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AT KISMET COTTAGE, the home of Megan’s parents, Claudia and Nick Fallon, a small crowd gathered at the window, overlooking the village green and the hubbub of activity outside the village hall.
“The weather gods are smiling on us,” said Des, scratching Tabastion the tabby cat under the chin and peering through the net curtains at the Value My Treasure team milling around making last minute arrangements under a clear, bright blue sky. “Not bad for February. I was expecting to have to queue in the rain, but it’s glorious out there. I’m quite excited. I’ve never seen a TV show close up.”
“Well, I suggest we don’t leave it too long before we join one of the queues, said Sylvie. “There are already people turning up in droves and waiting behind the barriers to get into the hall, and we don’t want to be stuck at the back.”
“I’m ready to go,” said Des, giving Tabastion one last scratch before taking his mug of tea from the table and swallowing it down. He picked up the box that held his old dish before smoothing a palm over his hair. “Damn cowlick,” he grumbled, scowling at his reflection in the living room mirror and patting the top of his head.
“We’ll all go now, then, shall we?” said Claudia. “You ready, love?” She turned to Nick who was battling to fit a vintage train set back in its box.
“I would be if it wasn’t for this blasted thing! It all came out of here, so why won’t it go back in?”
“You’ve got the carriages the wrong way round, Dad,” said Megan. “Here, let me do it while you get your jacket.”
“Are Dora and Archie coming with us?” asked Des, licking his palm and attempting to stick down the stubborn lock of hair with a mind of its own.
Claudia nodded. “She asked me to let her know when we were leaving.”
“Shall I go and tell her?” asked Jack.
“Don’t worry, love, I’ll go,” said Sylvie. “And stop fiddling with your hair, Des, it looks fine. You don’t usually worry about looking like you live in a wind tunnel.”
“Yes, well, I don’t usually have the chance of appearing on TV, do I?” he retorted, removing his hand from the unruly lock of hair. “Ah, finally! It’s stuck.” He gave his reflection a nod of satisfaction and dropped a kiss on the end of Sylvie’s nose. “Right, come on my little puff adder, come on everyone. Time to see if any of us are sitting on a fortune!”
ººººººº
“Looks like the whole village has turned out,” said Sylvie, waving to the usual crowd from the Bliss Bay Residential Care Home on a day out.
“The whole village plus a few coachloads of visitors from farther afield,” said Claudia. “Oh look, there’s Martha and William. Goodness, don’t they look well? That trip must have done them the world of good. I must have a chat with them.”
“And there’s Lydia and her parents at the end of the queue,” said Megan. “We can join behind them.”
Lydia squealed when she saw Megan. “I think I need to get out more—I’m so excited! This is the first time I’ve had a break since before I opened the bridal shop. My Grandad’s here, too, from the residential home. I think he was hoping for a fun day out, but Mum hasn’t stopped fussing over him since he got here. If she’s not on at him to wear a hat to keep the sun off his head, she’s nagging him to take his meds. She’s so flustered.” She tapped her mother on the shoulder. “Mum, Megan and her family are here.”
Alison Berman, the village librarian, turned to greet them, looking over the glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Hi Megan, Claudia, Sylvie, everyone.” She let out an exasperated sigh and retrieved the hair tag from around her wrist to gather her flyaway grey hair into a ponytail. “Honestly, I’m just trying to do what’s best, and all I get are mutinous glares. I don’t know why Dad can’t see that I’m just looking out for him. I give up!” she said, throwing up her hands.
“How is he?” asked Claudia. “I haven’t seen him for ages.”
“Dad? Oh, he’s as bright as a penny. It’s me who’s about to have a meltdown. We haven’t seen the sun for so long, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask him to wear a hat when it comes out for the first time in months, but do you think he will? Vince wants to go back to the home to get a hat for him, but Dad won’t let him. It’s worse than dealing with a precocious toddler.” She glanced over her shoulder at her father, who had his arms crossed and looked like he was about to challenge Vince to a duel. “Sorry, will you excuse me.”
“Morning, Fred!” Des called out to Fred Denby, the village Police Constable, who was doing a grand job of keeping the growing crowd entertained with facts about the village until the Value My Treasure team were ready to get started.
