Kate Lawson - Keeping Mum

Trouble was that the night seemed never-ending and full of dreaming and waking and thinking and dreaming some more. Cass’s dreams were long and complex, full of Fiona and Andy and the girl in the market, and some kind of giant fish—possibly beginning with H—flapping about on a roof terrace, along with angels and singing and unseen tensions and hurrying, and hiding and a sense of impending doom; by the time the morning came, Cass was completely exhausted and relieved to get up.

Rolling out of bed, Cass pulled on jeans and a sweater, deciding what she needed was a walk with Buster to clear her head before opening the shop.

Outside, the new day was grey and heavy as an army blanket, but unseasonably warm, so that as Cass walked down High Lane to the river it felt almost clammy.

It was ten by the time Cass opened the shop up, the new day still so overcast that she needed to put all the lights on to shake off the gloom. It didn’t help her mood at all. In the workshop she pulled the dustsheet off the armchair she’d been working on the day before, and took stock of what still needed doing. Cass bought most of her furniture and bric-a-brac in from car boots and at auction, giving things a new lease of life. Sometimes she painted them, other pieces were re-upholstered or just plain old-fashioned restored, giving chairs and tables, beds and bookcases, sofas and sideboards a quirky, idiosyncratic, more contemporary twist, so that everyone from designers through to arty first-time furniture buyers came along to the shop to see what she currently had in stock.

The armchair Cass was working was stripped back to the frame and looked like something you’d find in a skip, although with a bit of TLC it would be just the kind of thing people would want in their home, a handsome feature in heavy corn-coloured linen that just screamed style and luxury.

While she sorted out her tools, Buster settled himself into his basket under the bench and turned his concentration to sleeping, while Mungo the cat curled up on the discarded dustsheet. Hanging on the wall behind the bench in the workshop was a calendar on which Cass had been marking off the days to the All Stars’ concert and tour with big red crosses.

Cass was really looking forward to a little late season sun. There would be dinner and dancing and warm nights sipping cocktails out on the terrace, and the thought of a week of beach life and sunshine lifted her spirits no end. She picked up a little tacking hammer and surveyed the frame of the chair, mentally busy thumbing her way through her wardrobe while her hands worked.

It didn’t look as if she was going to be rushed off her feet, and so Cass pinned up the set list for the concert and started to work her way down through the songs. Buster and the cat studiously ignored her.

Cass liked to practise a little every day even when they didn’t have a concert. When she was alone she’d put a CD of the choir’s current repertoire into her player—Alan recorded all the parts—so Cass sang along as she tapped away at the chair, sang while she replaced the beading, stained and bees-waxed a little mahogany sideboard in the main shop, and sang while she put the undercoat on a little chiffonier that she planned to distress, although Cass had stopped herself humming the tunes under her breath in the street and when there were punters in the shop, because she was conscious that it disturbed people—and there was that whole mad-old-biddy, slippery-slope thing that she sometimes felt herself sitting at the top of.

Cass was halfway through the first set and well into the second verse of Moondance when the shop bell rang.

Buster opened an eye but didn’t bother barking or moving.

‘Some guard dog you turned out to be,’ Cass murmured as she got to her feet. Putting down her hammer, Cass went into the shop, dropping a handful of brass tacks into the pocket of the big canvas apron she was wearing.

‘Hello?’ called a male voice rather tentatively from the front of the shop.

Cass looked at the man for a second, struggling to place his face.

‘Mike,’ he said warmly, heading towards her extending his hand. ‘We met the other night at your mother’s house? Mike? I’m the architect?’

Cass reddened, embarrassed. ‘God of course, I’m so sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘I was miles away—working…’ She didn’t mention the singing, as she indicated the back of the shop with a nod of her head and the last of the tacks cupped in the palm of her hand in case he might need some sort of visual aid. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here,’ she said although, even as she said it, Cass realised it sounded more like, I wasn’t expecting to see you again.

‘Right,’ said Mike. ‘I did ring. I was going to ring again but I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you.’ He tried out a laugh.

And then there was a silence while Cass tried to work out if Mike had dropped by to see her, which was flattering, or whether he was curious about the shop, or had been prompted by Rocco and her mother. It felt awkward, and Cass was just wondering what she should say next when Mike said, ‘Actually, I’m looking for a dresser and your mum said this was a good place to start. You’ve got some lovely stuff in here—apparently.’ His gaze roamed around the shop’s interior. ‘She’s right, it is an Aladdin’s cave.’

‘You could say that. Sorry I didn’t return your call.’ Cass rummaged through various excuses that would be mutually painless. ‘I’ve been up to my eyes with the concert and the trip.’

Mike nodded.

‘I’ve got a couple of dressers in at the moment, one’s out the back in the store, that’s quite nice, small, pine, probably turn of the last century, classic two-drawer two-cupboard. Or I’ve got a really lovely early Victorian one if you’ve got the room. It’s Irish, very rustic and huge.’ She guided him back into the shop, where one wall was dominated by a dresser that was nearly eight feet long and almost as tall, currently decked out with various bits of blue and white china.

‘Wow, that is amazing,’ said Mike appreciatively, running his hands over the deep wooden dresser top that was cut from one great plank of timber. The front edge was uneven where it followed the profile of the tree, and the wood itself had aged down to a rich, dark ginger; it showed signs of a combination of long use and great care.

‘It’s one of a kind.’

Mike nodded and stood back to take it in. ‘Nice…’

‘But a little too big for what you had in mind?’ suggested Cass.

‘No, actually not at all,’ he said, still looking it over. ‘I’ve just finished converting an old chapel in Steepleton and it would look great in there. I’ve got a really nice kitchen—I’m like your mother, I love to cook.’ As he bent down to open the row of doors he revealed a neatly combed-over bald patch, confirming her suspicions that he was nothing like her mother. ‘Actually, it would be perfect. Assuming we could come to an agreement about price.’

Cass watched him thoughtfully as he worked his hand and eye over the old wood. The dresser was one of those things she loved but hadn’t been able to shift. Handmade by an unknown craftsman, it was beautiful if somewhat quirky, with oversized half-moon metal handles and shelves with fronts that followed the shape of the tree the plank was cut from rather than being squared off. Mike picked up the price tag, a little white parcel label tucked discreetly through one of the handles.

‘Will you take an offer?’

Cass considered it for a moment.

‘What I mean is, is this your best price?’

‘It is if you want me to arrange to have it delivered, it is. It weighs a ton,’ Cass said.