Tuesday began early. Charles crawled out of bed at six to make coffee, and toasted himself a chunk of baguette. Tuesdays were always Springfield Road days, exploring a rough and ready market on a large patch of derelict land in West London, north of Heathrow airport, and early bargains were always the best bargains. He made Jennifer a pot of tea, and placed a cup on her bedside table, chivvying at her to get up. Jennifer was always a slow starter. Then he read the Daily Mail for a while. But she finally surfaced, and they drove down the A40 to the M25 motorway ringing London, and in along the M4. Traffic was light, and the sky a perfect blue. Jennifer was silent. Charlie guessed, from the way she sat a little tensely, that she had something on her mind, and he smiled to himself. Every worm can turn, when presented with the right opportunity.
Springfield Road always looked like a scrapyard, or a tinkers’ encampment. Cars and vans spread out in haphazard rows, behind junk of all kinds dumped untidily in the dust. Many of the vans had piled up old television sets and video recorders, along with heaps of second hand clothing, and collections of junky furniture. Jennifer left Charlie to park, and made for the furniture. Sometimes dealers offered interesting bits: chairs and tables and chests of drawers in need of a little care and attention, and she knew a nice man in Slough prepared to strip and repair and polish for little more than a song.
Charlie began to browse. Sometimes he found things for Jennifer to inspect, sometimes he found currency for himself, selling at fractions of its realisable value. He knew a dealer called Dave in central London prepared to buy pre-euro coins at a discount, and P&O ferries changed banknotes. Sometimes he did very well. Good dealers always sniff around, because one can never tell what might be hidden at the bottom of a box of junk, or tucked away amongst tatty old papers. The regular traders also all knew him, and he gossipped when unable to buy. He browsed along, picking up a few euros for his next trip to France, and paused. Three traders had begun discussing immigrants.
Springfield Road traders seemed to spend much of their time discussing immigrants, perhaps because a lot of their customers spoke in strange languages, or shaded in colour from brown into black. They were ready enough to take money proferred by foreign hands, but they despised the proferrors.
‘Bloody Paki tried to beat me down.’ One of the traders scowled. He was short, and dark, dressed in a grey combat jacket from some forgotten army, and looked as though he might have Italian or Greek blood in him somewhere. ‘They think they can have it all for peanuts.’
‘That’s what they fucking live on.’ The speaker was scruffy and unshaven, dressed in another combat jacket. ‘We should send them all back where they come from.’
Charlie felt baffled, and more than a little irritated. Many foreign buyers arrived at Springfield Road in big shiny cars – some in top of the range Mercedes and BMWs. He admired entrepreneurs. Springfield Road traders generally sold junk, and drove junky vans. He joined the exchange. ‘You don’t mind taking their money.’
The scruffy trader eyed him pityingly. All Springfield Road knew Jennifer led Charlie around like a heifer with a ring in its nose. He had scant sympathy for the hen-pecked. ‘They probably thieve it.’
‘It ain’t their money, it’s the way they handle it.’ The dark trader sniffed, and spat into a patch of dust. Charlie backed away: he disliked men who spat. Once local authorities fined men for spitting in the street. It was a pity nobody fined them for spitting in markets. ‘They ask you a price, maybe a couple of old video recorders, you tell them it’s ten. So they look at you and offer you one, maybe two. You tell them to piss off, they made it two, maybe three. They’re fucking time-wasters. Bleeding wankers.’
He spat again, to show the extent of his disgust.
Charlie shrugged. Springfield Road was a market: everybody tried bargaining. He tried bargaining. Perhaps traders with scruffy vans lived in a permanent state of jealousy: corroded men driving corroded vehicles.
An elderly Sikh approached, and eyed a pile of doubtful-looking electronic hardware. His turban was grubby, his clothes looked as though they had come from a tip, and it was hard to believe he might have two pennies to rub together. But one could never tell at Springfield Road. Appearance could often prove deceptive. He pointed. ‘Please, sir. How much?’
The scruffy trader ignored him.
The Sikh tried again. ‘How much you want, sir?’
The dark trader gathered spit in his mouth for a third expellation, noticed that Charliewas staring at him hard, and swallowed. ‘You should call him ‘sahib’.’
The three traders laughed at this shaft of wit. Charlie pretended not to have heard. The Sikh smiled ingratiatingly.
‘How much, sahib?’
The scruffy man eyed him contemptuously. ‘To you? A score.’
The Sikh did not understand. Charlie intervened. ‘He means twenty.’
The Sikh frowned. ‘In working order?’
