The Bronze Lady (Woodford Antiques Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter 8

Tuesday 24
th
November, 6.30pm

Lisa Bartlett was in a quandary. She had tried on and rejected several different items of clothing; had re-arranged her hair numerous times alternating between having it long, loose and curly to various styles involving hair clips or bands; and had completely removed her make-up once and re-applied it.

Her date on Saturday night had been fantastic and exceeded all of her, admittedly low, expectations! Robin Morton was everything his online profile and emails had promised. She hadn’t counted on him being even more attractive than his photographs on the website suggested, nor had she been expecting such a funny, polite, and intelligent man. Why on earth was he single? They hadn’t pried too deeply into each other’s past relationship histories; Lisa was reluctant to share because hers had been so disastrous, and Robin didn’t think it was relevant to his budding romance with Lisa.

But now they were meeting for a second date in ‘real’ life, and her expectations for the evening were high. Not so high that she would be inviting him back to her house. She had a no-sex-before-the-third-date rule which she was looking forward to having the opportunity to put into practice, finally. She deliberately left her legs unshaven and had not changed her bed clothes to further support her effort to keep to the rule, just in case there was a chance Robin would be interested. And both of her children were home that evening. A definite incentive to maintain celibacy.

Eventually she chose jeans and a white shirt, with her super warm navy blue wool long coat and high heeled blue suede boots, and left her hair loose. She also opted to drive to the pub, partly because as beautiful as her boots were they were challenging to walk in, and partly so she would stick to non-alcoholic drinks.

Despite her lengthy preparations she was a few minutes early when she arrived at The Ship Inn, but Robin was already there sitting in his car, and walked over as she climbed out of her mini. They kissed each other briefly on the cheek in greeting, and then walked together into the bar.

‘Hello Lisa, hello again,’ said Mike to Robin. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Hi Mike, this is Robin. I’ll have a Virgin Mary please.’

‘And a small red wine for me please, Mike. I telephoned yesterday and booked a table in your restaurant, name of Morton,’ said Robin.

‘Ah, yes, we wondered who that was. Go on through to the dining room, you can sit anywhere you like, and I’ll bring your drinks through. Menus are on the table.’

As they made their way through the pub, out of the bar and into the dining room, Lisa was aware of every person staring to see who she was with, and it added to her already high state of nervous tension.

The room was empty, so they chose a table for two tucked away in one of the corners where they could sit without inviting attention. By the time Mike appeared with their drinks they had chosen their meals, and once he had taken their order and left them alone again, Lisa felt much calmer. Robin was so easy to talk to, he didn’t seem to be bothered by all of the stares and whispering surrounding their presence, and was only interested in her and how her day had been. Another couple of tables were taken as the evening went on, but Lisa barely noticed the occupants, she was so entranced by Robin and his funny stories and tales of his travels around the country, and beyond.

Robin was some sort of engineer for a company which was a subsidiary of a major German engineering company, and so he spent a lot of time travelling, either driving or taking public transport, and had seemingly endless tales about the people he met as he travelled or while he was staying in various hotels in the United Kingdom and Europe. Sometimes he would also be sent further a field, to Dubai or New York or Australia, but mostly he worked in the south-east of England, where he had a flat. His parents lived in Swanwick, the County town of Brackenshire, and he regularly stayed with them which was why he had added Brackenshire to his geographical dating profile.

The hours slipped away, and the first time Lisa looked at her watch was when they were drinking coffee. She was astonished and disappointed to discover it was ten thirty, and she could see that both Sarah and Mike were going through the motions of closing the pub for the night as the last of the Regulars drained their glasses, so she reluctantly accepted the evening was coming to an end.

‘When do you think you will be back to see your parents?’ she asked, trying not to allow a pleading tone to enter her question.

‘Oh, I checked before I came out this evening,’ Robin grinned. ‘I would really love to see you again Lisa, I hope you would like to see me again?’

‘Oh yes!’ ooops, that was a bit too keen, Gemma would tell me off if she was here, thought Lisa.

‘Great!’ he leaned back in his chair, a huge grin covering his face as he looked into her eyes. ‘I have to go up north to Durham tomorrow for a few days, then over to Germany, back to Durham, and will return to Swanwick in three weeks’ time, Friday the eighteenth. I could come and pick you up, and take you out to the Italian on the High Street, Amore isn’t it?’

