Guilt Trip

ONE

Sometimes you go to an antiques fair, take one look at what’s on offer, and wonder why you bothered to turn up. Why anyone bothered, actually, whether they were punters or dealers like me. This particular fair was clearly a dud, though it was billed as a prestige event in what claimed to be one of Kent’s premier hotels, the Mondiale, in Hythe.

They’d put out glossy literature and reduced space rental prices to entice dealers to the new venue. But we knew from the moment we set up our stall one Thursday morning in early September that we had made a mistake. There were very few old friends there. The newcomers seemed to be selling not good quality antiques, but stuff that I’d technically describe as tat, more suitable for a bottom of the market car boot sale.

Always keen to make people feel at home, Griff left me to finish arranging our goods and went round to say hello. He was soon back. ‘I know I’m not to everyone’s taste,’ he said sadly, passing me a paper cup of overpriced and undernourished coffee, ‘but there are so many stony faces that you’d think this was a tax office. Perhaps these mauve slacks were a mistake?’

‘People are probably just scared,’ I said, thinking of my first fairs with Griff, when I was little more than a feral teenager, in whom he’d seen something worth rescuing. ‘Stage fright,’ I added.

‘All the more need for old-timers like me to greet them and make them feel at home.’

I hugged him. ‘Nowt so queer as folk,’ I said, in a dreadful attempt at a Northern accent guaranteed to make him wince. He’d started out, like many antiques dealers, as a professional actor needing to make money while he was ‘resting’, as he and his friends described being what other folk called unemployed, and could produce accurate accents at the drop, as he said, of a script. ‘Now, are you happy with these lights?’ I prompted him. ‘Or should I put an extra spot on that garniture?’

Head on one side, he inspected the trio of late nineteenth century Spode vases. ‘To make them a little less vulgar?’ He sighed.

He’d been very downhearted recently, though he’d denied it when I’d asked him if there was a problem. He might have been anxious because there was less and less trade around – at least, selling person to person, which he enjoyed more than anything. Now we made far more of our money selling on the Internet than in our shop or at fairs, which he found terribly unexciting and impersonal. There was always a chance that he was simply bored.

I’d better be upbeat as I tweaked a light. ‘Or to make them more eye-catching? Some people like OTT, after all. There. They look positively glamorous.’

He rolled his eyes.

Ignoring him, I said briskly, ‘Now, if you’re happy, shall I go for a little prowl myself?’

It wasn’t unusual for dealers to come across items that were good value but which didn’t fit with their usual stock-in-trade. We specialized in mid-value Victorian china, but would stretch our dates if we came across something special. Once Griff had dealt mainly in treen, but while a lot of people brought me their precious china and porcelain to repair, I’d never learned how to restore wooden items to my satisfaction, so we’d decided to run down that side of the business.

I was keeping an eye out for people who might have set something aside for us. I was also sniffing out bargains they didn’t know they had, like a water diviner coming upon water in a desert. Not that I always told them how good their bargains were. I might be a divvy, but I wasn’t a saint.

As I mooched round, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. Titus Oates. Even in a brightly lit room like this, he always managed to get the dimmest corner. He dealt in old books and manuscripts, nine-tenths of his stock absolutely spot on. I didn’t ask about the rest. Ever. Especially as he employed my father to produce it.

Glancing around the room, he raised an eyebrow, turned down his mouth and shook his head. Never again, his face said. He didn’t need to use words.

Neither did I.

Completely satisfied with our conversation, we drifted apart. But then he summoned me back with a minute jerk of his head. ‘Sad about Croft. Bankrupt. Topped himself.’ And he was gone.

Croft had made genuine reproduction antiques – never pretended they were anything else. Brown furniture was at an all-time low: maybe repro was as bad. Maybe with Griff in his present mood I wouldn’t pass on the information. I cogitated while I continued my prowl.

An old friend who dealt in old linen had found a Victorian spectacle case I might like. It wasn’t china, obviously, but we had a regular customer who’d come to prefer spectacle cases to our usual stock and would take practically any we could find; we were still hunting for an elusive Tunbridge-ware one for her. Another mate produced a scruffy little bourdalou priced at a tenner that really did not sit well with his collection of garden and other tools. Griff had dinned it into me that all our deals must be done with honour and honesty, and I liked the guy, anyway. In fact, it might have been his accent I’d mimicked earlier, come to think of it.

‘Dave,’ I said, checking the piece carefully, ‘you do know this is Derby?’

‘It could be Ashby de la Zouch for all I know about it. Just some sauce boat with flowers on.’

