Jenni Keer - The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows

‘No, he’s excelled himself with this one. Locked himself in the men’s toilet cubicle and managed to pull the handle off completely. Apparently he’s been in there nearly two hours. Poor bloke is getting a bit agitated,’ the porter explained.

Johnny let out a long sigh. ‘I know Theodore is terribly fond of him, and it’s largely why I feel obliged to keep him on, but really? He should have retired years ago. Why work here when he could be at home, enjoying his retirement, pottering about the garden, and playing bowls? – or whatever it is old people do.’

What business the staffing of the auction house was to Theodore, Maisie couldn’t possibly imagine and hoped Johnny’s boyfriend wasn’t the sort of person who knew nothing about the business but still waggled his oar about in the company waters as he rowed past.

‘Perhaps Arthur’s wife doesn’t want him under her feet all day?’ ventured the accounts lady.

‘I fear the poor woman more likely craves respite from his incessant chatter,’ said Johnny.

Or he needs the money, thought Maisie, rather more charitably than the rest, wondering how no one, including her, had missed the old man for two hours.

Johnny, Maisie and the porter headed to the gents’, a separate brick building with a corrugated metal roof and a brown tile-effect linoleum floor – draughty but functional. A lick of paint and a big mirror would brighten the place up a bit. Perhaps she’d mention it to Johnny later, although she knew she was volunteering herself for another job.

‘I’m a daft old bugger. The lock jammed. I panicked, used too much force and the knob came off in my hand, but you can take all associated costs out of my wages and dock the two hours’ pay when I wasn’t working. I don’t want to cost the company money.’ His disembodied voice floated over the cubicle, only a pair of scuffed brown Chelsea boots visible under the door.

‘Applying that logic, he’d earn about four pounds fifty a week,’ the porter mumbled.

‘Is the lock screwed to the door?’ Maisie called, trying to find a practical solution to the situation as fast as possible.

‘Well now, let me see … Yes, little cross-head screws,’ came the reply.

‘I’ll grab a Phillips,’ Beardy Man offered and disappeared, returning with the appropriate screwdriver and thrusting it under the gap below the door.

After much huffing and tutting, it became obvious Arthur couldn’t undo the screws with his arthritic hands.

‘That’s it,’ Maisie announced. ‘I’m going over the top. Someone give me a leg up. Stand back, Arthur. I’m coming in.’

‘Oh, dah-ling, you aren’t serious,’ said Johnny. And then another stage whisper: ‘You don’t know what you are going to find …’

She glared at him and he looked slightly abashed, clasping both hands together and bending forward to help her mount the cubicle door by way of an apology.

One exuberant heave and she was half over the top. She leaned forward, shifting her centre of gravity to help propel herself forward. As her legs lifted, her floaty wool skirt slid towards her waist and revealed her sturdy underwear. Was it better or worse, she wondered for that suspended moment, that she was wearing tights?

‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Johnny from the other side, as her kicking legs disappeared over the top. ‘Look away, people. Preserve the dignity of this fair maiden.’ She fell awkwardly to the floor, next to a remorseful Arthur, sitting on the closed lavatory seat, with his head in his hands.

Two minutes later and she’d liberated the pair of them to embarrassing whoops from the porter.

‘Would one of you take the dear fellow to the back office? There’s a comfortable old armchair in the corner somewhere, under a pile of coats. Someone should sit with him for a while and revive his flagging spirits,’ Johnny said.

‘I’ll take him,’ volunteered Maisie. ‘Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you a cup of tea. You could do with one, I imagine.’

Arthur looked over to his rescuer and smiled a watery smile.

‘I’m a silly old fool, aren’t I? Don’t know what my Pam will say.’

‘Nonsense,’ Maisie said. ‘It could have happened to anyone.’

‘Here’s the camera I was talking about.’ Johnny handed Maisie a large, black digital camera. ‘But you might prefer your i-Thingy to upload pictures. A selection of photographs for the catalogue, focusing on our more lucrative items, if you would be so kind.’

‘Oh – me? Right.’ Maisie was hoping to crack on with updating the website. There wasn’t even a section detailing staff members – a must if they wanted to create a friendly, family feel about the business.

‘Everyone else is so dreadfully busy today. It won’t cause you an unnecessary degree of inconvenience, will it? The lot numbers are already in place, so all you have to do is fly around the saleroom with the speed of Hermes and take some photos of the more interesting pieces. It should be a breeze for someone as capable as your good self.’ Johnny’s round face broke into a charming smile and his fluffy eyebrows gave a little jump. Flatterer, thought Maisie – feeling suitably flattered.

‘I mustn’t linger, for I have a probate valuation in Norwich shortly. Deaths and doddery old dears,’ he joked. ‘Families can’t cope with a lifetime of accumulated possessions and are happy for us to dispose of it all – forever hoping there is an undiscovered masterpiece in the attic or some scandalous and valuable correspondence from an illustrious historical figure deposited in the secret drawer of a roll-top desk.’

‘And is there, ever?’ she asked. ‘A hidden gem that turns around the fortunes of the family?’

‘Closest we ever came was a little Constable sketch. Fetched thousands. The family were so delighted they quite forgot to grieve.’ He winked and slid a gold pocket watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and glanced at it. ‘But I must away – the traffic can be such a bore.’ He tugged on an outsized dark blue Barbour wax jacket, flung the tasselled end of a banana-yellow silk scarf over his shoulder and floated towards the door like an enormous and colourful hot air balloon.

‘And you’re still okay with me rearranging things, to get them looking their best?’ Maisie asked. She’d been itching to play about with the salerooms and put her marketing experience into practice, but was conscious of overstepping the mark.

‘Absolutely, dah-ling. I told you at the interview, you have carte blanche. We are so terribly behind the times. It’s why you got the job. I knew deep in my very soul you would be the restorative tonic this business needs.’

Heaving back the huge door to the first saleroom, Maisie squinted to adjust to the dim interior. The day was sunny and bright but, typical of February, the underlying temperatures were colder than the bottom drawer of a freezer in the Arctic. There was a dusty smell, not unpleasant and reminiscent of old hymn books, the church feel accentuated by the loftiness of the barn ceiling and bare walls. Her eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness and then she walked over to the light switches, allowing the artificial blue-white light to invade the space.

Remembering her lesson from Johnny on how to handle the items (ironically, not by the handle) she took several photographs, marking each item off on the sheet as she did so.

She was halfway down the second aisle when a shiver of something rippled through her. The sensation came upon her so decidedly that she almost stopped mid-step. Her skin danced as a thousand tiny pinpricks exploded over her arms. It was a feeling she’d experienced many years before and one she’d all but forgotten about. Bending down, she pulled out a box of household objects from under a trestle table, the prickles moving up her arms like an army of inchworms. As she rifled through the mismatched saucers and dated kitchen paraphernalia, something at the bottom caught her eye and her heart gave a funny little jolt of recognition. It was a teapot, nestled between a yellow plastic colander and a cake tin – and one that was startlingly familiar.