‘… You know as well as I do that there’s no rhyme or reason to what turns up each week,’ he continued. ‘Sometimes I look at the lots and think my Pamela would snap up some of them dainty bits and pieces in an instant. And there’s always weird and wonderful things out the back. Why, only yesterday I helped the lads unload one of them red telephone boxes. Now that’s something that would look lovely in a—’
‘Arthur, my dear fellow, Ella is obviously busy, and totally inappropriately dressed to be standing about in this most inclement weather.’ Johnny turned his head and stage-whispered to Maisie. ‘What is she wearing? An avocado blouse with that ghastly shade of blue?’ The volume of his observation made Maisie feel uncomfortable so she tried to make sympathetic eye contact with the shivering girl, but she was eyes down, staring intently at her elegant knee-high boots. ‘Let her go about her work, please.’ Half-grateful, half-embarrassed, Ella gracefully picked her way across the pot-holed forecourt and stepped into the front office.
‘Sorry, Mr Gildersleeve, sir.’ The old man nodded in deference to his boss. Ah, so that was where the company name came from.
‘Arthur is our head porter,’ Johnny announced, his eyeballs inspecting the insides of his upper eyelids, as if to indicate the job title was possibly inappropriate. ‘And this charming young lady is Maisie. She’s applied for a position in our burgeoning empire and I’m giving her a guided tour of our salubrious premises in an attempt to woo her over.’ Johnny really liked his big words. If nothing else, her vocabulary would expand should she take the position.
‘Right lovely to meet you, Maisie.’ The old man stuck out his hand. As she tentatively reached out, Arthur grasped her fingers, but didn’t let go as he began another verbal ramble.
‘Coming for a job, you say? It would be smashing to have another bright young thing about. We always seem to have more jobs than staff. Everyone is so busy, with barely a moment to pass the time of day.’ There was a small cough from Johnny but Arthur continued, undeterred. ‘If you get the job, and I know you will because I can tell by looking at you what an asset you’d be to the company, come to me for anything you need help with. I’ve picked up an awful lot during my time here and it would be smashing to pass that knowledge on to someone else. Always new objects to research and interesting people coming and going …’
On cue, the clean-shaved man who’d bowled past her earlier appeared briefly in the doorway, bobbing his head around the barn door looking lost. He must be a customer either dropping off items for sale or collecting things he’d bought in the auction the previous week. He caught her eye and grinned. She felt her cheeks burn hot and looked away but no one seemed to notice her discomfort or the bobbing man.
Two porters, one bearded and one bald, appeared from a huge barn, wrestling with a heavy green upholstered sofa that resembled a bathtub.
‘Art Dee-co, that is,’ Arthur said, nodding towards the sofa knowledgeably and stressing the first syllable. ‘Heavier than it looks.’
‘Can you get the door to the storage shed?’ one of the porters panted.
‘Don’t be stressing. I’ll be there presently. And, before I forget,’ he said, turning back to Johnny, ‘I noticed a nice little Moorcroft vase in the sale – Mrs Collins said back in the summer how she was keeping an eye out for them, so I thought I might let her know. She doesn’t make it to the viewings now the weather’s turned nasty. What do you think?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Johnny. ‘Whatever you think best. Anyway, don’t let us hold you up, Arthur.’
The two men rested the sofa on the damp concrete path by a large shed and looked over to Arthur, who ambled towards them, rattling a bunch of keys, as if he had all the time in the world.
‘Head porter, you say?’ Maisie clarified, her forehead creased into a frown, as they walked over to two gigantic farm barns.
‘Don’t ask, dah-ling. Don’t ask.’
Maisie stood in the doorway to Saleroom Two. It was the upmarket version of the larger barn they’d just walked through. Saleroom One held household and modern effects; this was antiques. Both had the large central space divided by trestle tables, strewn with boxes. Larger items, such as furniture, stood around the edge and pictures and rugs hung from the walls.
At the far end stood a glass-fronted cabinet that contained small objects of value, every item proudly displaying a numbered sticker, which Johnny explained was cross-referenced in their printed catalogues. In her efforts to understand the system she looked up the lot number for a pair of silver cufflinks and read the description with a £130–£190 estimate. It seemed a frustratingly vague idea of their value to her.
Having never been to an auction, Maisie was wary of them as a concept. She liked the certainty of wanting an object, knowing its price and being able to purchase it without competition. There were too many elements of chance associated with the random and unstructured nature of bidding for her liking.
Johnny leaned an elbow on the top of the cabinet and ran a hand through his bouncy hair. There was a pause when all she could hear was the echoing footsteps of the porters at the back of the barn.
‘Look, I’ll be brutally honest,’ he said, ‘I’ve only had seven applicants and interviewed three. You are far and away the most impressive candidate and possibly over-qualified for this job. We need marketing skills like yours to help the company grow but you’ll also be asked to lift tables, offer practical help on auction days and even sweep up occasionally.’ His foot toyed with some dead leaves blown in by the wind, letting them crunch beneath his highly polished shoes.
The advert in the local paper had been optimistically worded: Growing firm of Auctioneers seeks individual with marketing and communications skills to contribute to vibrant team. Maisie was beginning to suspect General dogsbody who knows a bit about computers because we’re largely clueless, and who’ll probably be asked to clean the toilets if we’re a man down might be a more accurate job description.
‘However, I promise you won’t have anyone looking over your shoulder or making you account for your movements, and I will genuinely listen to any input and ideas you have. I liked your portfolio, particularly the unusual Wickerman’s beer mats you designed for the Felixstowe Beer Festival. You are clearly creative and focused. But more importantly, I like you.’
For the first time that morning, Johnny looked slightly nervous; tiny beads of sweat forming on his corned beef-coloured brow. He was wringing his hands together and looking intently at her face. ‘So, my darling, I fall procumbent at your alabaster feet, and ask if you are in or out?’
Not quite sure whether being procumbent was a good thing or not, Maisie gazed across the cluttered room of miscellaneous objects, contemplated the joy of a ten-minute commute, and the distinct and welcome lack of potential romantic partners in the workplace.
‘In,’ she said.
Maisie didn’t regret her impulsive decision to take the job for a moment. It was nothing like working for Wickerman’s and nothing like Johnny had led her to believe, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
For the first week, she shadowed various members of staff because he insisted she got a
She realised now that even though she’d worked in an office full