
Chapter 4
Maisie didn’t regret her impulsive decision to take the job for a moment. It was nothing like working for Wickerman’s and nothing like Johnny had led her to believe, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
For the first week, she shadowed various members of staff because he insisted she got a feel for the place. With an evil north-westerly wind slicing across the forecourt every time she ventured between the salerooms and the offices, bloody freezing was her overriding feeling. Now she understood why so many of the staff wandered around in fingerless gloves and quilted jackets. But somehow even this lifted her spirits. How much more invigorating than sitting at a desk all day, trying to remember to get up and move every half an hour to encourage blood flow and reduce eye strain.
She realised now that even though she’d worked in an office full of people at Wickerman’s, there had been a sense of isolation. Tied to a desk, each person in their own little computer-centric bubble, interaction was sparse. The auction house by comparison was a bustling and varied working environment.
Maisie quickly settled into the weekly routine. Monday, the public dropped off items for sale. Tuesday and Wednesday Johnny dealt with private appointments or left the site to oversee probate valuations. Thursday was a frantic collation of the lots and production of the catalogue – all ready for the sale on Friday. People were invited to view Thursday evening or early Friday morning. No one, with the possible exception of Arthur, paused for breath. And then on Monday, the whole cycle started again.
Maisie was given a desk and a computer in the back office with Johnny and, in amongst the clutter, she created an oasis of calm and order. By the second week, she was keen to put her marketing skills to good use, and her priority was to tackle the dated brand. Simple was the way to go, with a clean GA monogram and a coffee, aqua and teal palette of colours.
‘Oh, you are an absolute darling of the highest magnitude,’ Johnny gushed, resplendent in a double-breasted suit of British racing green, with a cheeky silk handkerchief poking out the left breast pocket. They were gathered in the front office-cum-reception – Maisie showing everyone the new logo and gauging opinion.
‘Ladies, what do we think? I value and indeed actively solicit everyone’s input.’ Johnny turned to Maisie. ‘They are, after all, the frantically paddling legs under the surface of the water, whilst we glide along like the serene and elegant swans that we are. Ella, stop hiding behind the computer screen. Do you not agree Maisie has captured the very essence of Gildersleeve’s? Sophisticated and professional?’
The poor girl coloured up faster than a halogen hob and although Maisie liked the exuberant Johnny enormously, sensitivity and tact were not his forte. She threw what she hoped was a conciliatory smile across the office but the girl didn’t raise her eyes and instead chewed nervously on her bottom lip, reluctant to leave her desk. The glossy mahogany curtain of hair that covered the left side of her delicate face swished as she gave a brief nod.
‘Arthur’s had a slight accident.’ The bearded porter ambled into the reception and Maisie immediately raised a concerned head.
‘What is it this time?’ Johnny sighed. ‘Ran over a customer’s foot with the sack barrow? Dropped a box of crystal glasses? Or got his wretched foot caught in the storm drain again?’
‘No, he’s excelled himself with this one. Locked himself in the men’s toilet cubicle and managed to pull the handle off completely. Apparently he’s been in there nearly two hours. Poor bloke is getting a bit agitated,’ the porter explained.
Johnny let out a long sigh. ‘I know Theodore is terribly fond of him, and it’s largely why I feel obliged to keep him on, but really? He should have retired years ago. Why work here when he could be at home, enjoying his retirement, pottering about the garden, and playing bowls? – or whatever it is old people do.’
What business the staffing of the auction house was to Theodore, Maisie couldn’t possibly imagine and hoped Johnny’s boyfriend wasn’t the sort of person who knew nothing about the business but still waggled his oar about in the company waters as he rowed past.
‘Perhaps Arthur’s wife doesn’t want him under her feet all day?’ ventured the accounts lady.
‘I fear the poor woman more likely craves respite from his incessant chatter,’ said Johnny.
Or he needs the money, thought Maisie, rather more charitably than the rest, wondering how no one, including her, had missed the old man for two hours.
Johnny, Maisie and the porter headed to the gents’, a separate brick building with a corrugated metal roof and a brown tile-effect linoleum floor – draughty but functional. A lick of paint and a big mirror would brighten the place up a bit. Perhaps she’d mention it to Johnny later, although she knew she was volunteering herself for another job.
‘I’m a daft old bugger. The lock jammed. I panicked, used too much force and the knob came off in my hand, but you can take all associated costs out of my wages and dock the two hours’ pay when I wasn’t working. I don’t want to cost the company money.’ His disembodied voice floated over the cubicle, only a pair of scuffed brown Chelsea boots visible under the door.
