Den Cooper was finding the responsibility of parenthood more of a worry than he had expected. The finances especially were of concern. His job as security officer at Bristol Airport paid modestly, and Maggs was never going to earn much working for Drew Slocombe. In fact, during the year or so she was taking off, she earned nothing beyond what the welfare system allowed her. Baby Meredith was equipped with second-hand or borrowed items, and their food was both simple and repetitive. ‘I need to find some way of getting more cash,’ he said, every few days.
‘You can’t. You haven’t got enough spare time,’ Maggs always argued.
It was Maggs’s mother who made the fatal suggestion. ‘What about buying and selling on eBay?’ she said, having overheard one of these conversations. The new grandmother spent a great deal of her time at the Coopers, proving to be alternately useful and infuriating. ‘Maggs and I could do the parcels, if you handle all the computer side of things.’ Den was no computer wizard, but his skills far outstripped those of his wife or her mother.
‘I have no idea where I’d start with something like that,’ he objected. ‘How do you get the stuff in the first place?’
‘And what sort of stuff would it be?’ wondered Maggs. ‘You probably need to specialise.’
‘And you have to do all that business with pictures. I haven’t any idea how to do that. My phone can barely make calls, let alone take photos.’
‘I don’t think it’s very difficult,’ said his mother-in-law. ‘All sorts of very ordinary people seem to manage it. For that matter, I’ve got very attached to Twitter myself. You do read such very amusing remarks there, not to mention all the funny pictures.’
Den was not persuaded. ‘I’d have to buy a new phone, at the very least. And there’d be no certainty of making a profit. I need something more reliable than that.’ But he had a thoughtful expression that was not lost on Maggs.
‘Well, what are you interested in?’ she pursued. ‘I’ve never noticed you bothering with antiques, or old books or models. You’re not the type for collecting war medals or spoons, are you? You need special knowledge if you’re going to start dealing.’
He looked at her from his considerable height, impressed at the way she had detected the most subtle manifestation of pique in his tone. Because his attention had been snagged by the idea, despite the many objections. His words had been dismissive, but his eyes had widened a little, gleamed a little, at the images of auction rooms and flea market stalls that had flickered into his head. Not eBay, no, but something more immediate and controllable could be the answer.
‘Maybe we could go to that antique place in Bristol at the weekend,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Get a few ideas. I do rather like china,’ he finished unexpectedly. He had surprised himself just as much as he surprised Maggs and her mother.
‘It’s a flea market,’ said Maggs. ‘If you mean the one in Corn Street.’
‘Even better,’ smiled Den.
‘China? What – plates and vases and all that? Since when?’
‘Ages ago. When I was about sixteen, I had an aunt who ran a stall in a market in Exeter. She did car boots as well. I went round with her sometimes. She showed me a few tricks.’
‘What sort of tricks?’
‘How to spot fakes, or damage that’d been covered up. I remember the marks – some of them, anyway. It’d probably come back to me with a bit of effort.’
‘Which aunt was it? Have I met her?’ Maggs frowned. ‘Doesn’t sound like your dad’s sister. She’s Auntie Chrissie, isn’t she?’
‘The one I mean has died. She was Aunt Pauline. She had cancer when she was only fifty-four. Nobody talks about her any more.’
‘Until now. What day is the flea market, then?’
‘I forget. Let me find out tomorrow. Someone at work’s sure to know.’
And someone did. Leslie Perkiss, well past retirement age, and moved sideways again and again, still clung to his position at the airport. He was currently being paid to channel travellers through the security gates, where they removed shoes and laptops, placed heavy luggage into plastic trays and walked stiffly through the archway that scanned them for unauthorised metalwork. Leslie Perkiss had a ready smile and never tired of the tedium. He had long ago abandoned any hope of discovering a machine gun inside a baby buggy’s frame or a hand grenade in a sponge bag. He regarded the procedures as pure nonsense as far as actual security was concerned. He had worked out for himself that it was actually designed to pacify the passengers and make them believe they were safe. And that was fine with him. He chucked children under their chins and made sure the elderly weren’t jostled in the queues.