The scruffy man was impatient. ‘How do I fucking know? You take them as they come.’
‘Maybe ten, sir?’
‘Fuck off.’
The Sikh did not seem greatly shocked by this response. Perhaps he was used to being sworn at. ‘Not ten?’ He looked at Charlie, seeking support. Charlie was plainly an honest man, and would not underwrite such greed. Charlie looked away. It was not his junk.
‘Oh, piss off.’ The scruffy man turned his back, but the Sikh held his ground.
The dark man sneered. ‘He told you to fuck off, so fuck off.’
The Sikh gave up, and ambled off. The traders eyed Charlie, and the scruffy man spread his hands. ‘What would you have done?’
‘I’d have taken his money.’
The third trader had been silent all this time. But now he spoke. ‘You’re a cunt.’
Once Charlie would have hit the man without a second thought. But the trader was big, and brawny, and there were three of them together. He turned on his heel and began to walk off, and heard the three men laughing together. He also heard some words that might have been construed as ‘just a fucking poodle’, but he kept moving. One day he would get his own back on a cruel world. One day he would get even.
He found Jennifer, and retold the incident, feeling very sour.
Jennifer shrugged. ‘What do you expect, in a place like this?’
She had better things to think about than squabbling men, for she had just found a little dressingtable, and thought it rather nice, albeit a little the worse for wear. But the dealer was asking sixty, and sixty was a high price for Springfield Road, especially for something needing some work. She pulled at Charlie’s sleeve, because she needed a second opinion.
Charlie eyed the dressingtable doubtfully. It was Victorian, possibly even Regency, but the legs looked as though they had been chewed by a large dog, or perhaps by a whole succession of large dogs, and some of the scratches were deep and wide. The top looked a little warped, and the mirror was foxed over a good tenth of its surface. Once it might have been a good piece, but it had seen very much better days.
Jennifer eyed him, and her face fell. ‘You don’t think Mr. Carfax could do it up?’
Mr. Carfax worked in small workshop in Slough, and was an ace at breathing new life into battered veterans. But Charlie judged the dressingtable too battered even for Mr. Carfax. He shook his head silently.
‘Clean up nice, that will, squire.’ The trader patted the dressingtable approvingly. He was a foxy looking man in a boilersuit and dusty wellingtons. ‘Just needs a lick of polish, bit of repair.’
Charlie ignored him.
‘Good auction piece.’ The trader was not giving up. He knew that Jennifer owned a shop, and antique shop dealers were always stupid around old stuff. ‘Clean it up, put it on show, you’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.’
Charlie scowled. ‘I think it’s a mess. Nice bit of firewood.’
The trader bridled, opening his mouth to speak, shut it again, and walked off in a huff. He had better things to do than waste his breath on cheapskates.
Charlie looked at his watch. They had been hanging around too long. He wanted to get home and get some more stuff out on the production line, to clear his decks so that he would have nothing breathing down his neck on Friday. He had a date, and he wanted to triumph.
Jennifer was silent as they drove back to Fulmer. She was sure Mr. Carfax could have done something with the dressingtable. But she could see Charlie was in a mood. She mulled over Charlie’s lunch plans. She was not sure she approved, because she was not sure Charlie was capable of going out and valuing the contents of a house. She remembered the woman at the lecture: a dark, pushy thing with shoulder length hair, big eyes, and a big bust. She would try to vamp Charlie, and Charlie would melt in her hands, because he always melted for women who smiled at him. He would make a fool of himself, and cut some kind of stupid deal, and she would have to carry the can. She decided to seek Freddie’s advice. Perhaps Freddie might be able to talk Charlie into taking him along as an expert adviser. Freddie might keep him out of mischief.
Charlie dropped her off at the shop and drove home feeling elated. He would work, and work, and work, and build virtue for himself, and on Friday he would deserve a free day. He changed back into his working clothes, and set about polishing up the chairs he had stripped, working with an enthusiasm fuelled wholly by desire. Soon the pair gleamed in the sun, and he began detacking another couple. A good man earns his due by the sweat of his brow, and sometimes by the tingling in his loins as well.
Leticia had already opened the shop, but was on her own again. Jennifer busied herself rearranging her window displayed whilst she waited for Freddie to arrive. Leticia was vague about his movements, but hazarded that he might have gone to view some pictures for sale somewhere in the Chalfonts. Jennifer listened, and thought of seeking her advice as well, but decided against the idea. Leticia might have a part to play in the greater development of things, but she had embarked on a game of chess, and each piece must make the right move at the right time. She decided to wait for Freddie. Freddie would surely come up with an answer.