‘Oh,’ Lisa also leaned back in her chair. ‘That long?’

‘Yes, I am sorry. Now you can see why I am single,’ Robin said, a look of concern creeping across his face. ‘I will make it up to you, I promise. And we can email, talk on the phone and text until then? Please don’t dump me!’

‘Oh, I’m not going to dump you, I just don’t want to wait that long for our third date!’ exclaimed Lisa, before feeling the familiar whoosh of crimson flush her face as she realised what she was saying. ‘Er, I mean, um...’ come on Lisa, she said to herself, pull yourself together and act like a grown-up. ‘Friday the eighteenth of December it is then,’ she smiled, before suddenly remembering, ‘oh, no, I can’t see you then! What about the Saturday?’

‘Oh can’t you? Yes, Saturday the nineteenth. I’ll book a table if they can fit us in amongst all the Christmas parties taking place that evening, and pick you up at about seven o’clock? Let me know your address before then. Oh Lisa, I am so glad you are willing to put up with my erratic and unsociable work schedule. No, no, dinner is on me,’ he said as he picked up the bill Mike had placed on their table, and stood up so he could help Lisa on with her coat.

Together they walked out to the car park, and stopped to enjoy a long delicious kiss goodbye, before parting and heading towards their respective cars, both feeling the warm glow of attraction and anticipation protecting them from the chill of the winter’s night.

Chapter 9

Sunday 29
th
November 2015, 6.15am

‘Good Morning!’ Tony Cookson greeted Cliff with his usual early morning cheeriness. When Paul Black wasn’t around, Tony’s good humour was evident.

‘Morning’ muttered Cliff, as he settled himself into the passenger seat of Tony’s van. Cliff did not share Tony’s enthusiasm for getting up and dressed and on the road for work before the sun rose, although he didn’t mind the early start if he was going out running.

‘Is it going to be a good day today?’ asked Tony as he drove them the familiar route to Drayton Flea Market. ‘I think it will be; I have a good feeling about business.’ Tony loved these dark early morning buying trips, when no one else was on the road and the day was fully of possibilities.

‘Who knows?  Weather forecast says it is going to be dry, so that is something good I suppose,’ replied Cliff, grumpily.

Once they were at the market they paid their ten pound entrance fee which enabled them to have access to the outdoor stalls for the first hour and a half, before the market was open to the public buyers for free and the doors to the building containing the indoor stalls were finally unlocked. The two men split up as usual to search individually, agreeing to meet a couple of hours later in the cafe.

Tony was primarily a postcard dealer which meant that the majority of his interests were inside, out of the often rainy weather, but he also dealt and collected militaria which tended to be more robust and able to withstand a drop or more of rain, so he headed off through the outdoor stalls to see his favourite dealer in military antiques, Mark Kenyon.

Meanwhile Cliff methodically moved from one stall to another, up and down the rows, ending up back where he started and beginning the process again while the stall holders continued to set up their tables and unpack their boxes. Cliff was the type of dealer who walked carefully, torch in hand, scrutinising each stall, loathe to miss a bargain. Others rushed from one to the next, focused on beating everyone else in the race to win the prize of being the first to find the treasure. Whatever their methods, the dealers were united in their aim to spot a bargain they could sell on for maximum profit. Meanwhile the familiar noises of the market engulfed them as tables were unfolded, their legs clattering and scratching along the tarmac and gravel surfaces, the shouts and calls of the sellers and buyers as they engaged in friendly and sometimes not-so friendly banter. The choking smell of cigarette smoke mixed with welcoming scents of coffee and sizzling bacon from the outdoor toastie van.

By the end of November the antiques trade is usually winding down, particularly the outdoor markets because the freezing temperatures combined with the inevitable British winter wind and rain makes it too unpleasant to be standing behind your stall for hours at a time, and is particularly challenging when your stock is getting wet or blown off your tables. The sound of smashing glass and cries of defeat are familiar background noise to winter antiques markets (in fact some years spring, summer and autumn fairs suffer too, particularly those on a Bank Holiday), and woe betide anyone who has not securely anchored their gazebo or marquee because their incompetence is likely to not only damage their own stock, but will often take out several of their neighbours’ too as the tented structures fly around in the wind.