Den liked Leslie, and often sat with him in the canteen. They had chatted about a thousand subjects over the years, including the joys of treasure hunting in junk shops. Leslie collected militaria and old postcards. He had a profound understanding of the ways of eBay. ‘I wondered whether I could do a bit of buying and selling,’ Den ventured. ‘China, probably.’
‘China from China and Japan?’ quipped the elderly man.
‘No, no. Strictly British. Worcester, Royal Doulton, Poole. I like Poole particularly.’
Leslie cocked his head. ‘Bit girly,’ he said. Leslie had a horror of anything girly, never suspecting that his fondness for small children might qualify. ‘Wouldn’t be my choice.’
Leslie’s choices had all been made decades ago, but Den refrained from pointing this out. ‘Any hints for me, then?’ he asked. ‘I wondered about the flea market they have in Corn Street.’
His friend pulled a face. ‘Never find anything good there. They know the exact value of everything to the last penny. Best bet’s a car boot, or charity shop. Same as it’s always been. People that don’t know what they’re doing. Mind you, there’s not so many of them any more, with all this antique stuff on the telly. Everybody’s an expert these days.’
‘Thanks.’ Den nodded to himself. The advice was good. ‘I think I’ll have a look at the market, even so. Just to get an idea of prices and whatnot. It’s been years since I went to anything like that. What I’m thinking is maybe getting a bit of stock and then putting it all into an auction in the Cotswolds or somewhere, with plenty of rich people, and seeing how that goes.’
The face was pulled again. ‘Have to pay seller’s commission, remember. Eats into any profit, that does. You’d do better to have a stall in one of those posh towns up there. They do big fairs in the town halls … Stow-on-the-Wold – isn’t that one of them?’ He pronounced the name slowly and roundly, as if there was something comical about it. Then he said it again. ‘Stow-on-the-Wold. What a name!’
‘I might manage that,’ said Den slowly. Plans and possibilities were filling his head, although he knew perfectly well that he lacked the capital to buy anything but the most cut-price bargains at either charity shop or car boot sale.
They made it a family outing, driving through Somerset to Keynsham, near Bristol, in the ageing car that was in urgent need of new tyres and a thorough clean. As a former police officer, Den was in agonies of worry that they would be stopped and chastised for the bald treads. ‘It’s actually rather dangerous,’ he told Maggs.
‘Only if we skid, and that won’t happen,’ she reassured him. ‘It’s not icy or wet. We’ll be fine.’
‘The first thing I spend any profits on will be the car,’ he promised.
‘Profits!’ she scoffed. ‘You haven’t even bought anything yet.’
He had in mind a raid on a small emergency fund for outlay, if it seemed worth the risk, but was not proposing to buy anything immediately. First he had to try to get an idea of how it all worked, twenty years or more after he had last shown any interest. The flea market was not the one in Corn Street after all, but a different monthly operation, which was actually easier to reach from their side of Bristol. ‘It starts at ten,’ he kept saying. ‘I want to be there from the beginning.’
They arrived precisely on time, thanks mainly to Maggs’s ineffable efficiency. Well trained by Drew Slocombe, she could estimate times and distances with great accuracy. Even though not constrained by a crematorium’s inflexible schedule, a burial had to be punctual. Everything had to be in place at the exact moment promised. ‘Otherwise they think we’re unreliable,’ she had explained to her husband.
They followed a small queue of cars, and parked easily. A huge, half-derelict building filled the view, until they turned and identified the new centre, hosting the market. There were a few stalls outside, but almost everything was inside. They went in, and all three were instantly delighted by the scene that met their eyes. ‘It’s like a fairy tale,’ gasped Maggs. Meredith kicked her heels and crowed aloud. Den quickly felt overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of objects on display. How would he ever work out any sort of plan? There were two big spaces filled with stalls offering antique, vintage, collectable, junk and kitsch. Shabby chic was yet another category, and one he barely understood. What might it be like to have a stall in this place? Could such a venture possibly bring in enough money to justify the time and outlay?
He stopped at a stall near the entrance densely stocked with ceramics. He identified Staffordshire and Worcester at a glance, and then paused over three very nice pieces of Limoges. He picked up a small lidded jug and turned it over. It felt creamy and cool in his hand, and he found himself wanting it with a startling passion. The sheer luxury of porcelain hit him between the eyes. He leant down to show it to his little daughter, to the palpable alarm of the stallholder.