The telephone rang and she answered it brightly, welcoming a distraction. It was Angela, her best friend. Angela wanted a comforting shoulder for lunch, and Jennifer jumped at her invitation.
‘I’d love to, darling.’ She scribbled Angela’s name quickly in the shop diary. Angela faced many of the same problems as herself: she was bored with her husband, who was prosperous, but travelled a great deal, and had her eye on the tennis pro at the country club. But the pro had no money, and was far too handsome for his own good. Angela had lately begun to worry that he might also have other strings to his bow.
Customers drifted in, and browsed, and drifted out again. Jennifer greeted them all brightly. But sadly most of the browsers ignored her. It was something she found irritating at times, because she hated being treated as though she were invisible. But Freddie told her that she made too much of it. He had a phrase for such people: he called them ‘zombies’. He also liked to point out that zombies sometimes came to life, to open their chequebooks.
Business ambled on. A couple bought a small coffeetable, a woman on her own chose a couple of table lamps from the Thirties. Jennifer sent Leticia off for an early lunch, and Freddie bustled in just after she had gone. He was beaming.
‘I’ve done well, sweetie.’ He swept Jennifer up in his arms, embracing her theatrically. ‘Good pictures, turn of the last century genre stuff.’
He put her down again, but Jennifer noticed that they were still holding hands, and wondered whether Freddie might be sending a fresh signal.. Freddie being dramatic was nothing new. But she felt herself tingling in a quite unexpected way.
‘I picked up some furniture as well, and some china smalls.’ Freddie used the dealer portmanteau word for ornaments. ‘Nice price as well: the bank balance will prosper. We must lunch on them.’
Jennifer beamed back at him. Freddie really was a treasure. They shared the shop as a strictly egalitarian partnership, but Freddie seemed increasingly to be doing most of the buying. All his elderly widows. She wondered for a moment whether she should cancel lunch with Angela, only to glance at her watch and realise with a stab of panic that Angela must already have left home.
‘I can’t, Freddie.’ She had already begun to head for the door. ‘Angela called, and I promised.’
Freddie shrugged, still beaming, and Jennnifer felt her heart lift. Once she might have expected him to pout, and even sulk. But this was a new, laughing Freddie.
Lunch with Angela proved depressing. The tennis pro had been discovered by a group of wealthy American wives, who have been talking of shipping him out to Florida, or California, or somewhere equally exotic and gold-plated, and Angela feared that she was about to be dumped.
‘Men are such bastards.’ She speared a strip of cold chicken from her chicken salad with a hard stab of her fork. ‘All sweetness and smiles when they want something out of you, but coldhearted bloody icebergs when they want to move on.’
Jennifer was not quite sure how many times the tennis pro had bedded Angela, but guessed that they must have recently been having it away together pretty frequently. Angela’s husband was away in South America, and she was not a woman to spend many lonely nights on her own. She nodded sympathetically.
‘I’m going to have to start all over again.’ She looked at Jennifer sharply. ‘Don’t you ever feel like a change?’
Jennifer was silent for a moment. She wondered whether she should tell Angela her fears about Charlie and his lunch date. She wondered whether she should tell Angela anything at all. Angela might well conclude that Charlie was running, and seek to join the race – she was that kind of woman. But then she decided to confide a little. Charlie was past fifty, with no money. Angela was around forty, and as mean as they came.
She leaned forward – they were dining in a smart little Italian restaurant, well patronised by the village’s wealthier wives, and even the potted plants possessed ears. ‘I’m worried about Charlie.’
Angela’s fork stabbed again. But now it quivered in mid-air, half way to her mouth. ‘Worried? How worried?’
‘A woman has invited him to her home for lunch.’
Angela pealed with laughter. ‘Oh, Jennifer, that’s no great cause for concern. Charlie’s out of work.’ She very nearly added that he was also much too old. But there are some things one does not say to a friend.
‘Apparently her husband has packed up and gone off to South Africa.’
Angela’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘With his secretary?’
‘You know her?’
‘She went to that lecture of yours, at the Stag.’
‘Dark hair and big eyes.’
‘That’s the one.’ Angela leaned closer, chicken temporarily forgotten. ‘She’s looking for a replacement.’ Her voice was dark with foreboding.
Jennifer twitched. ‘How do you know?’
‘Common knowledge, darling.’ Angela spoke with the unpleasant certainty of a gossip retailing bad news. ‘She told a friend of mine she was going to find herself a pet, something reliable. She reckons she’s got enough money to afford one. Nothing young, nothing flashy. Something good, and solid, and reliable.’