‘Flowers, yes. Sauce boat, no. It’s a sort of Portaloo.’

‘You what?’

‘His Lordship could nip out of his coach and pee against the hedge. Her Ladyship certainly couldn’t. So she’d use one of these.’

It took him a moment to work it out. ‘A posh potty? Bloody hell. So what’s it worth?’

‘On your stall, who knows? On ours, it might just fetch two hundred and fifty to three hundred pounds on a good day.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Eh, for a little ’un, you know a lot, don’t you?’

‘Do you want me to sell it on for you – just take commission?’

‘I said I’d sell it, and the price was a tenner. I can’t go back on that.’

‘We’re stuck then. I can’t take it at that.’ Arms akimbo, we glared at each other.

He broke first. ‘What say we split the difference, lass? And you can buy me a pint if you make more. Eh, now I can tell my dad I’ve done what he always wanted me to do: I’ve changed trades, and I’m into plumbing. He’ll be right taken aback – same as when I said I was marrying Pat and moving down south. Mind you, being a Yorkshireman he quite likes the freebie holidays he gets down here by the sea.’ He gestured, with a huge curling thumb, at the stall opposite Titus’, in a corner as dark as his. ‘Hey up, have you seen that load of crap over there? Go on, take a look. And smell. They’ve used modern glue and modern varnish. Enough to make your hair curl.’

These days a lot of people gutted old dressing-cases and writing slopes to convert them into more user-friendly jewellery boxes, but most dealers did their best to make the alterations sympathetic. Not these people. I tried not to look at the cheap ugly fabric linings; they weren’t even stuck in neatly. On the other side of the stall, there were other boxes that mercifully hadn’t been converted. Some were dreadfully battered, needing help to get them back to a little dignity. Others, including a couple of Edwardian mahogany dressing-cases, had had chips roughly filled and then been varnished to within an inch of their lives, so much that even the so-called hidden drawers – little flat hidey-holes in the base opened by pressing a discreet catch – were sealed shut. I didn’t know whether to be sad or furious. These had been places where women with no privacy could hide things that were precious – perhaps a letter or so, or maybe cash or a keepsake. You could scarcely see them on a top-class box. You couldn’t see them at all on these. The silver bottle tops were still tarnished – inexcusable – and one or two bent where they’d been forced in the past. Since silver’s so soft, it would have been the work of minutes to press them back into shape.

What were they daring to ask for these poor orphans of some unknown storm?

The stallholder, glued to his mobile, had his back to the room, as if daring any customers to approach. So I checked the prices myself, only to be defeated by the code. Most of us used some sort of shorthand when we priced things, if only to tell us how far we could drop a price and still make a profit while making a quick sale. It was easy enough for another dealer to work out: if we keep an eye on other people’s stalls when they’re on snack or loo breaks, we need to be able to help possible buyers, after all. Those on this stall meant nothing at all to me. Nothing. But then, I didn’t have any proper education to speak of, and probably someone like Titus would crack it in no time. I decided that I must ask him next time our paths crossed.

By now the stallholder, still talking down his phone, was watching me every inch of the way. I had an absurd suspicion he was even talking about me to whoever was at the other end. Shaking my head, as much to clear it of silly ideas as to show I didn’t fancy anything he was offering, I stalked off.

Continuing my circuit, I checked another newcomer’s stall. I introduced myself and said as many pleasant things as I could. The woman’s response was cool to icy, so when I spotted a pretty Swansea cup and saucer for far less than I’d be able to sell it for next time we were in Wales, I didn’t talk up her price for her.

Accusing eyes glared at me. Full of guilt, I turned quickly. Thirty heads and faces stared in my direction. It took me a moment to realize that they all belonged to busts and Toby jugs. I didn’t mind the busts, but I really loathed the jugs, probably because we had a regular client who bought every one she saw, regardless of condition. I got to restore the whole lot, always under pressure because she wanted work done yesterday. Perhaps it was a rare Toby jug calling me on her behalf? No. No, I didn’t think so. It was a dusty Parian bust, of all things, of a serious-looking man with a beard. It was always weird when I got summoned by something I knew nothing about, but that was what was happening here. Was that a signature there? And a date? Two dates? I coughed up the trade price the stallholder was asking, just twenty pounds, and took Beardie back for Griff’s approval, just as if he were a new boyfriend.

But Griff was on the phone, talking with more animation than I’d seen for weeks. I tucked my purchases under the skirts of the counter to show them to him later.

