Ring of Guilt (7 page)

I was only behind the counter because Mrs Walker had phoned to say she was trapped in an almighty traffic jam on the M20, and because I'd sent Griff down to our doctor for his repeat prescription. It was nice gentle exercise and very good for him. Plus he got to talk with all our fellow villagers and topped up his gossip levels.

‘I told you, you're wasting your time as a mere shop assistant,' Sanditon greeted me.

‘Good morning, Mr Sanditon,' I said, since Griff had told me never to be rude unless I could land a really good insult. ‘Ah, this is the Worcester, is it?'

I spread the extra thick baize on the counter. In the interests of our insurance, I didn't offer to unwrap the vase myself.

At last it stood there in all its glory. About thirty-five centimetres high, from the bottom of its little gilded paw feet to the gilded rim. As lovely as the original craftsmen and artists had left it. Almost. Poor smashed dolphin. He put down an envelope beside it, presumably with the handle shards in it.

He broke the silence. ‘It's one of a pair, as I'm sure you'd guess.'

I whistled. Like those little Ruskin bowls, together they'd be worth much more than as two separate items.

‘In that case I could really do with seeing its twin to make sure I get the dimensions spot on.' He did not respond. ‘May I?' I picked it up and turned it in my hands. I wasn't just looking to see if I could repair it, I was checking for other damage I might later be accused of – it wouldn't be the first time. At last I put it down and pointed. ‘You realize there's a fleck of marbling missing just under the rim?'

He stared, and I hunted for a really good word Griff had taught me. Aghast, that was it.

‘Don't worry. The work of minutes rather than hours,' I said. Then I turned my attention to the site of the damage. I didn't touch: I didn't want to do anything that might make the damage worse or harder to repair. When I actually got round to the work, I'd wear fine surgeon's gloves. The pieces in the envelope were as bad as he'd said, and might well end up in the bin. Trying to sound reassuring, I said, ‘I shall want to tackle this slowly, so the repair's absolutely seamless. An extra layer every day. However urgent it is, I can't do it tonight and give it back tomorrow. If you want that, find some other restorer.' I looked him straight in the eye.

When he wasn't looking so full of himself, and managed a bite of the lower lip, he looked altogether more human. Like a little boy caught nicking a couple of Mars bars, actually.

‘You did this, didn't you? Not a client?' I must have sounded like his mum. No need to wait for an answer. ‘No wonder you want a speedy job. But you have to promise me – absolutely promise – you'll tell whoever owns it what you've done. Because I've got my reputation, same as you've got yours.'

‘Very well.'

‘Maybe the fee I charge –'
fee
always sounded pretty professional, I thought – ‘will convince them you've done your best. So when I print the invoice for you and your insurance company, I'll do a copy for them – so they can't claim on theirs, of course,' I added with a grin. You'd be amazed how people try to diddle anonymous companies in ways they wouldn't dream of if it was the guy next door.

‘How long will it take?' he asked humbly.

‘Allow a fortnight. That's the best I can offer. And I really ought to have the other in the pair. No? I shall just have to hope the both handles are exactly the same.'

‘I'll check with a micrometer and let you know. You're sure you can do it?'

‘As sure as I can be. But it has to be done at my own pace.'

‘Thank you,' he said with something of a sigh. ‘I take it you don't work here?'

‘My workroom's in our cottage.' I nodded across the courtyard.

‘So it had better travel in style.' He touched the vase and its box. ‘Shall you do the honours or shall I?'

‘Still your baby,' I said, letting him wrap the vase as tenderly as if it were really an infant. ‘Have you come far?' I added chattily, as he swathed it in bubble wrap and laid it on little pads of scrunched up tissue.

‘Wellington.'

Where the hell was that? It wouldn't be the New Zealand one, would it? Or was it the one we'd once been to a fair at and Griff had pointed out a shop sign – the Wellington Boot Company – in Somerset, I think? And wasn't there one in Shropshire? None of them close.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise that he'd come so far – from wherever it was.

‘I drove overnight,' he said. ‘I had this terror of an M25 pile-up.'

