SERIAL Going, Going, Gone by Linda Lewis
In an auction house like this, you never knew who would walk through the doors . . .
HOW things had changed in the last 42 years, Martin thought. He’d started off as a trainee porter at King’s Road Auctions; now he was fifty-nine years old and their most senior auctioneer.
He’d never have dreamed of appearing on TV, let alone having a starring role in “Trash Or Treasure”.
He surveyed the crowded hall, usually home to conferences and weddings. King’s Road couldn’t have afforded to hire such a big venue. They carried out valuations in people’s homes or on site.
When the programme idea had been proposed, he’d wondered if enough people would come to the valuation day, but he needn’t have worried. Thanks to the presence of the television crew, the place was buzzing. There were lights and cameras everywhere as technicians and lighting people scurried hither and thither.
When he’d first joined King’s Road at the age of seventeen, the internet hadn’t been invented and there were no mobile phones. The only television programme that had mentioned auctions was the “Antiques Roadshow”.
Nowadays collectibles were all over the television channels, so everyone knew something about them. Or thought they did.
Many auctioneers hated programmes like “Flog It!” and “Bargain Hunt”, but Martin rather liked them. He’d spent over 40 years in the trade and was aware he still knew very little. The subject was so large, and getting bigger all the time.
He smiled ruefully. Who would ever have imagined that any furniture from the Seventies would be worth anything? Some of it was already very collectible.
Many things hadn’t changed. King’s Road still bore the same look: tired and a little shabby. Other auction houses had modernised, showing each lot on big screens, but King’s Road still looked the same as it had when he’d first joined.
As the years passed and he gained experience, he’d had plenty of opportunities to move, including an offer from one of the big names, based in London, but his heart belonged in Devon.
He’d never get to bring the gavel down on a Van Gogh worth millions of pounds, but he had no complaints.
By the time he finished his coffee and headed back to his post, the queue had doubled in length. He needn’t have worried about the turnout. The large hall was practically bursting at the seams.
“What do you have for me today?” he asked the next couple as they emptied the contents of a carrier bag on to the table.
The man, who Martin guessed was in his sixties, glanced at his wife.
“We weren’t sure about getting rid of any of these, were we, Iris? But . . .” His
shrug said it all.
That they were tight for money was clear from their clothes; good quality but well worn.
As each item appeared, Martin’s smile grew strained. So far, they’d be lucky to get five pounds for the lot. Then he saw something that made his smile real. A puppet.
“This is interesting. Do you still have the box?”
The woman shook her head.
“Not for this one.” “We do for some of the others,” the man said. “They belong to our granddaughter, Katie.”
Martin turned the puppet over and inspected it. It was a dog, wearing a frock and a green cap.
“This is a Pelham puppet. They were very popular in the Fifties and Sixties. Many children had them, me included. I used to put on plays for my parents.”
Martin smiled at the memory. His plays had mostly involved lost dogs or visits to his favourite place – the zoo – but his parents had never complained.
“There were lots of different kinds, some more popular than others. The older wooden puppets are usually worth more. The later ones have more plastic parts and were produced in their thousands.”
“Does that mean they’re worthless?” the woman asked.
“It’s all about the condition and the rarity.” Martin picked up the dog again. “Take this little dachshund. It could fetch a hundred pounds at auction. He’d be worth more if he hadn’t been played with.
“The top collectors want puppets that look as though they’ve never been taken out of their boxes.”
“I can’t see the point of that,” Frank said. “They’re toys. Toys are meant to be played with.”
“I agree,” Martin said. “You’d think they’d be worth more if they’ve been loved.”
He put the dog down and picked up the second puppet, a black and white cat.
“This one, even with its original box, would only be worth, say, twenty pounds.” He noticed the couple exchange glances. “How many puppets do you have?”
“A dozen at least. Possibly more.”
Martin made a note on his pad.
“They’d make a great spot on the show. Would you be happy to be filmed?”
Iris looked at her husband, who nodded.
“We’d love that. We’re huge fans of the show.”
“Great. If you can come back later with some of the others, we’ll do the filming then.” Martin explained how it would work. “You need to pretend we’ve never met and that you didn’t know what the puppets were worth.”
He felt a warm glow as the couple walked away, their heads close together as they talked about being on the telly. Giving people good news was one of the reasons he loved his job.
The next 20 people brought no real surprises. Cheap vases; ornaments that had been mass produced in China; rings that were only worth scrap value. When he checked his watch, it was ten past one. He could take his lunch now or do one more.
Before he reached a decision the next person in the queue, a smartly dressed woman somewhere in her fifties, he guessed, had already sat down.
She unwrapped a small watercolour and placed it on the table.
Ben walked over to a man struggling to get an ornate table through the door.
“Let me give you a hand with that.”
He was enjoying himself. He had only taken the junior porter’s job because his mother had been giving him a hard time, but it was working out well.
The days before an auction flew by as a constant stream of items came through the door. Everything needed to be logged in, checked, inspected and valued, if it hadn’t already been. Then everything needed to be sorted and put on display.
It was hard work, but Ben enjoyed it so much, it hardly felt like working.