By now Griff was sounding very regretful, shaking his head and repeating that he couldn’t, simply couldn’t. He was sorry, but no. And he cut the call, his mouth turning down dreadfully at the corners.

It would have turned up again if there’d been any customers to charm, but there weren’t.

‘Look,’ I said, pointing at the empty room. ‘I can fight off all these seething masses. We’re only a few hundred yards from Waitrose. Why don’t you go and see what you can find?’ As he hesitated, I added, ‘I bet the lunches they sell here are as bad and overpriced as the coffee. A nice salad and a fresh roll would go down a treat. And some of that nice Victorian lemonade, just to remind us that it’s really summer.’

‘Only just,’ he said, adding gloomily: ‘Autumn will be on us before we know it.’ But he pottered off all the same.

Normally, I could phone Aidan, Griff’s long-term partner – in the other sense – and ask him to suggest something to bring back his smile. A few days in London doing all the shows and catching up with old friends would have been ideal. But Aidan was in New Zealand, with his dying sister and the rest of his family, who, I gathered, simply assumed he was a bachelor about town and had no notion of his real relationship with Griff. They phoned and Skyped, but as I was all too aware, virtual people weren’t the same as real live warm ones in the same room. Not at all.

If I let my thoughts drift to Morris, my boyfriend, who was currently on secondment from the Met Fine Arts Squad to Interpol in Lyon, I’d soon be as miserable as Griff. When he’d accepted the posting, we’d assumed he’d be able to get back to England pretty well every weekend, or that I’d go to him. But his bosses kept rescheduling meetings, and sometimes his daughter was ill, and . . . No! I wouldn’t start resenting the fact that he couldn’t always be there for me. He did his best, after all. But sometimes . . .

Perhaps a bit of lippie might cheer me up; it ought to stop other people asking what was wrong. But Griff had dinned it into me that no one ever applied slap in public. Ever. So reaching for a compact was off limits, although only a few punters had strayed in. They looked as if they’d missed the turning for the beach. I’ll swear some were carrying towels and shrimping nets. None of them seemed to know what to do next. Not spend their ice cream money at Tripp and Townend’s stall, that was for sure.

A nod from Titus in response to my lifted eyebrow told me he’d keep an eye open so, grabbing the bourdalou and shoving the lipstick in my pocket, I nipped off. Washed with the hotel’s best water, nothing else, it came up even better than I hoped, the little blue and green sprigs and the gilt lines standing out beautifully against the white ground. I was so pleased I almost forgot the lippie.

When I returned to the hall, however, I was very glad I hadn’t.

In the dead centre stood this tall woman, looking as out of place with her elegant clothes and exquisite shoes as the bourdalou had done amongst Dave’s garden spades. She held one hand to shield her eyes, like an intrepid explorer scanning a distant shore. Gradually, her gaze moved from one stall to the next.

I had time to scuttle to ours, where I found myself standing, just like my colleagues, more or less to attention. We might have been servants greeting the lady of the house. None of us so much as fidgeted, though some of us might have wanted to curtsy. I certainly did, until I told myself that but for a quirk of fate I might have been a Lady, or something similar. At this point my chin went up, all of its own accord.

At last it was my turn to be inspected. But this time she stepped forward, her hands spread as if in disbelief. ‘But where,’ she asked the whole room, not loudly but very clearly, ‘is Griffith Tripp?’

In the past I’d have squared up to her, asking, ‘What is it to you?’ Now some of my father’s aristocratic genes must have made me say, without a single squeak, ‘I’m his partner, madam. Can I help you?’ My dignity might have been somewhat diminished by the presence of the travelling chamber pot in my hand. Perhaps she didn’t register it.

She glided forward, right hand outstretched, as if to shake mine, but she held it at such a curious angle that I had a terrible fear she might expect me to kiss it. I didn’t, but I did place my new purchase safely on the stand before offering my own. ‘Lina Townend,’ I said as I did so.

‘Ah, his protégée,’ she said, moderating the volume slightly but giving each syllable its full value as she leaned across the stall to air-kiss me. Her scent was expensive, but close to I could see that her skin owed far more to very skilfully applied cosmetics than she’d probably have liked to admit. As for those huge diamond studs weighing down her ears, I’d have insured them as paste. Good paste, but paste. ‘I’ve heard all about you!’

‘She’s my darling Lina – the granddaughter I never had!’ declared Griff, startling her into a tremendous jump, only half of which was spontaneous. ‘She’s my dearest friend possible.’