Jennifer’s blood turned to ice. It might one thing for a successful woman to think of downsizing a husband who had been dumped on a shelf. But it was something quite different to watch a poacher trap him. ‘Do you think she’d go for Charlie?’
‘Why has she invited him to lunch?’
‘She said she wanted someone to help her sort out her furniture and so on.’
Angela looked knowing. ‘She’s sizing him up.’
‘You think so?’
‘Sure of it.’
So was Jennifer. But she did not want to admit it. She felt riven with panic. Charlie was part of her life, even if not very dynamic. She had no concept of life without Charlie. Thirty years of marriage sets life in a pattern, and patterns change less and less easily with the passage of time. She forked up another mouthful of chicken salad. ‘Do you think he’d made a good pet?’
Angela looked doubtful. ‘Does he do what he’s told?’
Jennifer suddenly felt better. Charlie had never, ever, barked to order. ‘He’s as stubborn as a mule.’
‘She won’t like that.’ Angela paused. ‘Is he good in bed?’
Jennifer looked up sharply from eating. Angela had never asked her such a question before, though she had sometimes complained when her own sex life had failed her. She had a sudden suspicion that her best friend might be angling for consolation, and trusting to find it in her best friend’s husband. She shrugged. ‘He knows how to do it.’
‘Keen?’
She scowled. This was too much. Angela plainly wanted Charlie’s sexual performance set out for inspection. She shook her head. ‘He likes to lie back, and have me play with him.’
Angela’s face dropped. ‘Nothing adventurous? Dressing up and playing games – that sort of thing?’
Jennifer shook her head again. What a cow. Now she wanted role play into the bargain. Jennifer could just see her, dressed up as a schoolgirl, with a short, short skirt and a pigtail wig, or else wearing a tight latex outfit and playing a sex siren. The tennis pro must have given her ambitious ideas. But she was well past the age for that kind of thing. ‘Not Charlie. Charlie likes it plain and passive, and he likes it quick. Then he turns over and snores.’
It was a telling and decisive blow. Angela switched to telling her about a new dress she had bought, and Jenifer knew that she had lost interest. A little embroidery had gone a long way, in a world where a woman must sometimes stand ready to refashion the world around her to protect herself. But she still felt concerned, and she knew she must consult Freddie. Freddie would know what to do.
She returned to the shop to find Freddie trying to talk a tall blonde woman into buying one of her French chandeliers, a large multi-tiered creation festooned with crystal drops. Jennifer felt a twinge of jealousy run down her spine as she watched him in action.. Freddie was always a charming man when he set out to charm. But he also possessed very good manners, and backed off immediately she came through the door.
‘Ah, here’s my partner. She buys these chandeliers in France and restores them.’ He beamed at Jennifer, retreating tactfully as the tall blonde woman eyed her.
The woman was expensively dressed, but had a certain toughness about her that suggested she might be tight with her money. ‘I like it. Is it really French?’
Jennifer smiled bewitchingly. ‘I brought it over a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Do all the drops match?’
Jennifer beamed. ‘Have a look.’
She guessed the woman had probably already taken a close look and knew what she was buying. She had priced the chandelier at eight hundred and fifty, because it was a big piece, even a trophy piece. But it would also be an extremely profitable piece if the woman bought it. Charlie had paid eighty because some of the drops had been mismatched, and some were missing. Jennifer had made good from her stores of spare parts.
The woman still seemed undecided. ‘Can I just hook it up and switch it on?’
This was a trick question, and Jennifer frowned disapprovingly. Regulations allowed dealers to sell old chandeliers, providing they met certain conditions. ‘I’ve put a notice on to say that it must be fitted by a qualified electrician. We rewired it, but it must be fitted by someone who knows what he is doing.’
The blonde woman smiled slightly. ‘Not by a husband?’
Jennifer shook her head firmly. ‘Not unless he’s a qualified electrician.’
‘He likes to do things himself.’
Jennifer’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Many men do.’ She noticed that Freddie had retreated out of earshot. ‘But people can sometimes make mistakes when they are not properly trained, and I don’t want customers blaming me for their short circuits.’ She paused, to add a second phrase under her breath. ‘Or dead husbands.’
The blonde woman laughed, opening her handbag. Jennifer prayed silently that she would not reach for a chequebook, because big ticket cheques could be risky. But the woman’s wallet was packed with fifty pound notes, and she sighed with relief. This was a woman with serious money.