‘Applying that logic, he’d earn about four pounds fifty a week,’ the porter mumbled.
‘Is the lock screwed to the door?’ Maisie called, trying to find a practical solution to the situation as fast as possible.
‘Well now, let me see … Yes, little cross-head screws,’ came the reply.
‘I’ll grab a Phillips,’ Beardy Man offered and disappeared, returning with the appropriate screwdriver and thrusting it under the gap below the door.
After much huffing and tutting, it became obvious Arthur couldn’t undo the screws with his arthritic hands.
‘That’s it,’ Maisie announced. ‘I’m going over the top. Someone give me a leg up. Stand back, Arthur. I’m coming in.’
‘Oh, dah-ling, you aren’t serious,’ said Johnny. And then another stage whisper: ‘You don’t know what you are going to find …’
She glared at him and he looked slightly abashed, clasping both hands together and bending forward to help her mount the cubicle door by way of an apology.
One exuberant heave and she was half over the top. She leaned forward, shifting her centre of gravity to help propel herself forward. As her legs lifted, her floaty wool skirt slid towards her waist and revealed her sturdy underwear. Was it better or worse, she wondered for that suspended moment, that she was wearing tights?
‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Johnny from the other side, as her kicking legs disappeared over the top. ‘Look away, people. Preserve the dignity of this fair maiden.’ She fell awkwardly to the floor, next to a remorseful Arthur, sitting on the closed lavatory seat, with his head in his hands.
Two minutes later and she’d liberated the pair of them to embarrassing whoops from the porter.
‘Would one of you take the dear fellow to the back office? There’s a comfortable old armchair in the corner somewhere, under a pile of coats. Someone should sit with him for a while and revive his flagging spirits,’ Johnny said.
‘I’ll take him,’ volunteered Maisie. ‘Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you a cup of tea. You could do with one, I imagine.’
Arthur looked over to his rescuer and smiled a watery smile.
‘I’m a silly old fool, aren’t I? Don’t know what my Pam will say.’
‘Nonsense,’ Maisie said. ‘It could have happened to anyone.’
Chapter 5
‘Here’s the camera I was talking about.’ Johnny handed Maisie a large, black digital camera. ‘But you might prefer your i-Thingy to upload pictures. A selection of photographs for the catalogue, focusing on our more lucrative items, if you would be so kind.’
‘Oh – me? Right.’ Maisie was hoping to crack on with updating the website. There wasn’t even a section detailing staff members – a must if they wanted to create a friendly, family feel about the business.
‘Everyone else is so dreadfully busy today. It won’t cause you an unnecessary degree of inconvenience, will it? The lot numbers are already in place, so all you have to do is fly around the saleroom with the speed of Hermes and take some photos of the more interesting pieces. It should be a breeze for someone as capable as your good self.’ Johnny’s round face broke into a charming smile and his fluffy eyebrows gave a little jump. Flatterer, thought Maisie – feeling suitably flattered.
‘I mustn’t linger, for I have a probate valuation in Norwich shortly. Deaths and doddery old dears,’ he joked. ‘Families can’t cope with a lifetime of accumulated possessions and are happy for us to dispose of it all – forever hoping there is an undiscovered masterpiece in the attic or some scandalous and valuable correspondence from an illustrious historical figure deposited in the secret drawer of a roll-top desk.’
‘And is there, ever?’ she asked. ‘A hidden gem that turns around the fortunes of the family?’
‘Closest we ever came was a little Constable sketch. Fetched thousands. The family were so delighted they quite forgot to grieve.’ He winked and slid a gold pocket watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and glanced at it. ‘But I must away – the traffic can be such a bore.’ He tugged on an outsized dark blue Barbour wax jacket, flung the tasselled end of a banana-yellow silk scarf over his shoulder and floated towards the door like an enormous and colourful hot air balloon.
‘And you’re still okay with me rearranging things, to get them looking their best?’ Maisie asked. She’d been itching to play about with the salerooms and put her marketing experience into practice, but was conscious of overstepping the mark.
‘Absolutely, dah-ling. I told you at the interview, you have carte blanche. We are so terribly behind the times. It’s why you got the job. I knew deep in my very soul you would be the restorative tonic this business needs.’
Heaving back the huge door to the first saleroom, Maisie squinted to adjust to the dim interior. The day was sunny and bright but, typical of February, the underlying temperatures were colder than the bottom drawer of a freezer in the Arctic. There was a dusty smell, not unpleasant and reminiscent of old hymn books, the church feel accentuated by the loftiness of the barn ceiling and bare walls. Her eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness and then she walked over to the light switches, allowing the artificial blue-white light to invade the space.