It was the auction days Ben loved best. There was something about the atmosphere as the auctioneer took the stand.
As the bids rose in value you could feel the tension, even when the final sale price was less than £100.
Martin, the lead auctioneer, was so good at his job he never missed a bid. It was a job Ben dreamed of doing, but it would take years before he’d have a chance to make that dream come true.
OK, it wasn’t Sotheby’s. The local dealers sifted the valuable items out before bringing anything to King’s Road. But they didn’t always spot everything. Ben had already picked up a lot of knowledge as well as the odd bargain.
Today, he was in the town hall, helping the public carry in their valuables. There were TV cameras everywhere. He’d already been filmed a couple of times, helping people with larger items.
He grinned. Mum was going to love watching him on TV.
“We need to speak to Katie about the puppets,” Frank said. “I’ll get the rest of them down and make some tea. Hopefully, she’ll be back before we need to return to the hall.”
“Thanks, love,” Iris replied as she sank into her favourite chair.
Frank knew she worried about their granddaughter. Katie wasn’t a bad kid, but since she’d turned sixteen things had changed. She talked about leaving school at the end of the term, with no idea of what she wanted to do.
She’d been ten when her father had packed his bags and left. At first he’d kept in touch, then it was just birthdays and Christmas before eventually dwindling away to nothing. Now they hadn’t heard a word from him for three years.
Frank sighed. Katie’s father didn’t even know that his ex-wife had died and that Katie had moved in with them. They’d tried to find him, but he’d moved so many times, it had proved impossible.
If he were honest, Frank was almost happy about that – he’d never liked the man. But Iris saw the good in everyone, which was just one of the many reasons he loved her so much.
The front door slammed and familiar footsteps clumped up the stairs.
Not even a greeting, Frank thought. He nodded towards the hallway.
“Katie’s home. Do you think she got the job?” Iris shook her head. “I shouldn’t think so. I mean, I love her to bits, but would you employ her?”
Frank didn’t reply. Katie seemed to go out of her way to look unappealing. It wasn’t just the piercings; her clothes were a mismatch of styles and almost always black.
But it was the sullen look on her face that he found most distressing.
“I wish she’d make more of an effort,” Iris said at last. “She’s got a good brain. She could go to college; do something. There are so many opportunities these days. I hate to watch her wasting her life.”
Frank sat beside Iris and slipped an arm round her shoulders.
“Try not to fret. It’ll turn out all right in the end.”
Now wasn’t the time to tell Iris his suspicions. The odd fiver here, a ten-pound note there. Unless he was very much mistaken, Katie was stealing money.
Katie wasn’t bad, but since she’d turned sixteen things had changed
Martin recognised the style immediately. He picked the painting up, checked the signature,
then sat back and smiled.
“Is it valuable?” the woman asked eagerly, then reddened. “Sorry. I’m Rachel Matthews. My sister married an American eight years ago and moved to Chicago. I’d love to visit her, then spend a couple of days in New York.”
She looked at Martin. “Do you know who it’s by?”
“Yes. Alfred William Hunt. As it happens, I’m a big fan of his work.” “He’s famous?” “He’s one of many very good Victorian landscape painters. He was associated with the Pre-raphaelites for a while.”
“You mean Rossetti, Millais, Holman Hunt? I love their paintings.”
“Me, too. Sadly, they’re out of my league.” He tapped the frame of the painting. “But his work I
can afford. I have two of his paintings at home. If you ask me, he’s underrated.” He pointed out the detail in the trees. “Just look at the vibrancy of his colours.” Rachel nodded. “How much would it fetch if I decided to sell it?”
“Two or three hundred pounds. More if you’re lucky.”
Rachel’s smile faded but returned quickly.
“Oh, well, I guess that’s America out. I’ll go to the Isle of Wight instead.”
When she laughed, the sound was so infectious, Martin laughed, too.
“The problem is, I’m not sure I want to sell it.” She lowered her voice. “I didn’t come here hoping to get on the TV. I just wanted to find out if it was valuable.”
“It’s up to you. If you want to sell it, bring it into the auction rooms some time next week, but before you decide, you might want to consider this.
“If the painting is featured on the show, it’s likely to get a better price, thanks to all the publicity.” He paused. “Shall we go ahead and get them to film us, just in case?”
“Why not?” she said at last.
Martin signalled to one of the camera crews. “We’ve something here.” As they got into position, she held out her hand.
“Did I tell you my name? It’s Rachel Matthews.”
“I’m Martin Lane, and I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Rachel thought about Martin as she made her way home. It had been a while since a man had made her laugh. Too long.
There was something about him – his warm grey eyes, his obvious love of antiques, his relaxed way with people, even the stroppy ones. He was the kind of man she . . .
You’re being silly, she told herself as she turned the key and went inside her house. For all you know, he’s married.
She put the painting back in its spot over the fireplace. The room would look bare without it, but she’d made up her mind to let it go.
It had been a gift from a man she’d once loved. It was all she had to remind her of the time they’d spent together, but it was time to let go of the past.