‘Careful!’ he yelped. ‘That’s a genuine chocolate pot.’
‘Oh?’ Den examined the translucent object with increasing interest. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Pouyat, about 1860,’ said the man carelessly. ‘Lovely thing.’
‘How much?’ asked Maggs, who had been slow to notice the exchange. She had drifted towards a stall full of toys, all in original boxes with prices that stunned her.
‘Hundred and fifty,’ said the man promptly.
‘Thought it was English you were after,’ came another voice close by.
‘Les! What’re you doing here?’ Den was flustered. Too much was going on for clear thinking. Meredith was reaching for the pot, assuming her father had intended to give it to her, and making loud sounds of desire. Maggs was shaking her head in disgust at the apparent impossibility of affording anything on offer.
‘I come here most months,’ shrugged Les. ‘Makes a good day out, if there’s naught else to do.’
‘You know a bit about china, after all,’ Den accused him.
‘Enough to tell French porcelain when I see it. Doesn’t everyone?’
Den put the pot down with infinite care. It was the loveliest of the three, but the others were still gorgeous. ‘Porcelain,’ he murmured. ‘Imagine the first time anyone made something half decent with it. Getting it really thin and firing it just right. Maybe colouring it with something. Then realising you could see through it. What magic it must have seemed.’
‘God, listen to him,’ sighed Maggs. ‘Who are you, might I ask?’ She smiled at Les, as if at an ally.
‘Sorry,’ said Den. ‘This is Les Perkiss, from work. He knows a lot about antiques and collecting.’
‘I see. So it’s all your fault, is it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And now you’ve got Merry all excited about it as well.’
‘Out of my price range,’ said Den to the stallholder, with a regretful shake of his head. ‘But you’re right – it is a lovely thing.’
Over the lunch that Maggs had prudently brought with them, she asked several probing questions. ‘What exactly do you think you might achieve?’ was the gist of most of them. ‘These people all know what they’re doing. There isn’t a single bargain in the whole place. They know just what everything’s worth.’
‘That’s true. The question really is – where did they get these things from? Did they pay a couple of quid for something worth a hundred? And if so, where?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ She bit into a thick ham sandwich. ‘But it’s a nice cheap day out,’ she acknowledged. ‘I like looking at all this stuff.’
‘Meredith’s bored, though,’ he noted. ‘Not being allowed to touch anything or toddle about where she likes.’ The child had learnt to walk at thirteen months and was constantly eager to practise.
‘Pretty much the story of her life,’ Maggs agreed. ‘We could find a park for her, if it’s not too cold.’
It was March, with the appropriate chilly wind. ‘We have to check out the stalls by the entrance,’ he said. ‘There are four or five of them. You can let Merry toddle on the grass out there, look.’
‘Like a dog,’ said Maggs. She sounded tired and at the end of her patience. ‘And there’s probably the muck to prove it.’
‘Not these days,’ he argued.
He got his way and that was what they did when all the food was finished. Meredith appeared bemused by her sudden freedom after so long in the buggy. Her unsteady walking skills were unequal to navigating the many obstacles in her path, as Maggs chivvied her around the stalls and towards the patch of grass. She fell head first onto a hand-embroidered tablecloth that concealed a prickly wicker basket with sharp edges. The stallholder feared for her embroidery, and the child wailed at the pain caused by the bruise on her cheek. ‘We’d better go,’ said Maggs. ‘I think we’ve seen enough, haven’t we?’
Den begged ten minutes in which to thoroughly explore these final stalls, which in the arcane scheme of things struck him as composed of mixed junk, most of it in large bins labelled ‘Everything £2’ or sometimes ‘Everything £1’. There was something forlorn and unhopeful about these overflow tables, cast into the inclement outdoors where few buyers paused on their way in or out.
He rummaged in two of these bins, bringing out a small blue lustre jug, and a larger orange lustre vase. He looked up at the person sitting in an incongruous deckchair, who appeared to be half asleep. ‘I owe you four pounds,’ he said, proffering the right money.
‘Thanks, duck,’ said the woman. ‘You have a good day, now.’ The accent was North Country, the smile exhausted. ‘D’you want a bag?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve got one.’