Remembering her lesson from Johnny on how to handle the items (ironically, not by the handle) she took several photographs, marking each item off on the sheet as she did so.
She was halfway down the second aisle when a shiver of something rippled through her. The sensation came upon her so decidedly that she almost stopped mid-step. Her skin danced as a thousand tiny pinpricks exploded over her arms. It was a feeling she’d experienced many years before and one she’d all but forgotten about. Bending down, she pulled out a box of household objects from under a trestle table, the prickles moving up her arms like an army of inchworms. As she rifled through the mismatched saucers and dated kitchen paraphernalia, something at the bottom caught her eye and her heart gave a funny little jolt of recognition. It was a teapot, nestled between a yellow plastic colander and a cake tin – and one that was startlingly familiar.
Kneeling on the cold concrete floor, she carefully lifted out the surrounding contents. With one hand about the body of the teapot and the other keeping the lid secure, she placed it on the trestle table and sat back on her heels.
The china was white but the bold abstract pattern was in black, and it was a good size for a teapot, possibly holding five or six cups of tea. The squiggles and shapes that covered one side and crept over the lid were like jigsaw puzzle pieces, but not quite. And then sections of the pattern tailed off down and round to the predominantly white side – as if pieces of the pattern were drifting away from the whole.
Her heart was beating like Ben’s thudding kick drum. She knew this teapot of old – she was damn sure of it. There was nothing else in the box that matched it – no china that would imply it was part of a set. But then the one she remembered from her childhood had also been a solitary item. Long-forgotten words floated into her brain – words the owner of the teapot had said to her all those years ago, and her heart began a slow tattoo.
‘It isn’t a set any more and my darling teapot so misses her companions.’
Chapter 6
How strange that Meredith Mayhew’s teapot should come up for auction and Maisie should stumble across it. No, strange wasn’t the word; it was disconcerting. Memories flooded back as her thumb traced the pattern around the pot and up the handle. Although not unhappy memories, they sat uncomfortably with her because they took her back to a troubled time in her life nearly twenty years ago …
Meredith Mayhew had lived next door for as long as Maisie could remember. A funny old dear with tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses either perched on her elegant nose or on her aluminium-coloured shampoo-and-set hair. She always had a neatly pressed collar on her polyester print dress or floral cotton blouse, and there was invariably a string of beads hanging under the collar and around her neck. Sometimes jet black like small, shiny olives; sometimes bright red like ripe cranberries; occasionally, on high days and holidays, iridescent pearls. And, like many older ladies of Maisie’s acquaintance, she always smelled of Parma Violets and talcum powder.
There were several years of exchanged pleasantries over the garden fence between Meredith and her mother, often as Maisie tumbled cartwheels across the lawn, or sat cross-legged, threading daisy stems together to make chains whilst her mother hung out a never-ending line of cotton tops, branded jeans and more odd socks than she had pegs for. (How is that growing family of yours doing? Oh, you know. Eating me out of house and home. Cue an eye-roll and a flustered expression. You’re always welcome to pop in for a cup of tea. If only I had the time, Meredith, but I never get so much as five minutes to myself …)
All this changed on a blustery morning in April, as the scampering wind scraped the branches of an overgrown buddleia across the wall outside her bedroom window, even though the day was bright and inviting. A seven-year-old Maisie woke to Zoe perched on the edge of the twin bed, headphones on and staring straight ahead. Competing with the buffeting wind from outside was the sound of someone pummelling on the front door.
‘Come on, Bev. Be reasonable.’ The voice was pleady and distant.
‘I’ll give you sodding reasonable,’ her mother’s voice shrieked from the hall. Bleary-eyed and half-asleep, Maisie stumbled out of her bedroom to witness her irate mother launching a brown leather shoe out the landing window – three black sacks of clothes and books at her slippered feet.
‘Owww. That got me across the shoulder. Look what you’re doing, woman.’ Her dad’s troubled voice floated in through the open window and across to a bemused Maisie. What was Daddy doing on the outside?
‘It was meant to land smack bang across your lying, cheating mouth and break a few of those perfect teeth of yours,’ her mother yelled, pulling back a Russian shot putter’s arm, pausing to take considered aim, and launching its companion on a similar trajectory. Open-mouthed, Maisie watched as her mother heaved up one of the sacks and tipped the contents out the window, giving the bag a final shake, before it was caught by a gust of wind and carried into the stratosphere.