At this point Mrs Walker came trudging in, as if she'd journeyed from John O'Groats. By foot. ‘M25? You're quite right. I've just been in this incredible M20 jam. I must have sat there an hour, seeing the junction I needed but not being able to get to it. And men peeing by the roadside and everything. You'd think they'd use a bottle, for goodness' sake,' she said, muscling in on the conversation as she always did, poor woman. One day I'd buy her a parrot to talk to – except she'd have to bring it with her, since it wouldn't be fair to leave it alone all day. No, not a good idea. ‘Do you mind if I get the kettle on? Or . . .'

‘Of course not. And Griff's topped up the biscuit barrel – the more you have the less for him. No, fewer,' I corrected myself. ‘I was just going to show Mr Sanditon where I work, so don't worry about us. After you,' I said, ushering him out of the back door and across the courtyard garden into our cottage.

‘Miss Bates,' he breathed as I closed the door behind us.

‘So I've always thought, and would have sacked her,' Griff said, standing at the table unpacking the groceries he'd bought en route, ‘only Lina said she owed her a debt of gratitude and you'd be surprised how well she gets on with our customers.'

‘Griffith Tripp,' I said politely. ‘Harvey Sanditon. I'll take that straight up to my work room, Mr Sanditon, as I said.' I held out my hands for the box.

He didn't let go. ‘May I see it?'

Weird. But then, that was what I'd said to Mrs Walker.

‘If you want.' It made no difference to me either way. There was never any need to apologize for its being untidy, for instance, because I always left it as immaculate as I could, so I could walk in at any time and start on the work in progress. Everything else was stacked neatly on shelves. I led the way upstairs, the vase in its box still in his hands.

‘In here.' All the lights focused on the table came on at once.

‘Good lord! It looks like an operating theatre.'

‘Yes, a fine arts version of
Casualty
!' I grinned at him, liking him more because we'd had the same idea. ‘Best put the patient on the operating table then.'

He unwrapped the vase as carefully as he'd packed it and placed it in the middle. He gave a rueful smile. ‘It's lovely now, even with only one handle.'

I nodded happily. Soon it would be utterly beautiful.

‘I've never before had a guest who fell asleep at our table, my love,' Griff said, as we waved Harvey Sanditon on his way. ‘Remarkable.'

I thought of his half hour doze. ‘Not really. Apparently he drove down overnight.'

‘And presumably intended to make the return journey immediately. What a good job we offered him coffee.'

‘And a good job we could offer him those cup cakes. What did you think you were doing, buying all those, Griff? You know you're not supposed to eat sugary things, and those are diabetes on a plate . . .'

This time, I dreamt I got out of the van and tried to lift the body. But his arm turned into a funny little dolphin and shattered as I dropped it.

W
ith such an important piece of restoration work on my hands, not to mention all the other precious things I needed to reunite with their owners, I didn't argue when Griff said he'd go to the next house clearance auction by himself. It was only in Sandwich, so he didn't have too far to drive.

Mrs Walker would be in sole charge of the shop, I told her. Even if someone actually asked for me, I mustn't be disturbed, I insisted.

‘I understand – it's like exam marking,' she agreed, nodding. ‘But you won't work too long, will you, or you'll lose concentration. A break – not that I should use that word, in the circumstances – every half hour.'

With a grin at her little joke I nodded. Every five minutes, more like. Just to relax the hands and the neck. Just in case I really could use the original fragments, I put them on my table and arranged them. As far as I could tell there was nothing missing, but there'd be more glue than china, with the risk of visible joins. Griff had been right to say making a new handle from scratch would be easier than trying to patch together the broken one. As I picked the fragments over, however, I found something interesting – evidence of two bad cracks. So perhaps it wasn't altogether Sanditon's fault.

Using the other handle, plus Sanditon's emailed details of the other vase, I got the template as accurate as I could, every measurement verified with calipers. Then I mixed the first quantity of epoxy resin putty. I'd leave it a couple of hours to harden very slightly – I'd still have an hour before it became too hard to work. Time for a lunch break, then. I popped into the shop to join Mrs Walker for a sandwich and a cup of tea and with a couple of orders from our website for her to attend to: she'd pack the items, and nip down to the post office early enough to ensure they arrived next day.