‘What have you got there?’ asked Maggs.
‘I’m not sure. I just liked them. They’re nothing special, but she was virtually giving them away. And I felt sorry for her.’
‘That’s no way to do business,’ she reproached him.
‘I’m not doing business. These aren’t for resale.’ Only then did he turn the orange vase over and look at the mark on its base. Saying nothing, he glanced back at the stallholder, who was paying no attention. ‘Hmm,’ he said, rubbing his cheek. ‘Now that’s a surprise.’
‘What is?’
‘Let’s go. Can you remember where we left the car?’ He carefully put the china into a canvas bag he’d brought with him. He felt furtive, as if he had stolen something, which Maggs was quick to observe.
‘Of course I can,’ she said. ‘Can’t you?’
‘Not exactly.’ His lack of observational skill was a standing joke with them. How he had ever functioned as a policeman remained a mystery. His current work seemed equally inappropriate, but he had taught himself to take note of any anomalies in the behaviour of air passengers, and he was good at following them unobtrusively. Most of the time he was simply responding to other people’s requests, without any need to show much initiative, anyway.
Since Meredith had been born, he seemed to be suffering from a kind of fugue state that was commonly associated with new mothers, rather than fathers. He found himself dreaming of the future, where his daughter would share all her thoughts with him and be willingly instructed in the ways of the world by him. He was also eagerly pressing for a second child. ‘She’ll be well over two at this rate,’ he worried. ‘She deserves a companion. I hated being an only child.’
‘I don’t believe you. I loved it, personally.’
‘Well, we should have a try. It’d be a waste otherwise.’
Maggs sighed. While not actively opposed to the idea, she was in no rush to repeat the whole process. It would upset Drew, apart from anything else.
They found the car, and Maggs demanded an explanation for Den’s behaviour.
‘It says “Moorcroft” on the base,’ he told her. ‘You’ve heard of Moorcroft?’
‘I’m not sure. Vaguely, maybe. So what?’
‘It’s usually covered with art nouveau-type patterns. Flowers mostly. I never knew you could have plain ones. The shape seems right, though.’
‘Not sure I like the colour.’
‘Don’t you? I think it’s lovely. Like a sunrise. Or a ripe mango.’
‘Never seen a mango that colour,’ she objected.
‘Yes, you have. Inside, not the skin.’
‘Oh. Okay. You’re probably right.’
‘I should really try to sell it. It might be worth as much as that Limoges.’
Maggs gave him a sceptical look and concentrated on strapping Meredith into her car seat. ‘That’d be real beginner’s luck,’ she muttered.
Den was inspired. He spent an hour that evening googling the subject, trying to find the very item he’d bought so cheaply and establish a value for it. He found the orange lustre, but not the exact shape. He was bemused by all the different marks that denoted the Moorcroft factory over the years. He took a magnifying glass to his purchase, fearful of finding a hidden crack or chip. At the end of his researches, he was very little the wiser.
‘Well, if it’s that unusual, some collector might want it,’ said Maggs, looking over his shoulder. ‘If you could just track such a person down.’
‘I should have asked Perkiss, I suppose. But I think he’d gone.’
‘No, no. You want to keep it quiet. Don’t tell him anything. That’s too close to home.’
He angled his head so he could see her face. ‘Suddenly you think this is a good idea?’
‘I never said it wasn’t. I just didn’t think it’d work. I’m still not convinced. It can’t be as easy as this.’
‘We’ll have to see then, won’t we,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the local car boot sale next weekend, and maybe one or two charity shops in Shepton Mallett. I’m on early shift this week – I can pop in on the way home.’
‘Just don’t spend much money,’ she warned him.
Ten days later, Den had spent forty pounds on an assortment of ceramics, including a small Limoges plate that had caught his eye in a Cancer Research charity shop. ‘Three pounds,’ he said triumphantly.
‘Now what?’ said Maggs.
‘We find out where there’s an antiques fair or auction, preferably in the Cotswolds or thereabouts. We can ask Thea and Drew if they know of anything.’