At the end of the year the ‘buzz’ that surrounds the fresh-to-the-market stock on which the antiques trade thrives on is missing, not just because of the short daylight hours and grim weather, but also because the overseas buyers are reluctant to travel when the weather is likely to disrupt air, road and rail transport; holiday season accommodation and travel costs are sky high; the housing market and therefore house clearances are drying up; few people are having major building works or renovations, so the number of houses with rooms needing to be cleared out or re-decorated at this time of year are limited; the auctions are also quieter, and the sources of stock are flat-lining.

Antiques dealers try to help each other out, whilst still aiming to successfully run a business to support themselves and their families. There is the old joke about three antiques dealers on an island with only one item of stock between them, a chair, and they all make a profit.

For shop owners like Cliff the antiques markets and fairs are important sources of new stock, as are auctions, house clearances and both trade and private sellers, so it can depend on the time of year which source is the most profitable. Winter antiques markets and fairs in the United Kingdom are only for the hardy and the dedicated, but are essential if you want to survive in business. Williamson Antiques had been home to over thirty other antiques dealers, until earlier in the year someone had broken into the building and destroyed almost all of the stock. As a result the number of dealers who wanted to entrust their stock to Cliff had dropped by more than a half, and he had been struggling to afford to fill the empty spaces with enough of his own stock to make the place appealing for antiques dealers and members of the public with money to spare.

By nine o’clock Cliff’s feet and hands were freezing and he was feeling thoroughly miserable. He had not found a single item to buy. Successfully managing the stock in an antiques centre is a catch-22 situation in which the more new stock you have available for buyers to purchase, the more old stock you will sell. Buyers suddenly notice an item which has been gathering dust for over nine months when something fresh is placed next to it, but if all they see are the same objects every time they look then they will stop looking, and reduce the chance of buying to zero. It is important to keep the supply of antiques turning over somehow because unless you sell old stock you won’t have the money for new. And yet every year in November and December it is a surprise to the antiques dealers that the trade is quiet, and they all engage in long despairing conversations predicting the End of The Antiques Trade. Cliff was longing for a hot cup of tea to warm him up and decided to head over to the cafe, inside the hangar which housed the indoor stalls.

‘Hi Cliff!’ he looked over to see Linda Beecham, one of the dealers who currently had a stand in his antiques centre. Linda was bundled up in several layers of clothing, all hidden beneath matching blue waterproof trousers and jacket, with a white woolly hat and scarf. All that Cliff could see of her was her smiling face.

‘Hi Linda, how’s it going, have you done much business this morning?’

‘Not too bad for this time of year, taken about five hundred pounds so far.’ Linda was one of those dealers who was always upbeat, she seemed to take all the highs and lows of the antiques trade in her stride, and Cliff was sure that even if she had only taken five pounds that morning she would have found something to smile about. ‘Cliff, any chance you could keep an eye on my stall while I pop to the loo please?’

‘Yes sure, happy too,’ said Cliff in a bright voice, although inwardly he groaned, he wanted to be inside holding a steaming hot mug, not standing out here in this miserable freezing weather. ‘You go on. Anything I need to know?’

‘No I don’t think so. Everything is priced, but I shouldn’t be too long so if there is a query they can wait a few minutes for me until I get back. Although it will take me a while to undo and untuck all these layers of clothes I am wearing and then put them all back together again!’ she grinned and turned away, walking quickly in the direction of the Ladies toilets.

Cliff stood behind the tables watching the rest of the market going about their own business. It was many years since he had last stalled out at an antiques fair, and had forgotten about the variety of life walking by carrying their latest purchases or pushing laden trolleys: smartly dressed people, at least one of whom he knew was bankrupt; scruffily dressed people, two of whom he knew had fortunes tucked away; a woman who was very warmly dressed, wrapped up in scarf and hat and huge overcoat, but wearing thin socks and open-toed sandals on her feet; another woman who Cliff had seen transition over several years and now looked more masculine in his view than she ever did before the operations; grandfathers with grandchildren, or were they the children’s fathers?; husbands and wives; young lads with energy and enthusiasm for the business; old men who remember the Good Old Days; dogs, dogs and more dogs. For a few minutes Cliff forgot how cold he was feeling and enjoyed being a spectator in an environment he was familiar with.