He nodded a greeting. “Morning, Des. Morning, all. I’m sure it won’t be long before you’re allowed through, so if you could all queue in an orderly fashion until then.” He turned back to the crowd. “Now, you see that old oak tree outside The Duck Inn pub? Well, that’s the oldest tree in the county. Over nine-hundred years old, it is. And St Mildred’s church dates back to—”
“Look!” cried an elderly man carrying a threadbare teddy bear by the ear, and a painting that looked like the artist had been a toddler with its eyes closed. “It’s Davina Davidson!”
As the enthusiastic crowd surged forward, Fred’s police issue helmet fell off in the excitement. He bent to pick it up and found himself faced with Davina Davidson herself, who’d also bent to retrieve the helmet from the grass.
“I believe this is your hat?” she purred, and the crowd cheered and craned their necks to see their favourite TV presenter at close quarters. Honey-blonde hair—cleverly highlighted to hide any traces of grey—fell to her shoulders in soft waves and cast a golden glow around her permanently-fake-tanned face, chiselled to heart-shaped perfection following her many well-publicised cosmetic procedures.
Fred’s cheeks flushed as he took the helmet from her hand and put it back on. “Thank you,” he said, gruffly, clearing his throat. “Although, technically, it’s a helmet, not a hat.”
Davina chuckled. “I’ve come to have a few words with the crowd, if that’s alright with you?” she said, in her smooth voice and, without waiting for an answer, addressed the gathering using the microphone in her hand. “Hello everyone! Can you all hear me? Yes? Perfect! Well, thank you for coming to Bliss Bay on this beautiful morning to help us celebrate our 3000th show, which is two hours long, instead of the usual hour. Now, as this is a live broadcast, I wanted to let you know how things are going to work today.
“Our teams of antiques dealers and independent valuers are getting ready for you in the village hall. When you’re allowed through, just take whatever you’ve brought with you to one of the tables for a valuation. If you’re lucky, and one of the team likes the look of an item, they’ll make you a cash offer, and you can decide if you want to accept it; if you want to haggle for a little more; or if you want to keep the item. Our roving cameramen will be filming random valuations throughout the day.
“Obviously, you won’t all get the opportunity to be filmed—there are just too many of you—but throughout the morning, the team and I will be looking out for items we think are a little bit special. For those pieces, we’ll ask the owners if they’d like to be filmed receiving the valuation live on air this afternoon at the end of the show.” She looked around and smiled. “I hope I’ve explained all that clearly?”
She glanced down at the watch on her slim wrist. “I’ll be happy to give autographs or pose for photos throughout the day, so I hope to meet many of you over the next few hours. It shouldn’t be long before our antique dealers and valuers are ready—give them another few minutes and we can get started. I hope you all have a wonderful day.” To rapturous applause, she gave a little bow to the admiring crowd and flashed Fred a dazzling smile before going on her way.
“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Archie gawped as he moved his marble cherub from one arm to the other, a dreamy expression on his ruddy face. “I don’t know what I’m going to say if she speaks to me.”
“Well, you’d better think of something witty and captivating quick,” said Dora, as the queue snaking around the perimeter of the village green began to move, “because we’re on our way to TV stardom and a small fortune!”
ººººººº
Throughout the morning, gasps and disappointment filled the air as valuations delighted and disappointed, and outside in the weak winter sunshine, the group of friends gathered to discuss their luck, or lack of it.
Archie and Dora Pickles, in particular, were most put out that they wouldn’t be appearing on TV since discovering that, on closer inspection by an antiques expert, their ‘marble’ cherub was found to be made of plaster of Paris with a clever paint job and a few decorative effects, and worth less than a bag of chips.
“Talk about embarrassing,” huffed Dora to Sylvie. “I’m glad we weren’t being filmed. When that chap scratched the surface and all the plaster came off under his fingernail, I wanted the ground to open up.” She heaved a contemplative sigh. “I really thought that cherub was going to bring us luck... oh, don’t look so miserable, Archie,” she said to her husband as he returned from the recycling bins.
“I’ve put that useless lump of junk back where I found it,” he grumbled, with a scowl.
“I hope you’re not going to walk around with a face like a constipated chimp for the rest of the day,” said Dora. “We’re no worse off than we were before we had the valuation, are we? And you never know, we might still be on TV milling around in the background.” She looked around at her friends. “What about all of you? Did anyone have any luck?”
“I got a pretty good offer for my baseball cards,” said Jack, “but I’m not selling. Not in the UK, anyway. If I ever decide to, there’ll be more demand for them in the US. It was good to get an idea of what they’re worth, though.”