When Den phoned the Slocombes, Thea instantly thought of an Easter garden party she had seen advertised in Snowshill. She riffled through a pile of papers by the phone and found a leaflet. ‘It says “indoors if wet”,’ she read out. ‘Which it probably will be. Anybody can have a stall and donate ten per cent of their proceeds to the cause. Which appears to be something to do with donkeys. And they have a hashtag on Twitter. You ought to tweet about it.’
‘That’s my mother’s department,’ said Maggs, who was listening in, with the phone switched to speakerphone. Then, ‘Where’s Snowshill?’
‘Not very far from here. It’s got a big National Trust place right in the middle of the village, full of weird and wonderful objects. The owner was an eccentric collector, and he filled the whole house with rubbish.’
‘You did a house-sit there. A kid was killed.’
‘That’s right,’ Thea said tightly.
‘So – is this garden party anything to do with the collector chap? I assume he was some while ago?’
‘No and yes, roughly speaking. It’s a typical Cotswolds event, fundraising for somebody’s pet charity and Snowhill gives it added appeal, because of the associations. You’d get some well-heeled customers.’
Den was both enthusiastic and apprehensive. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got enough for a whole stall.’
‘The trick is to imply quality not quantity. Give everything its own stand, with spotlights and velvet cloths.’
‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘Did you say spotlights?’
‘Well, it might not work outside. But you must have seen the way people make everything look so sparkly and special. When you get it home, it turns into a dull, ordinary bit of tat.’
‘You’ll have to help me,’ he pleaded.
‘I’d be delighted,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ He still sounded doubtful. ‘It seems like an awfully big job. Maybe I should go to an auction house instead.’
‘Up to you,’ said Maggs. ‘But I think it’ll be fun.’
Thea agreed. ‘Easter Monday’s always dreary,’ she said. ‘Just another annoying bank holiday. This’ll brighten it up for you.’
‘All right, then. I’ll phone and ask if I can have a stall.’
They had almost two weeks to prepare, during which Den went to two more small towns and spent a further eighteen pounds on a jug, two plates and a rose bowl, all from charity shops. One of the plates was Royal Doulton, but the gilt had largely rubbed off and the decoration was a somewhat unappealing shade of green. ‘Nobody’s going to buy that,’ said Maggs decisively.
He washed every piece with care, wiping them dry with the softest cloth he could find. The small blue jug that had come with the Moorcroft vase was an exquisite thing in its own right. The impressed mark on the bottom left him none the wiser as to its origins. It was full-bellied, the lip in perfect proportion, and it was in mint condition. He practised pouring milk from it, and could have sworn he was channelling the rich lady who might once have owned it.
He told Leslie Perkiss about his plans, unable to restrain his eager anticipation. ‘I really don’t think I can lose,’ he said. ‘Largely thanks to your advice, I might say.’
Perkiss waved this away. ‘Naught to do with me, mate,’ he said. ‘This is your very own baby.’
‘Don’t be modest. You obviously know more about the business than you let on.’
The man bristled. ‘What d’you mean by that, then?’ he demanded.
‘What’s up with you? What did I say?’
Perkiss subsided. ‘Sorry. Thought you might be implying something, that’s all. Sensitive business – you’ll find out. Nobody’s what they seem. All out to get one up on each other.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Den’s open face. ‘Don’t know as it’ll suit you, to tell the truth.’
‘I’m not going to become a fence for stolen goods, if that’s your worry,’ he laughed.
‘No, mate. That’s not my worry,’ said Perkiss with a weak smile.
Den was reminded of his aunt’s tuition concerning fakes and damage and hard bargaining. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
The morning of Good Friday was blustery with spiteful little rain showers, which Maggs’s mother said was exactly as it should be. ‘Never want a sunny Good Friday,’ she said. ‘That wouldn’t be right at all.’
She was spending the whole weekend with them, along with Maggs’s father. They insisted on keeping Meredith at home with them on the Monday, while Maggs and Den went off to sell antiques. ‘Nowhere else we have to be,’ they said complacently.
‘And look at the lovely weather, all of a sudden,’ said Maggs provocatively, pointing at the rapidly improving sky.
Snowshill was quite a long drive away, but the garden party did not begin until two o’clock, so there was no great rush to make an early start. Den fussed over the details of the display, worrying that the folding table they were using would look amateurish and insubstantial. ‘They’ll all be amateurs,’ said Maggs. ‘It’s only a little local fundraiser, after all.’