He’d made an impressive entrance despite the three Waitrose carriers he was clutching – worse, surely, than my pot. He passed them to me as if he was bestowing a huge favour, and taking both of our visitor’s hands, he kissed them in turn.

It was a good job I was holding all that food or I swear I’d have applauded.

So might the rest of the stallholders. Possibly the few punters thought all this came with their entrance tickets, a sort of indoor street theatre, because they formed a loose circle around the pair. Theatrical it certainly was. The woman fell to her knees, her clasped hands raised imploringly, like the model for a bad Victorian picture.

‘Griffith Tripp,’ she began, ‘on bended knee, I beg you to take that part. We cannot manage without you. The part calls. The stage calls. Your public calls.’

A murmur ran round the room, as if the public was responding to its cue.

To my delight, Griff silently expressed extreme reluctance. One hand repelled her, the other called on the heavens for support. Both held their poses. What a tableau. It could have been a bad illustration for a scene from Dickens.

‘Go on, mate, do the decent thing! Make an honest woman of her!’ someone yelled, breaking the silence.

So Griff turned, both hands outstretched to take hers – a good job since I was pretty sure she couldn’t have got up under her own steam without an undignified scrabble. ‘Very well, Emilia. I will at least give you ear.’ He cast a strange look at me (see, the language was catching!): was he asking for help or for approval?

‘Why not go and have a coffee and talk it over?’ I asked. The punters had got more than their money’s worth and might be in a mood to buy. It wasn’t just our business that had been suspended, after all.

For whatever reason, things seemed to improve a little. In half an hour I sold two pretty Royal Worcester blush egg cups and an elegant Edwardian Crown Devon jardinière going cheap because I’d restored extensively. And yes, I showed the buyer exactly what I’d done. A smattering of people were now carrying the bright lime green polythene carriers the fair organizers insisted we all used, so other dealers must have profited too.

Titus appeared a few yards away. ‘Nice bit of drama, eh, doll? Acted like a dose of castor oil on the wallets, too. How much did he pay her? Though it looks more like she’s going to pay him. Griff as toy boy. Who’d have thought it?’

He’d gone before I could reply. All those sentences from Titus. He must have made a killing on something.

Something was beginning to smell oniony. Something in one of the Waitrose bags. They ought to be in the van, but with so many people now milling round I didn’t care to leave the stall unattended. Griff and this Emilia could have five more minutes, but then I’d call his mobile.

In fact, it was nearer fifteen minutes, because I was busy with a couple of the most frustrating sort of would-be buyers. They really liked one of our vases. But they’d seen something similar – well, not exactly like it – on a TV antiques auction show, where it had gone for much less than I was asking for it. Eventually, still managing a smile, I resorted to the lowest trick in my book, which worked almost every time. I put the vase into the woman’s hands. It was like handing her a longed for baby. In her heart and head it was already hers.

Their cash was still warm in my bumbag when Griff reappeared.

I hugged away his apologies. It wasn’t the first time I’d held the fort alone, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last. ‘So what has this Emilia woman persuaded you to do?’

‘Is it so obvious? My dear one, Emilia – Emilia Cosworth, you must have heard of her. No? Ah, me – she once had her name in lights on Broadway and in the West End. I’ll tell you all about her later. What matters now is that Emilia owns and runs a tiny theatre in a converted oast house and wants me – she says to star, but really it’s to be part of the regular ensemble – in a play she’s commissioned.’

‘Commissioned!’

‘When she – like us all – had periods of resting, she taught creative writing. The play’s by one of her former students. Not a household name, dear one.’

‘We all have to start somewhere,’ I said, not one to begrudge anyone the sort of luck I had. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Curtain Call. One hopes it’s not an omen. There’ll be a run of a week at most. The downside is that most of the actors are amateur, so there’ll be endless rehearsals. One evening a week, at least, plus Sunday afternoons,’ he wailed.

Privately, I thought it was just what he needed. ‘Many lines to learn?’ If there was anything to worry about it was his memory, which he insisted was fading.

‘Ah, that’s the wonderful thing! I play an ageing Victorian actor-manager recalling his past triumphs as he writes his autobiography. So I can have the script in front of me! Not to read,’ he added hurriedly, ‘but to refer to, should I need it.’

‘And when do rehearsals start?’

‘They actually began two weeks ago. The actor who was supposed to be playing the lead pulled out quite unexpectedly and entirely without explanation. An amateur.’ He shrugged. ‘So they thought of me. That was the phone call. And then Emilia turns up here – so OTT . . .’

There was something he didn’t want to admit. ‘She certainly put on a good show. Perked up