His reverie was interrupted by an abrupt voice enquiring the price of a silver plated candlestick.

‘Oh, um, is there a price on it?’

‘I’m asking you mate, how much?’ The man was in his seventies, an old-timer Cliff remembered from the days when he used to stall out. He didn’t have any manners back then either. Remembering this was not his stall, and biting back a rude response, Cliff politely gestured for the man to pass the candlestick to him so he could read the price tag.

‘The label says twenty four pounds,’ he said politely handing the item back.

‘I know what the label says, I want to know how much you are going to sell it to me for.’

‘You can have it for twenty.’

‘Huh,’ said the man and slammed the candlestick down on the table before marching away.

‘Charming!’ laughed a woman, holding a small silver frame. ‘The label says one hundred and sixty pounds, can you do any better please?’

‘I should think so, you can have it for one forty,’ smiled Cliff.

‘Could you do it for one twenty?’ she asked.

‘Sorry, no, one forty is the best.’

‘Thank you, I’ll have it for one forty.’

As the woman walked away, happily tucking her purchase into bag, Cliff reflected on how unpleasant some people chose to go through life whilst others were generous with their exchanges.

‘Ooooh that’s better, thanks Cliff, hope I haven’t kept you too long?’ Linda was back, smiling as usual.

‘No problem Linda, I was enjoying watching everyone go by. Someone just walked past carrying a front door!’

‘Sell anything?’

‘Yes, a silver frame. I’m afraid someone was trying to buy one of those silver plate candlesticks but I didn’t handle him very well. I am out of practise with certain types of customer.’

Linda laughed ‘I can imagine the kind you mean. You ban them from the antique centre don’t you?’

‘Spot on Linda, you know what I am talking about.’

‘Not to worry, I start putting the price up when they leave their manners at the gate. Thanks for selling the frame. I can think about packing up soon.’

‘Already?’

‘Oh yes, the public rarely buy from me, so once the dealers have whizzed round there is little point in staying just to lose the use of my toes!’ she laughed.

‘Wow, things certainly have changed since I used to stall out. We would still be here at three in the afternoon.’

‘Ah, careful, you are starting to look at the antiques trade through rose tinted glasses there Cliff. Think back. How much did you actually sell to people who only came to this fair in those last four hours, and how much did you sell to people you could see anywhere?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose you are right, I mostly sold to other dealers, but if I didn’t stay they would have bought from someone who did.’

‘Times have changed now Cliff,’ Linda said sombrely. ‘The dealers have usually gone by now, as they have another fair to go to up in Shropshire which opens at two in the afternoon, and then onto Worcester early tomorrow morning. Even the ones who have stalled out, like me, will not be staying much past ten o’clock this morning. Only the indoor sellers and that’s because they are not allowed to bring their cars in to pack up before eleven o’clock. When was the last time you were still here buying after half-past nine?’

‘True, true, you’re right, I’m usually in the cafe by now!’ he laughed for the first time that morning. ‘Can I get you anything before I go? A cup of tea, or would you prefer a coffee?’

‘Ah you are kind, but no thank you, I come prepared with my flask of soup and another of coffee.’

‘In my day it was a bottle of wine and another of whisky. Are you coming into the antiques centre later on today?’

‘No, I’ll pop in tomorrow though. I gave my stand a good clean and re-arrange on Friday so unless you have had a shipper in over the weekend I doubt much will need doing to it. Thanks Cliff, I appreciate your help this morning.’

Cliff walked away from Linda’s stall looking at his surroundings with fresh eyes. He had been on such a tight schedule for so many years, rushing here and there, needing to be in certain places at certain times, that he hadn’t noticed the world around him, his world, had changed so dramatically. He reached the cafe, ordered himself a cup of tea and a bacon roll, and walked over to the table already occupied by several dealers.

Tony was smiling broadly as he walked into the cafe. He was pleased with the deal he had done with Mark Kenyon, and this had buoyed his confidence and resulted in another very good deal with one of the postcard sellers once the indoor stalls were open for business. He already knew he had an online buyer for the postcards, so had no worries about the lack of available tradable stock or fears about attracting buyers from whom he could make a decent profit. He bought his food and drink and went to join Cliff and the other dealers. Unlike Tony’s, their collective mood was glum.