She counted the seventeen notes lovingly. Leticia, back from lunch and discreet in the background, had already vanished into the storeroom, to reappear with a large cardboard carton and a sheaf of old newspapers. She smiled gratefully. Leticia was really a very dependable girl.
She began to pack the chandelier carefully as the woman went off to fetch her car, and then watched as Leticia and Freddie carried the box carefully across the pavement. She noted that the woman was driving a late model Mercedes estate, and felt just a little envious. How nice it must be to be rich.
Then the Mercedes estate was gone, and Freddie was hugging her, with Leticia smiling approvingly in the background, and she had the same tingling feeling again.
Freddie held her for a long moment, and she felt his face warm against her cheek. ‘You’ve done well.’
Jennifer thought of the chandelier she had bought at Courrieres. ‘I’ve got another one to take its place.’
‘You’re a clever girl.’
‘It’ll pay the rent.’ She beamed. But then she remembered Charlie and his lunch date, and suddenly her joy was clouded. She lowered her voice, because she did not want to share this problem with Leticia. Not yet, anyway. ‘Freddie, I’ve got a problem with Charlie.’
Freddie was immediately solicitous. ‘He’s got a girlfriend?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jennifer looked around for a quiet corner where she could pour out her troubles: the shop was not designed for heart to heart chatting. She eyed the door. ‘Can we go for another walk on the common?’
Freddie looked judicious. ‘Leticia will hold the fort.’ He gestured to his niece. He could explain everything to Leticia later.
They made for the common again. The village knew them as business partners, and would judge that they had gone out to discuss weighty matters.
They walked in silence. Jennifer wondered whether she was about to make a fool of herself, and spoke awkwardly.
‘A woman wants him to go and have lunch with her on Friday, at her home.’
Freddie shrugged, and patted her arm comfortingly. ‘That’s no great disaster. People often invite me to lunch at their homes. Generally they want to sell me something.’
‘She says she needs some help.’
‘They always do.’
‘She met him at a lecture I gave. I virtually had to prise them apart.’
‘At the Stag?’ Freddie frowned in memory. ‘I remember her, nice looking woman, nice hair.’ He very nearly added ‘nice body as well’, but there are things one does not say to a grieving partner. ‘Why didn’t she ask you?’
Jennifer looked hurt. They both knew very well why the woman had failed to ask her.
‘Oh, dear.’ Freddie sighed. He had begun mulling over some serious thoughts in his mind since Henry’s treachery, but it was still rather early to think of changing the habits of a lifetime. ‘Can’t you butter him up?’ His voice climbed archly.
Jennifer sniffed. She had Charlie nicely under control, and butter was nowhere on her menu.
Freddie tried again. ‘You don’t want to drive him into her arms.’
Jennifer yelped as though in pain, and he realised that he had said just the wrong thing. He folded a comforting arm around her shoulder, for they were now far enough from the village for him to allow himself a small liberty or two. ‘Don’t take on so. She’ll probably pick his brains and try to talk him into buying what she doesn’t want, then drop him like a hot brick when she realises he doesn’t have a say in the shop.’ He frowned. ‘Does he carry a chequebook?’
Jennifer shook her head. Charlie was only allowed to buy independently in France, and she made sure that he never had more than a tenner or so at Springfield Road.
Freddie smiled comfortingly. ‘There you are then. Nothing to worry about.’
They walked on in silence. Jennifer realised with sudden surprise that they were holding hands as they walked, and wondered whether she should pull away. But walking hand-in-hand seemed so much the right thing to do that she squeezed Freddie’s fingers instead, and was gratified to feel her own being squeezed in return. But comfort does not dispel fear.
‘What happens if she fancies him?’
Freddie frowned again. Jennifer seemed to be edging towards paranoia. But then he thought of Henry, and wondered. Friends had often warned him that Henry might one day prove fickle. But he had always trusted, until confronted with deception. ‘You’re trying to frighten yourself, Jennifer. Don’t jump to conclusions.’
‘But what would I do?’
Freddie stopped short, facing her, for it was plain that she had begun working herself into a fresh panic. He put his hand under her chin, lifting it so that she was looking up at him. ‘You’ll carry on with us, with Leticia and me.’
Jennifer stifled a muffled sob. ‘Oh, Freddie, you are such a treasure. Sometimes…’ She hesitated. ‘Sometimes I really wish you weren’t the way you are.’
Now she was pressed against him, and Freddie realises with a start that she had begun to set his blood moving. He had suffered much in his lifetime through being drawn to other men, and it was a trial he had always hoped might have a happy ending. He kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘Wait and see what happens. I’ll be there if you need me.’