A short story by
NICOLAS TRAVERS
The house lay at the end of a muddy, rutted
track, buried in a mixture of woodland and heath, prosperous but isolated.
Daniel stopped to inspect it. He was out on a scouting trip for his wife – a
woman had telephoned her antique shop to ask whether she might be interested in
buying some furniture.
“Don’t pay a lot, we’ve got
plenty of stock.” His wife had been in a commanding mood. “But I could do with
some nice little bits, some china or glass.”
Daniel had nodded. His wife
treated him sometimes as though he were a half-wit. But he reckoned that he was
just as good a judge of fine things as her, even better sometimes. He patted
his hip pocket. He had a wallet filled with cash, and he would make up his own
mind, and argue afterwards.
He parked neatly under an
oak, facing the house, and walked briskly to the front door. The woman might be
watching him, and deals were often fashioned by first impressions.
The bell seemed to ring for a
long time, and then the door opened fractionally.
Daniel smiled his best antique
dealer smile. “I’ve come about the furniture. You spoke to my wife.”
The door opened a little
wider. A woman with light chestnut hair streaked with blonde and grey strands
looked out at him. She was not old, perhaps ten years or so younger than himself,
in her middle to late forties, a nnice looking woman. But she had tired shadows
around her green eyes, and her face was lined. It was the face of a woman
combating some kind of crisis.
“You’d better come in.” Her
voice was listless.
Daniel followed her through a
small hallway into a large room with picture windows looking out towards the
woods. The furniture was comfortable, and had probably been expensive. But it
hardly matched his wife’s ambition for a smart shop with upmarket appeal. But
he also noted a few pieces of decent china in a display cabinet, and a couple
of quite interesting watercolours on the walls, and the woman had set out some
small bits of silver on a little occasional table.
She took an armchair close
to the picture window, plainly expecting him to seat himself on the sofa facing
her. But Daniel walked to the far end
of the room instead. He knew it was a little discourteous, but he collected
silver, and could never resist the metal’s white metallic glow.
He picked up a model of a
small Arab fishing dhow. It was set between a pair of little silver dishes
perhaps made to hold sweetmeats, and a couple of little silver pillboxes.
“You’ve got some nice
pieces.” He stroked the metal gently. The boat was really very pretty.
The woman smiled slightly. “They belonged to my husband.” Her
voice made it plain that she was now on her own.
“Belonged?” He echoed the
word. The boat was really very pretty indeed. He had money to buy such a boat –
at a reasonable price, of course.
“He died at the beginning of the month.” Her voice was small, a
faint cadence of sorrow. “The funeral was last week. I’m trying to clear as
much as possible before I sell the house.” She hesitated. “But he was very fond
of that boat. We stayed with some friends in Bahrain. They gave it to us as a
present, and I don’t think he would have liked me to sell it.”
Daniel sighed. The woman’s
tone placed the small boat beyond his reach. Some things, the common artefacts
of life, things acquired as everyday comforts and for the enhancement of
everyday life, things bought merely to cushion and impress both owner and
visitor, can be bought and sold easily. But there are other possessions that
count as treasures, and treasures are only sold to stave off desperation.
He walked around the room.
The furniture was definitely not for the shop. But he wanted to let the woman
down easily. There was something appealing about her, a frailness, a
vulnerability, that made him want to comfort her. He glanced at her out of the
corner of his eye. She must have been very pretty and vivacious once, before
her grief, and she was still attractive. But now her fire barely smouldered.
Curiosity pricked him, shaded
with desire, but he quickly pushed both away. A man may comfort a bereaved
woman from his heart. But any attempt to profit from grief can only rank as
treachery.
He sat on the sofa, searching
his mind for a way to prolong their conversation, and cleared his throat. “I’m
not sure our shop would be right for you.” He saw the woman’s mouth tighten a
little in disappointment, and hurried on. “But perhaps we could buy something
else from you. We might take your china, and any of your silver you don’t want
to keep.” He hesitated for a moment. “And you might have some coins tucked
away, if you have been abroad. I collect silver and coins. People often have a
few tucked away.”
He looked at her hopefully.
Daniel had more than two and a half thousand coins, all carefully packed and
graded and catalogued, and he was forever hunting, though not always
successful.
His words were a key. The
woman’s face lit up. “My husband left a box of coins.” She spoke quickly, as
though to hold him in place. “I don’t suppose that they are very valuable, but
they might interest you.”
She rose to her feet and
hurried off, leaving Daniel to ponder. He felt increasingly attracted, but the
woman’s grief made her taboo. He shrugged to himself. Life is a progression, an
adventure, and the woman would recover in time, and perhaps need a friend, an
admirer, a lover. He could be patient.
She returned carrying a cigar
box that rattled interestingly as she placed it on a glass-topped coffee table.
He bent forward, and his
fingers reached out impatiently. Coins held a special magic for him, even
stronger than the power of silver. He began to fidget impatiently as she poured
them from the box to spread them across the glass surface. She was taking too
much time, her hands were in the way. He wanted to be amongst them, inspecting
and sorting them.
She withdrew, and he began to
enjoy them. They were no very great treasure, some oddments of currency from
trips to a dozen different countries, a few rather worn English silver coins, a
dusting of old threepenny bits, a couple of Victorian farthings. He picked up
an American silver dollar. It was not very valuable, but it was in decent
condition and he did not have that particular year.
“I think I’ll keep that one.”
The woman’s voice broke in
on his thinking. “My husband said it was valuable, and I think it is pretty.”
Daniel looked up at her, and
her eyes were full on his. He felt a surge of desire once again. Perhaps he
wanted the coin, and felt cheated. Perhaps, and it was a strange thought, the
woman wanted to put him by for a day when she would grieve less and need more.
They looked at each other, and their eyes were a meeting, a coming together.
Then she looked down. “Yes, I
think I’ll keep it.” Her voice was thoughtful, as though she were speaking to
herself. She paused. “At least for the time being.”
Later, when she had packed
some of her china and he had paid her, and also pocketed a little plastic bag
for himself, they talked a little in a polite exchange of preparation for his
leaving. Conversation made the woman more animated, and she even laughed at one
point, in a little silvery bell of a sound, her eyes lighting with a spark that
whilst it immediately faded, also painted a future day of renewal.
Daniel rose to leave. He had
an overwhelming urge to take this frailty and sadness and enfold it in his
arms, to infuse the woman with a new zest for living. But he hesitated, and the
moment, if there had been a moment outside of his imagination, passed. It was
time for him to leave. He lingered, reluctant to go, and his lingering passed
on into foolishness.
The woman stood for a moment
at the door to her house, and smiled again. Daniel knew that he must touch her,
even if he made only the most mundane gesture of acquaintance. He held out his
hand, and felt the woman’s fingers warm between his for a moment. Then he
turned, and walked back to his car.