‘And I’m changing the locks. You’ll have to find somewhere else to live because you aren’t welcome here any longer.’
‘Why does Daddy have to live somewhere else?’ Still in her Hello Kitty pyjamas, Maisie returned to her bedroom to ask Zoe what the confusing scene was all about – it was Saturday so neither Lisa nor Ben would surface until the afternoon. Zoe wasn’t quite a teenager like her older siblings but she was at high school so practically a grown-up. She kissed boys and everything.
‘He’s got this … friend that Mummy doesn’t like. In fact, she’s only just found out about her. But it’s complicated,’ Zoe sighed.
Maisie thought about this for a moment and her eyes expanded as she processed the information and its consequences. Inwardly, she resolved to steer clear of that new girl in her class. All showy-offy and sly. Mummy wouldn’t like her at all.
The verbal warfare continued through the open window as her mother stomped backwards and forwards along the landing, scouring the house to seek out all vestiges of her husband. The lawn was now a colourful and abstract display of one man’s possessions as the owner chased loose sheets of paper across lawns and pavements. Amused neighbours gathered at the edges of their gardens, intrigued by the spectacle, as he repeatedly begged his wife to let him in.
But the lady was not for turning. Her father eventually scraped together his scattered belongings from the front lawn and drove off in his company car. And Meredith Mayhew, who had remained inside for the duration of the showdown, opened her front door, walked purposefully down to the road, U-turned up her neighbour’s drive and gave the front door three sharp knocks. It was opened by, Maisie’s sobbing mother, floundering around in a world that had collapsed overnight, and in which she was now bereft of adult companionship.
‘The offer of tea still stands. The kettle is on and we only have to talk if you want to.’
‘I’d like that,’ her mum replied between sobs, and the older lady ushered her down the front path with Maisie trotting behind, determined not to lose both parents during the course of a morning.
Meredith’s house was the semi attached to their house. Everything was mirrored. And considerably tidier. And smelled less like stinky socks and overused deodorant. As she walked into the kind lady’s living room, Maisie felt all fuzzy and peculiar – a bit like when you had to stand up in assembly and talk to the whole school, and were worried everyone would stare and laugh. She sat on the edge of the floral-patterned sofa, her small feet barely reaching the Chinese rug that covered the centre of the room. Maisie crossed her chubby legs in front of her and then uncrossed them again. They sat in silence for a few moments until Meredith reappeared with a tray.
‘Drink this,’ Meredith ordered, picking up a curious black and white teapot and pouring a steaming stream of dark brown tea into a dainty cup. The tulip-shaped cups and saucers matched each other, but didn’t match the pot – Maisie always noticed things like that. ‘It will take the edge off things, Beverley. I promise.’
Unable to drag her eyes from the teapot, Maisie felt the pricklings become more intense. Meredith looked across at her as Maisie stared, transfixed, and rubbed her small hands up to her shoulders and down to her elbows.
‘Are you okay, dear?’ she asked, returning the teapot to the tray. Maisie’s wide eyes followed her movements, as if hypnotized.
‘Um …’
‘Can you feel something?’ She bent over the little girl, her voice breathy and excited. ‘Gamma used to go all peculiar and tingly whenever she brought out this tea set. She was so insistent it was like a family and should be kept as a whole. “Split the set; split the family,” she used to say. It had been in our family several generations, so she was very attached to it. But then it isn’t a set any more …’ The old lady looked sad, Maisie noticed. ‘And my darling teapot so misses her companions.’
Maisie shook her head but kept her lips firmly pressed together, not wanting to be associated with a mad, old and long-dead relative of Meredith’s. There was something funny about the teapot, but at seven, she couldn’t even begin to articulate what it might be. And with two grown-ups both staring at her, she wasn’t inclined to try.
Maisie uncrossed her arms and stared down at her blue T-Bar canvas shoes.
‘I think we’ve all got rather more on our minds than a silly old teapot – no offence,’ her mum sniffed.
‘Of course. I suppose I always wanted to believe there was something unworldly about the teapot or even that I might feel it too …’ Meredith’s voice tailed off and she placed it back on the tray.
Maisie’s mum lifted the delicate bone china cup to her trembling lips, eyes red-rimmed and posture defeated, and half-sipped, half-choked on the scalding tea.
And a silent seven-year-old Maisie tried to ignore the continued prickling sensation, as she watched the pain drain from her mother’s face and her hunched-up shoulders relax.
‘Wow,’ said her mum. ‘You’re not wrong, Meredith. That tea is remarkable.’
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