“I sold some of my jewellery,” said Claudia, pushing her dark hair from her forehead and fanning herself with her hand. “I even haggled for a better price for that amber bracelet and necklace set.” She patted her handbag and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I got £450, can you believe it? They wanted to film me getting the valuation, but I wasn’t keen. You know I’m not one for the limelight.”
“And I got an offer for my train set,” said Nick. “But I think I’m going to keep it. I didn’t really want to sell it anyway, I just brought it along so I could take part. I’m glad I did—it’s been good fun.”
“Sounds like some of us had a great morning,” said Megan. “Did I see you chatting with one of the dealers, Uncle Des?”
“You did,” he replied, gently wafting away an early-season bumble bee. “Although I’ve no idea why he’s interested in my old spoon rest. He just asked if he could show it to one of the other valuers for a second opinion.”
“Second opinion about what?” asked Dora.
“Don’t ask me. Maybe a local artist made it? Local items can be popular, can’t they? I mean—”
“Oh, Mr Harper! Mr Harper!”
Des turned to see Davina Davidson approaching at a rapid pace.
“Mr Harper,” she repeated, putting a hand on her heaving chest as she regained her breath. “We’ve just been appraising your... your spoon rest, and we’d be very interested in you appearing on the show in our final live valuation slot. And you, too, of course, Mrs Harper,” she said, flashing Sylvie a smile. “I’m sorry we’ve taken so long, but we wanted to be sure about what we were looking at. Or as sure as we can be, anyway.”
“What? Why? Don’t tell me that old thing is worth something?” Des scratched his head, carefully avoiding the section he’d stuck down earlier with a few licks of spit.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to, er, spoil any surprises,” said Davina, with a delicate laugh, choosing her words carefully and looking like she was about to blow a gasket. “One of the team will come and fetch you in about an hour. And as the weather’s so gorgeous, we thought we’d film outside. Will that suit?”
Des lifted a shoulder. “I suppose so. That alright with you, Sylv?”
Sylv nodded. “Fine by me.” She rummaged in her handbag. “I’d better put on a bit of lippy and some rouge if I’m going to be on TV. I want to look like I’ve made a bit of an effort.”
“Fabulous,” said Davina. “Please don’t be late, because you’ll be closing the show straight after we come back following a commercial break. See you soon.”
ººººººº
When news spread that Des and Sylvie were about to appear on live TV in the most coveted spot of the show, a crowd gathered around the table.
“Ouch! Stop shoving, Dora!” hissed Claudia. “Your elbows are like wire coat hangers.”
Dora answered with a shrug. “Sorry, Claud, but if we can’t be on Value My Treasure in our own right, this is the next best thing. Move over a bit so Archie can get in, will you? No point in being on TV unless you’re at the front, is there? And don’t look at me like that, Jack,” she said, looking him up and down. “It’s alright for you, what with you being built like a tree—you can see over the tops of people’s heads. I can’t.”
Jack grinned and put out his hands. “If I was looking at you any way, Dora, I apologise.”
“Sshhh,” said Megan, lifting her chin in the direction of the production team member who was asking for quiet. “I think they’re about to start filming.”
“If you could just look at us, Mr and Mrs Harper,” said Davina, as they sat at the table with one of the independent valuers. “Try not to look directly at the camera.”
Des chuckled. “Don’t you worry about us, we know what to do. We’ve been watching the show for years.”
Davina nodded and smiled at the cameraman who started filming.
“Hello, and welcome back to Value My Treasure. If you’ve just joined us, we’re coming to you live from the charming village of Bliss Bay, against the beautiful backdrop of the centuries’ old St. Mildred’s church on the village green. And because the weather is so glorious—albeit a little chilly—we’ve decided to bring the filming outside.
“Now, as is always the way during the final half hour of the programme, we’ve shown you some of the best pieces we’ve found at today’s show, and valued them live on air. But, as usual, we’ve saved the very best until last in celebration of the 3000th episode of the show.”
The camera panned round, coming to rest on Des and Sylvie sitting at the baize-topped table in front of Davina and a member of the valuations team, and Des’s spoon rest, sitting atop a wide plinth.
“This is local couple, Des and Sylvie Harper.” Davina gave them a welcoming smile and picked up the dish. “They’ve brought along this beautiful ceramic dish. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” She held it steady and the camera zoomed in for the benefit of the viewers at home. “We believe its gorgeous blue colouring was created by the use of iron oxide in the glaze,” she said, before replacing it very carefully on the plinth. “Mr Harper, you have a fascinating story to tell us about how you acquired this piece, don’t you?”
