Jenni Keer - The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows

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 feel for the place. With an evil north-westerly wind slicing across the forecourt every time she ventured between the salerooms and the offices, bloody freezing was her overriding feeling. Now she understood why so many of the staff wandered around in fingerless gloves and quilted jackets. But somehow even this lifted her spirits. How much more invigorating than sitting at a desk all day, trying to remember to get up and move every half an hour to encourage blood flow and reduce eye strain.

She realised now that even though she’d worked in an office full of people at Wickerman’s, there had been a sense of isolation. Tied to a desk, each person in their own little computer-centric bubble, interaction was sparse. The auction house by comparison was a bustling and varied working environment.

Maisie quickly settled into the weekly routine. Monday, the public dropped off items for sale. Tuesday and Wednesday Johnny dealt with private appointments or left the site to oversee probate valuations. Thursday was a frantic collation of the lots and production of the catalogue – all ready for the sale on Friday. People were invited to view Thursday evening or early Friday morning. No one, with the possible exception of Arthur, paused for breath. And then on Monday, the whole cycle started again.

Maisie was given a desk and a computer in the back office with Johnny and, in amongst the clutter, she created an oasis of calm and order. By the second week, she was keen to put her marketing skills to good use, and her priority was to tackle the dated brand. Simple was the way to go, with a clean GA monogram and a coffee, aqua and teal palette of colours.

‘Oh, you are an absolute darling of the highest magnitude,’ Johnny gushed, resplendent in a double-breasted suit of British racing green, with a cheeky silk handkerchief poking out the left breast pocket. They were gathered in the front office-cum-reception – Maisie showing everyone the new logo and gauging opinion.

‘Ladies, what do we think? I value and indeed actively solicit everyone’s input.’ Johnny turned to Maisie. ‘They are, after all, the frantically paddling legs under the surface of the water, whilst we glide along like the serene and elegant swans that we are. Ella, stop hiding behind the computer screen. Do you not agree Maisie has captured the very essence of Gildersleeve’s? Sophisticated and professional?’

The poor girl coloured up faster than a halogen hob and although Maisie liked the exuberant Johnny enormously, sensitivity and tact were not his forte. She threw what she hoped was a conciliatory smile across the office but the girl didn’t raise her eyes and instead chewed nervously on her bottom lip, reluctant to leave her desk. The glossy mahogany curtain of hair that covered the left side of her delicate face swished as she gave a brief nod.

‘Arthur’s had a slight accident.’ The bearded porter ambled into the reception and Maisie immediately raised a concerned head.

‘What is it this time?’ Johnny sighed. ‘Ran over a customer’s foot with the sack barrow? Dropped a box of crystal glasses? Or got his wretched foot caught in the storm drain again ?’