WITH A NOD to the man in the overalls, Grace entered the shop, setting off a little bell above the door. She was struck first by the clutter. Tables, dressers, chairs and chests of drawers big, small and in-between; silverware and pottery in glass-fronted cabinets; dismal hunting prints on the walls; vases chunky and slender and, on a hall table, a box of sheet music and another of pianola rolls. All of it was variously tired, exquisite, bulky, beautifully restored or unlikely to be bought by anyone in their right mind. All of it smelt faintly of furniture polish and faded aspirations. On the other hand, little of it was junk. Grace peered at a few of the labels: the four painted vases on a shelf were Olive Atkinsons, the watercolour above them was a Janet Cumbrae-Stewart. An 1835 Tasmanian myrtle work table partly barred her access to the sales counter.
There was no sign of life. Shooting a quick glance at the door, the window, in case the man beyond the glass was part of some trap, Grace edged past the work table and leaned on the counter. This gave her a clear view along an aisle between the wall and a line of dressers and armoires to a doorway that, presumably, led to a storeroom, a toilet and the back door.
She heard a small scraping sound. Peered over the counter into a pale, bony face. A woman; a nervy look about her.
Grace smiled to disarm her. ‘Sorry to startle you.’
Relief washed across the face, the knotted brow eased, and then the woman was scrambling to her feet, brushing at her knees and thighs. ‘Sorry! Looking for a hairpin. Must’ve kicked it under the counter.’
That seemed doubtful. Grace had been in the shop for at least two minutes. ‘Find it?’
‘Found dust balls!’
Grace smiled again, her gaze drawn to the woman’s mousy brown hair. Dyed a darker shade, she thought, glancing then at the pale forearm hairs. Her natural colour was reddish, maybe auburn?
‘Can I help you?’ the woman said, with a fragile, naked look, some of the anxiety returning. She kept glancing past Grace’s shoulder at the electrician.
Grace turned. All she could see of him now were his legs on the ladder. She turned back to the woman: the man made her nervous? Feeling that she was getting mired in some kind of gridlock, she stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Grace. I’ve just arrived in the area and I saw the note in your window.’
‘Erin,’ the woman said, her hand a hot, meek little creature in Grace’s grasp. ‘Mandel,’ she added. ‘It’s my shop.’
‘It’s lovely.’
Erin Mandel turned wry. ‘Well, not exactly. Some nice things, but…too much unsuitable stuff inherited from the previous business, and it’s getting on top of me.’ She gazed around at the islands and shoals of knickknacks and old furniture. ‘I need someone who can help me sort it all.’
She turned her attention to Grace again. ‘Are you interested in the job?’
‘Very,’ Grace said.
‘Can you work full-time?’
‘Yes.’
‘By yourself?’ the shopkeeper asked, as if broaching a deal-breaking condition.
‘I’m sure I can manage,’ Grace said, sensing that Erin Mandel was leading up to a revelation.
‘It’s just…’ Mandel said. ‘It’s just that I’ve become a bit agoraphobic in my old age.’
There was nothing old about her. Maybe early thirties? ‘Okay…’ Grace said, nodding.
‘I like to work from home,’ Mandel said. ‘You know, searching websites and catalogues while someone minds the shop.’
‘Fine by me, I have experience,’ Grace said.
‘Experience,’ Mandel said repressively. ‘I had a girl here for a few months earlier in the year but she didn’t know what she was doing. I’ve interviewed a couple of people since…Mostly it’s all been on my shoulders and it’s getting out of hand.’
‘I can’t claim to know everything,’ Grace said, and outlined her New Zealand story.
‘That’s more experience than most people,’ Mandel said. She paused apologetically. ‘Maybe a little test?’
‘No problem.’
‘Would you mind turning your back for a minute? Everything’s labelled, with a description and a price, so I’m going to remove a few and see if you can tell me something about the relevant item.’
‘Sure.’
Grace turned to the window. The man was still on his ladder. She heard Erin Mandel move about the shop: the swish of her loose-fitting clothing; the sound of a cabinet door opening and metal objects clinking.
‘Ready!’ Mandel said, as if starting a game.
Grace joined her at a gleaming dresser. ‘Okay.’
‘Not everything I sell is antique, of course. Is this piece of furniture vintage or antique?’
Grace peered, knelt, tapped, opened a door and sniffed, checked the back. ‘Antique.’
‘What tells you that?’
‘Mortise and tenon joints, wood pegs, hand-cut dovetails. There’s also that patina of something older than vintage, the colour’s not consistent and none of the woodwork’s been machined. I mean, it’s not cut-and-dried, but I’m confident this is an antique.’
Erin Mandel smiled. ‘Okay, how about this? Anything at all.’
A heavy vase. Grace took it from Mandel’s hands, held it to the light, tested its weight, pinged it with a fingernail. Checked the base and handed it back. ‘It’s American, from sometime in the 1800s. Not unusual to find chunky vases like this one back then, with this sort of thick, drippy glaze. It’s unsigned, just the “USA” mark, so that makes it less desirable than a signed one, like a Fulper or a Van Briggle. And the clay…probably a bit chalky. It looks nice, but it’s not a top-dollar item.’
‘And no one’s been interested in it in two years,’ grumbled Mandel, setting the vase down on the antique dresser. ‘Over here now.’