And then it was back to my workroom. Pure pleasure. First I rolled the epoxy resin putty into a long thin sausage, which I formed as closely as I could to the template. Then I stood the vase in a sand box, to make it absolutely stable, then put a lump of plastic modelling clay in place. This would support the new handle, which I attached to the broken edges of the vase with some epoxy resin adhesive, with a little filling powder added. There. I stepped back to look at it. Things were going well.

Griff came back at four, with a couple of cardboard boxes for us to open and exclaim over together. He called Mrs Walker over from the shop – it was pretty well closing time – so she could share the treat.

He regaled us with the gossip – who'd been outbid, who'd paid through the nose for rubbish. ‘And of course Titus Oates sends his love, my sweet one,' he added.

‘I'm sure you sent mine,' I replied, equally straight-faced.

‘Of course. Tell me, do you know anything of Dilly Pargetter's background? She sells often deeply regrettable tat she glamorizes with the description
costume jewellery
,' he explained to Mrs Walker.

I scratched my head. ‘Nothing at all. Should I?'

‘I don't think so. I only registered her because she sold you that dress ring – the one with pretty beads,' he added. Clearly there were some things he preferred Mrs Walker not to know.

I nodded.

‘She was there today, scooping up Woolworths rubbish as if she'd bid for the Crown Jewels. It wasn't her dreadful taste I noticed, but her black eye. And I fancy she was short of a tooth.'

‘An accident?' I asked sharply, with a particularly nasty vibe I couldn't begin to explain.

‘Who knows? She'd done her best with concealer, but there was no disguising the swellings. The funny thing was she kept on looking at me, as if there was something she wanted to say. I gave her one or two of my encouraging smiles, but I must have lost my touch. She obviously took them for bared fangs, and took off pretty sharply at the end of the sale.'

‘Titus would have known what was up,' I declared.

‘Of course he would,' Griff agreed. ‘But he didn't choose to entrust me with whatever secrets he knew. Here – I bought these for the village hall: I know they're running short.' He produced a load of thick Duraflex tumblers. ‘I don't know that it's even worth unpacking them,' he added, as Mrs Walker reached out tumbler after tumbler.

‘I'll give them a good wash before you take them over,' she said. Then she took what looked like another, rather taller drinking glass from the same box. She rubbed it with a scrap of newspaper, and six panels appeared. Her eyes and mouth rounded and she put it down rather too sharply on the table. ‘Is that . . . no, it can't be . . . Is it—? No, surely not.'

‘My goodness,' Griff said, beaming with pleasure. ‘Lalique, if I'm any judge. Well done, dear lady. Is it signed?'

She picked it up and looked at the base. ‘R. Lalique.' She grabbed some kitchen towel and rubbed some of the dirt off. ‘Look at these pretty blue figures. Heavens!'

‘Who says you're not a divvy, Griff?' I chipped in.

‘I actually was after the glasses, you know. May I look?' He turned the pretty goblet in his hands. ‘It's a mite out of our period, of course.'

Mrs Walker responded with a grin of her own. ‘One of our regulars collects glass. Do you think I should phone her?'

‘Let me do my homework first, dear lady. I'd hate to overcharge her. Or worse still,' he added, apparently joking but, knowing him, dead serious, ‘undercharge her . . .'

Griff tried to shoo me back upstairs to continue work on Sanditon's vase, but I refused to be shooed. The news about poor Dilly troubled me in a way I couldn't understand. I could understand anyone wanting to talk to Griff – the most approachable, kindest soul in the world – but why should she change her mind?

Griff and I had joked about Titus knowing everything. Maybe I should phone him. This wasn't just the ordinary, everyday thing you'd think. Titus objected to being phoned from landlines, for a start, though I'd tried to point out that mobile phone records were just as accessible to people who might want to sniff round. Actually he objected to being phoned at all. It was his pre . . . prerequ . . . pre-something or other, anyway, to contact other people. Prerogative? Is that it?