Des looked directly at the camera, gulped, and gave everyone watching at home a terrified grimace as his mouth turned dry and his top lip stuck to his teeth. Silence fell upon the small gathering until Sylvie gave her husband a hasty jab in the ribs and he dragged his eyes away from the lens to answer Davina.
“Ahem, yes, well, I bought it for my mother after I broke her favourite spoon rest, y’see. I remember I ran out of the kitchen as fast as my legs would carry me, all the way to the second-hand shop on the high street. Money was tight in those days, so that’s as far as it would stretch. Anyway, it must have been my lucky day, because I still remember the woman in the shop telling me that someone had brought it in the day before in a box of ornaments, and it had only just been put out on the shelf for sale.
“Mum used it every day until she passed away.” Des’s eyes misted over and he gulped again. “After that, I kept it on my kitchen counter and when I got interested in cooking, I started using it, too. Now I use it every day—I do all the cooking, see, and my wife, Sylvie, is the handy one around the house. I don’t know one end of a hammer from the other. And call me Des, will you?” Getting into his stride, he turned to the camera again, looking very pleased with himself.
The independent valuer exchanged a glance with Davina and leaned across the table, his fingers clasped. “Can I ask how much you paid for it?”
Des lifted a shoulder. “Can’t remember, exactly, but it can’t have been more than a few pennies.”
“And the dish has sat on a kitchen worktop for the best part of half a century? Is that right?”
Des nodded. “That’s right. I’ve lost count of the number of times it’s almost slipped out of my hands while I’ve been washing it up.”
Under her fake tan and the makeup for the TV cameras, Davina’s face paled and she gripped the edge of the table.
“Do you have the item insured?” the valuer continued
Des cast Sylvie a puzzled glance. “Insured? No, of course not. Why would I insure it? It’s just a dish I bought for my mother to put her spoons on.”
“So it’s never been locked away in a cabinet or a safety deposit box?” The valuer picked up the dish and inspected it again through his eyeglass. “Exquisite,” he mumbled, before placing it back on the plinth as if it was made of eggshells.
“No, I just told you,” said Des, slowly and patiently. “It’s spent almost fifty years next to a stove; first my mother’s, and now mine.” He turned to Davina and crossed his arms. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on? I assume it must be worth something?”
Davina wiped her suddenly-perspiring brow with a tissue produced from the cuff of her jacket. “Mr Harper... Des. I don’t quite know how to break this to you but I, along with our team of appraisers, have examined this piece closely and if our suspicions are correct, we believe it to be an exceedingly fine, and rare, example of a ceramic dish dating back to the twelfth century.”
A gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by the low hum of murmuring.
“Our advice to you is to have it insured as soon as possible,” said Davina, “and then contact a London auction house to make arrangements for its authenticity to be verified by one of their specialists, after which they can give you a valuation. In fact, I’d be very happy to organise that for you, if you’d like. We have connections in every major auction house in the country. Or you may like to consider a private sale. Just let me know what you want to do.”
“So it is worth something?” asked Sylvie.
Davina and the valuer laughed, as if they were sharing a private joke. “Oh, yes, it’s worth something. As I said, if our suspicions are correct, this ‘old dish’ is likely to be worth in the region of a quarter of a million pounds. Quite possibly more.”
Another collective gasp was followed by a little squeak from Sylvie, and Des’s jaw dropping open at precisely the same moment as the cowlick plastered to his head sprung free from its makeshift styling product and pinged upright.
For a second, it was silent enough to hear a pin drop. Then the entire crowd burst into applause and Davina burst into tears.
“I can’t tell you what a thrill this is to me,” she blubbered to the camera. “If you’re in the antiques and fine art business, as I am, it’s an absolute dream to see an antiquity like this first hand. I couldn’t have wished for a better ending to our 3000th programme. Thank you so much, Des, for bringing it along.” She dabbed her eyes and turned back to the camera. “Well, that’s it for another show. Thank you for joining us—I hope you’ve enjoyed this live edition of Value My Treasure as much as I have. From all of us here in Bliss Bay, have a wonderful rest of the day, and thanks for spending the last couple of hours with us. Goodbye!”
As the filming stopped and the show ended, a buzz of excited chatter grew louder and the crowd surged forward to get a better look at Des’s dish. Closer and closer it came until a voice stopped it in its tracks.
“Help! Someone helllllp! Call an ambulance! My Grandad’s collapsed!”