She took Grace to a glass-fronted cabinet stocked with silver trays, sugar bowls, candlestick holders, thimbles and cutlery. ‘Some of these are valuable, others are just nice to look at. People watch Antiques Roadshow and come in asking me to value some silver heirloom or sell it for them on consignment. I usually have to give them the sad news that their thousand-dollar silver ladle is a hundred-dollar silver-plated ladle. Perhaps if you could select a few things at random and tell me what you think?’
Grace obliged, testing for weight, looking for hallmarks and stroking finishes until her fingers were smudged as she gave her reports. At the end of it, Mandel smiled. ‘Almost flying colours. This’—she tapped a butter dish—‘is actually quite valuable.’
Grace knew that. She’d been testing Erin Mandel.
The anxiety crept back into Mandel’s voice. ‘Can you start work straight away?’
‘I’ll need a few days. Maybe the end of the week?’ Grace said. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to rent. The housing market’s a bit tight at the moment.’
Mandel frowned, weighing something up. Then she said in a rush, ‘If you’re interested, I have a granny flat behind my house. It’s pretty humble, but it’s not that old. Everything works, it’s well-insulated, partly furnished. I just haven’t got around to finding a tenant.’
A lot of Grace’s life was hoping for luck; a much smaller part was encountering it. In her mind’s eye she compared a granny flat tucked away behind a house—perhaps near a back gate or easily hurdled fence—to a less desirable alternative, such as a house or a flat in plain view on an open street, where Adam Garrett or some other enemy could watch her come and go.
‘I’d be very interested,’ she said.
This threw Erin Mandel into a spasm of indecision. ‘Oh. Good. Yes. I’ll shut the shop for an hour,’ she said eventually. ‘It won’t affect what Mr Iredale’s doing.’
‘He’s fitting a light above your window?’ asked Grace politely.
Mandel shook her head. ‘CCTV camera. As much for the other businesses in the street as mine. We’re splitting the cost.’
Grace tensed. She gazed about the interior of the shop. ‘Do you have that kind of security inside?’
‘Not yet. It’s quite expensive. Would you like to come with me, or meet me there?’
Until Grace knew more, she didn’t want Mandel to know what car she was driving. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I’m parked behind the shop.’
Mandel ushered her through to a short, narrow, one-way alley. Grace took a moment to scan for traps and escape routes, taking in dumpbins, parking spots for the shopkeepers, and an eclectic range of back doors. Facing each other at the entrance to the alley were a tiny weatherboard cottage with a sign saying Battendorf Local History Museum behind an untidy hedge, and a brutalist concrete cube marked RSL.
‘Hop in.’ Mandel’s car was a white Subaru SUV about three years old, with a deep dent in the tailgate. Roomy enough for small collectibles, Grace noted. South Australian plates, but the sticker in the back window said Collectorama Fair Sunshine Coast.
‘You’re originally from Queensland?’
‘What makes you say that?’ The innocent question seemed to rattle Erin Mandel.
Grace pointed. ‘The sticker.’
‘Oh,’ Mandel said, unlocking the car. ‘That’s been there forever; I should get rid of it.’
Grace strapped herself into the passenger seat. ‘Is it far to your place?’
Mandel started the car. ‘No distance at all,’ she said, peering down to the end of the alleyway as if expecting something to jump out from behind every dumpbin.
At the give-way sign she checked for traffic, then shot Grace a quick glance. ‘I assume you can drive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look I’m probably jumping the gun, typical, but if it all works out, I was wondering how you’d feel about the occasional country trip? Op-shops, weekly markets, auction rooms, clearing sales, things like that.’
‘Sure,’ Grace said, allowing some hope to creep in.
Mandel turned left and left again, out along Battendorf’s short main street. Most of the old-style shopfronts and verandas were intact: no garish advertising; no neon, no Maccas. Just plain, modest signs denoting a baker, a greengrocer, a bistro, a greasy spoon, the post-office-cum-general store and the half-dozen shops selling antiques, antiquarian books and local pottery and paintings. At the edge of the town, a garage named Battendorf Motors, and then a semi-urban world of leafy gardens and old stone houses set back from the road, with here and there a 1970s tan brick place with a couple of his-and-hers SUVs in the driveway, a boat on a trailer, a trampoline, a basketball ring fastened to a veranda post. An old man mowing his nature strip lifted a hand as they passed. Erin waved back, and Grace relaxed a little more, forming a sense of unhurried small-town life.
‘And this is Landau Street,’ Mandel said. ‘Less than five minutes out of town. An easy bike ride; you could actually walk it.’
The street continued to unfurl for another half-kilometre across a shallow, leafy slope. Finally, at number 22, Mandel steered into the driveway and pulled up next to the side wall of a small two-storey stone house; late nineteenth century, Grace thought. Mandel led her through a half-hectare of eucalypts and past a single massive liquidambar—beginning to bud—to a small weatherboard cottage hard against the back fence and virtually invisible from the road.
Inside the air was stale, the rooms small and, apart from a wardrobe, a bed base, an oven, a fridge and a washing machine, mostly bare. But it was all solid and clean, and there was a bathtub. ‘Think you could live here?’ Erin said doubtfully.
‘Oh, I think so,’ Grace said, sounding just a little pleased as she listened for dogs and scanned for trees with low branches and footholds on the fence.