Antique Dust by Robert Westall

Author:Robert Westall [Westall, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2015-03-02T05:00:00+00:00

The Dumbledore

The 1960s were a restless time for me. The trade went from bad to worse. The Americans, Dutch, Germans came in like locusts, buying up everything in sight. People like Clocky Wat­son threw it to them by the armful, the crateful, the container-­load. Then when the cupboard became bare, people like Clocky invented helpful new categories: Victoriana; bric-à-brac. They even renamed 1920s tat ‘art deco’.

In 1960, the poorest thing in my shop was a Regency wine-table, faded, but good value at ten pounds. In 1970, the worst thing was an Elvis Presley EP, in a greasy thumb-marked sleeve. That was ten pounds, too. If there are fools who’ll pay . . .

My marriage changed, too. Dorinda inherited her father’s estate, and we moved out to Barlborough. From being a nice relaxed rich girl, she was transformed overnight into a fully paid-up member of the landed gentry: took to wellies and quilted jackets, and talked endlessly about the cost-­effective­ness of the home farm. Clocky Watson wasn’t the only one who could’ve bought me up ten times over.

I worked like hell to make my way as a dealer. When we moved to Barlborough, I turned nearly every room in my old place over to antiques: good antiques. I could afford a full-time girl assistant. I was getting a name.

None of this impressed Dorinda. She allowed that I had business sense; she could use my help full-time with the estate. She wondered out loud at parties whether it was worthwhile my keeping on the shop. After all, we weren’t pushed for pennies, and the shop kept me away from the children so much while they were growing up.

Once, at a party, I heard Lady Daresbury say, ‘Dorinda’s husband will get you a grandfather-clock. Such an astute little man, with a good eye.’

I struggled mightily to be more than Dorinda’s husband. I did absurd things, like keeping one room at the shop furnished as a bedroom/office. Dorinda noticed, with a cocked eyebrow, but said nothing. She’d become very territorial herself; understood the need for territory in me. Twice, when we’d had really bad rows, I spent the night there.

But my main cure, in those restless years, when it all got too much, was to get into the Merc and drive into East Anglia. Looking for antiques, I said, and I always brought good stuff back. I had a lot of contacts there, and the farmers didn’t know the value of what they had. You could get a Georgian dining-table and six chairs with carver for the price of the new vinyl three-piece the farmer’s wife had her eye on in Downham Market.

But East Anglia meant more than that to me. I never took that turn beyond Melton Mowbray, into the Vale of Catmose, without my heart lifting. The sweeping fields of green corn and yellow mustard, lifting up into the sky, made me think irresistibly of flying. Then I’d pull off on to one of the disused airfields, and walk down the broad, cracked, weed-speckled runway, and feel free.

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