They were met by Thea in the centre of the little village, and together they went to the big house that was hosting the event. It was impossible to miss, with balloons and bunting festooned around the entrance, and a pair of smiling children standing there to welcome stallholders. They were given directions for parking, unloading and setting up. It was organised with military efficiency. The three of them set about unpacking the delicate wares and setting them out on the rich red brocade that had once been a curtain. Maggs’s mother had unearthed it from a box that she had still not opened since moving house six months previously.
The clear sky was a real bonus, spring sunshine reflecting off the gilding that adorned some of Den’s pieces. He and Maggs admitted to each other that it was good to be free of their daughter for once, enjoying an adult pursuit without worrying that she would break something. Thea heard this and laughed. ‘She’d be a real liability amongst all this china,’ she said. ‘You should probably have chosen something less breakable to specialise in.’
‘It chose me,’ he said.
Maggs rolled her eyes. ‘He’s come over all whimsical about it,’ she told Thea. ‘I blame Auntie Pauline, even if she has been dead for ages.’
The lady of the house floated by, smiling at everybody indiscriminately and asking if they needed anything. She paused at their stall, her gaze resting on Thea, who was trying to straighten a stand holding the Royal Doulton plate. ‘Hello,’ she said, with a little frown. ‘I’m afraid I can’t recall your name, but I know I know you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Thea, who had already made it clear to Den and Maggs that she had every hope of remaining unrecognised. It was over two years since she had spent a week in Snowshill – but the associated scandal had drawn considerable attention her way, and she knew it was a gamble. ‘I live quite a distance from here.’ This was not true. Broad Campden was barely five miles away. Maggs made a low hiss of surprise at the blatant lie. ‘I just came to help my friends.’
The woman did not press the point, but cocked her head in an attitude of scepticism. ‘I see,’ she said, which to Den’s ear sounded slightly ominous. ‘Well, I hope you find plenty of buyers. You’ve got some very nice things.’
‘Thanks,’ said Den. He walked a few steps away and looked back at his table. Something wasn’t right. Not enough objects; the red cloth totally wrong; too formal; not formal enough. He didn’t know what it was, but the whole thing made him nervous.
‘Five minutes to go,’ said Maggs. ‘Stand back and wait for the hordes.’
‘Nobody else is selling the same sort of thing as us,’ Thea pointed out. ‘At least, not nearly so well displayed.’ She had spotted a stall crowded with a chaotic jumble of stuff she supposed was bric-a-brac – candlesticks, bowls, boxes, plates, mugs, bookends, small china figures and a lot more. People would enjoy rummaging through it, singling out something they might think special. With Den’s way of doing it – which she admitted had been at her own suggestion – there was no chance of a surprise. It was more like a shop than an open-air bazaar. We got it terribly wrong, she thought unhappily.
But the first customers showed an interest that belied her thoughts. Wary of picking up the goods without permission, they were soon encouraged to hold them to the sunlight and turn them over to inspect the marks. ‘I know someone who’d like this,’ said a woman of the Limoges. ‘She’ll be along later. Can you keep it back for her?’
Den was immediately torn. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. If I get a definite buyer, I’ll have to let it go.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
Den had been given conflicting advice about putting prices on the things. His instinct was strongly to avoid the uncertainty and potential irritation associated with a lack of labels, but he could see the sense in assessing the level of interest and charging accordingly. Besides, Aunt Pauline had always enjoyed a vigorous haggle.
‘I’d say fifty pounds,’ he said.
The woman’s eyebrows rose and her chest heaved. ‘How much?’ she choked. ‘You must be joking!’
He held his ground with difficulty. ‘It’s a genuine piece. Look at the mark.’
‘What did you pay for it?’ she demanded, unexpectedly. ‘Less than a fiver, I’ll bet. I’ll give you fifteen here and now, and you should think yourself lucky.’
He was unnerved by her accurate guess, but he knew it had much more value than fifteen pounds. He looked to Maggs for rescue. She did not disappoint.
‘No deal,’ she said. ‘This is quality, not just any old rubbish. We might be new at the game, but we know what things are worth.’
‘Well there’s no way you’ll get fifty for it,’ said the woman with finality. ‘You need to understand that right away.’
