to go ahead, especially if it's going to change, say, the price of Impressionist paintings or early New England walnut furniture or Hepplewhite items.
I put Olive's pendant in my pocket and forgot about it.
For peace of mind, I paused to watch the Women's Institute making cakes. They're good at it. Occasionally I help out, shifting tables, lugging chairs. They give me edibles that have been damaged in transit, and a cuppa. I sat on the grass watching and thinking. I'd seen Susanne Eggers and Consul Sommon leaving my cottage. Ex-spouses, who'd left evidence of passion.
I reflected. Are we really the people we say we are?
We're a rotten species. Yet every so often something restores your faith, makes you think we're not so bad after all. Like the great Cash Dispenser Bonanza. True story, incidentally:
It happened just before the Millennium celebrations. A bloke rushed into a pub calling,
'Free money! Free money!'
Folk thought, hello, old George has been at the ale again, and continued chatting, drinking.
Except it was true.
Across the dark street, nine o'clock at night, a bank's cash machine inexplicably started giving out twice what you asked for, and debiting your account with half. The crowd flowed across the road to examine this curious phenomenon. Jubilation!
Within seconds an orderly queue formed. One bloke even took charge, calling out,
'Three goes only, please. Then return to the back of the queue. Keep in line. Please don't obstruct the pavement...' And would you believe, a police motor cruised by. The bobby asked was everything in order. 'Yes, thanks, constable,' the line replied, party hats at rakish angles, blowing razzers and laughing merrily. 'Happy New Year,' the bobbies said, driving off. The revellers replied, 'Thanks, lads, and the same to you!'
There was no riot. No shoving, no weapons, just people taking their turn with lots of,
'No, please go ahead, mate. I've already had a go,' and all that. There, in rain-sodden northern England, order ruled until the machine gasped out its last note, when the crowd returned to their wassailing.
Okay, people in effect robbed the bank. But the point is valid: people's good manners withstood the severest test of all, which is unbridled greed gratified free of charge.
Hearing of the incident warmed the cockles of my heart.
When you are feeling down, though, your sourest convictions are sometimes confirmed.
Like Rita. She's a legend in the Eastern Hundreds. Rita was a restless lady. I knew her distantly. She was alluring, evidently very rich. I'd have loved her given half a chance.
She got through four husbands, accumulating investments. The trouble was, every penny was in her baby granddaughter's name.
Came the day when the world's watch collectors were stunned by the announcement that a Supercomplication was on sale. Rita snapped into action, announced that she was going to buy it for her baby granddaughter. We talked of nothing else for weeks.
Antique dealers even applauded her as she swanned round. Rita was going for the Big One!
The Supercomplication?
Back in 1933, a firm called Patek Philippe in Switzerland made watches. Nothing new.
Two American watch collectors were rivals. Henry Graves ran a bank, Mr Packard –that one – made cars. Being American, they were multimillionaires. Obligingly the Swiss watchmakers set to, turning out ever more intricate and complicated watches to please the two friends. Until 1933, when the Henry Graves Supercomplication hit the road. It was almost impossibly refined: handcrafted, gold, nearly a thousand parts, it eclipsed all timepieces. It even gauged the wind, tides, moons. Clearly the last word. The rival Yanks called time, as it were.
This brilliant instrument was Rita's focus. She would buy the 1933 Patek Supercomplication for her baby granddaughter, who would be set up for life! Everybody loved Rita's devotion! The baby's trust funds were mobilized. Came the day when Rita embarked for the exciting Sotheby's sale amid an adoring crowd. I went to see her off on the London train, calling 'Good luck, love!' like the rest of the duckeggs. Jessica from Trinity Street's Antiques Nookery lit candles for Rita's success in Lion Walk church.
Rita reached London with her sack of money.
And kept going. And vanished.
That was the last anybody saw of Rita or the money. She never bid at the auction. She now lives with swarthy youths in Marbella, or on some Greek island, or Bali.
Rumours vary. Jessica angrily sticks pins in a Rita doll every Lady Day. I organized a whip-round for her granddaughter, who is six now. Her parents run a garden centre out on the Ipswich road, struggling to make ends meet.
The lesson is that we're a rotten species.
Antiques make crooks of us all. Is it the notion of something for nothing? My erstwhile lady Maya, who sells antique cosmetic potions in the Arcade, says it's the terror of thinking that some worthless trinket – maybe an ordinary dress ring discovered on pantomime fripperies, or that ugly brooch from Auntie Mabel's bequest – will suddenly turn out to be a priceless heirloom. We argue about this. She says it's the risk of nearly having chucked out Grampa's valuable old rocking chair, or given Auntie Edith's dull old clip-on to some jumble sale, that makes everybody desperate. Calamity breathtakingly avoided, and the relief that cascade of money finally brings, is the cause of the joys and murders. 'It's like sexual love,' Maya says repeatedly. 'Bliss, ecstasy, triumph, disaster.'
Maybe she's right. I dunno.
Vestry was the last antique dealer to die in odd circumstances. Rio Dauntless had reminded me.