‘We’ll see,’ he told her. ‘Come back in an hour, and if it’s still here, I’ll let it go for thirty.’
The woman moved off across the extensive lawn, and all three sighed with relief. ‘She’ll remember who I am,’ said Thea.
‘She’ll keep an eye on us, and what sells,’ predicted Maggs.
‘We’re doing it all wrong,’ Den agonised. He caught Thea’s eye, and was in no way reassured by the look on her face. It was close to fear, he realised with alarm. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked her.
‘Nothing, really. I just made a connection between all this breakable china and what happened when I was last here. It’s stupid. Take no notice of me. I hadn’t realised how much of an effect it would have on me, that’s all.’
Den knew only a little about what had happened, and this didn’t feel like the moment to enquire. ‘Nobody’s going to break anything,’ he promised her. ‘Look at them!’
He and Thea both looked around at the decorous garden party going on around them. There was something quite Edwardian about it. One or two women wore long skirts; another had gloves on. The children were well behaved, as were the dogs. The stalls were offering home-made fancy cakes, pickles and jams, as well as handicrafts and objets d’art. There were watercolour paintings and big framed photographs. It was a triumph of local enterprise.
People were arriving in small clusters, but the garden was more than big enough to contain them all. There was a gazebo supplying food and drink, and the door into the house stood wide open. ‘How brave to offer your house like this,’ said Thea. ‘I can’t imagine doing it.’
‘You must be having all sorts of people in and out for the funerals, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘The same as Drew and Karen did.’
‘That’s different,’ she said quickly. ‘We only use one room, and the people are there for a specific purpose.’
‘So are they here.’
They were interrupted by a potential customer. A very young woman wearing a woolly hat seized hold of the orange lustre vase with startling violence.
‘Hey!’ said Maggs. ‘Careful with that!’
Thea was suddenly moving away, her back turned, but it was evidently too late. ‘Thea Osborne,’ said the girl. ‘I remember you. I’m Ruby. Janice’s daughter.’
Reluctantly, Thea faced her. ‘So you are. Hello,’ she said.
‘What are you doing here? I would think you’d never want to see china or glass again, after what happened.’ She waved the Moorcroft for illustration. Den reached out and firmly took it away from her.
‘Careful,’ said Maggs again.
‘I’m just helping my friends,’ said Thea. ‘I didn’t think anybody would spot me, in such a different context.’
‘I don’t think we’ll ever forget you,’ said Ruby with youthful emphasis.
‘Oh dear. The lady who owns this house seemed to know me as well. I don’t remember her at all.’
‘You were rather famous,’ said Ruby. She waved at the Moorcroft in Den’s hands. ‘And I recognise that pot, as well. I’d know it anywhere.’
‘What?’ Den stared at her. ‘I don’t believe you.’ He waited in dread for her to prove the object had been stolen and that he was therefore in deep trouble. He should have asked the stallholder in Keynsham for documentation, provenance – all that stuff. But when you only paid two pounds for something, that would be ridiculous.
‘Can I see the bottom?’
He turned it over and pushed the base towards her, still keeping hold of it.
‘There!’ She grinned delightedly. ‘I knew it!’
He held his breath until it hurt. The girl was lovingly stroking the lustre. ‘I’ll give you eighty pounds for it,’ she said. ‘It’s worth around that. I do know about these things,’ she added. ‘I’m working with the Wade collection now, while doing a degree in fine art.’
He came very close to dropping the fragile thing. ‘Pardon?’
Beside him, Maggs and Thea both made little shrieks.
‘It was made by my great-great-uncle,’ Ruby explained. ‘And we’ve been searching for this exact piece for ages. Look, those are his initials.’ She indicated a squiggle on the base. ‘It fills a gap in our collection. My mum will be thrilled.’
Den laughed with relief. ‘Good God – I thought you were going to accuse me of stealing it.’
‘No, no. I’m sure it’s perfectly kosher.’ But then she lightly touched the blue lustre jug. ‘Although I know for a fact that this one – or something exactly like it – was nicked from a house in Taunton not so long ago. I’d be careful who you show it to, if I were you.’
Den sighed and turned to Maggs. ‘You win some, you lose some,’ he said.