It was a shame that selling it wouldn’t make enough to afford to go to America to see her sister.
Still, at least she could have a break. Having spent the best part of her life looking after her parents, it would be nice to be able to do something for herself.
The phone rang, making her jump. It would be her sister, Julie, calling from America.
Rachel had expected the calls to dwindle after their parents had died. Their relationship had suffered when Julie had emigrated just as their parents became frail, but now the sisters had become closer again, almost as close as when they were small.
“Hi, Rachel! How’s tricks?”
Julie started every phone call that way.
“Fine, thanks. Better than fine,” she added. “I might be going on TV.”
Julie gasped. “You’re kidding me!” Rachel smiled. It wasn’t often she was able to surprise anyone, least of all her sister.
“I’m not.” She told Julie about the valuation day. “I took my painting along. The one that David gave me.”
“The landscape? It can’t be worth much, can it? David was hardly known for his generosity.”
Rachel might have argued with her, only she was right.
“It’s no Picasso, but the auctioneer thinks it might fetch two to three hundred pounds. Apparently it’s by a Victorian artist called Alfred Hunt.” “Who?”
Rachel laughed.
“I’d not heard of him either. Apparently he’s a well-regarded landscape artist.”
She explained how they’d had to replay the valuation scene for the benefit of the television cameras.
“I’d to pretend we’d only just met so that it looked genuine. Martin was great at settling my nerves.”
“I’m impressed,” Julie said. “I hope they show the programme over here.”
“Don’t worry about that!” Rachel chuckled. “I’ll be recording it.”
“When will it be on?” “Not for a couple of months, at least. After the auction. Martin says –”
“Who’s this Martin you keep mentioning?” Julie cut in. “Is he a new boyfriend? If so, why don’t I know about him?”
“He’s the auctioneer. He asked me to go to the auction because the TV cameras will be there. If the painting features on the programme, it might attract more bids. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never been to an auction before.”
“Nor me. I’d be terrified in case I ended up buying something. You hear stories of people accidentally buying Ming vases!” Rachel chuckled. “They don’t get many of them at King’s Road. It’s what they call a general auction house. Some lots sell for as little as ten pounds. Martin’s promised to show me the ropes.” “What’s he like?” Rachel thought before answering.
“He’s about the same age as me. A little under six feet tall with brown hair that curls at the ends, soft grey eyes and a lovely smile.”
“He sounds nice,” Julie said approvingly. “Any chance of, well, you know?”
“No. At least, I shouldn’t think so.” Despite herself, Rachel couldn’t help feeling a little flustered by her sister’s question. “For all I know, he’s married. We got on well, that’s all.”
But she wouldn’t complain if he asked her out.
They chatted for half an hour before Julie said she had to go.
“Will you be coming to England soon? I’d love to see you,” Rachel said. “It’s been such a long time.”
“I’d love that, but Jack’s so busy at the moment. You know you’re always welcome to come to us.”
“I’m working on it, I promise.”
The trouble was, due to some kind of hitch, probate on their mother’s will hadn’t been settled yet, which meant Rachel was living on her income from a part-time job at the supermarket. She’d hoped the painting might provide more of a windfall.
“You never know, my painting might be worth more than Martin thinks.”
Once the public and the television crews had gone home, the real work started. For the next couple of days, Martin was kept busy as a steady stream of people delivered their items to the auction house, ready for the next sale.
There were quite a few new clients, people who’d never been to an auction house before but had been tempted by the valuation day. They needed to be registered so that they could be allocated a card with a unique number printed on it.
That number would be used to identify them if they wanted to bid at one of King’s Road’s auctions.
Most clients were regulars, including the local house-clearance firms. Martin always enjoyed booking in their lots as
he was never sure what they might turn up with. His favourites were the boxes of mixed bits and pieces pulled out of forgotten lofts and cupboards. They could contain anything from a gold bracelet to tablecloths, from tin-plate toys to mittens and gloves.
This time, the contents of a local shoe shop that had recently gone out of business were also being added to the auction. The lots from the valuation day that were to be filmed for possible use in the TV show were gathered into one area and would form a separate part of the auction.
“I’m glad the worst is over,” Martin said as he and Ben shared a pot of tea once the rush had finally died down.
Ben smiled. “What’s wrong? You’ve been a bit flat since the valuation day.”
He paused, his eyes teasing.
“I saw you with that nice woman who brought the painting in. Got a thing for her, have you?” Martin got to his feet. “Don’t be daft. I’m fifty-nine, not nineteen.” He took a last swig of tea. “Right, that’s me done. Time to get back to work.”
He’d only just returned to the desk when Rachel came through the door, making him catch his breath. She really did have the most captivating smile.
“I’m not too late, am I? Only I’ve decided to sell the painting.”
As she handed it to Martin their fingers brushed, setting his senses on edge.
“Are you sure you’re happy to sell? The thing about general auctions like this one is that you never know what will happen. This little picture could make three hundred pounds, but it might only make fifty.” “I see.”
He couldn’t miss the disappointment in her voice and guessed she might be having second thoughts about selling.
“If that worries you, you could always put a reserve on it. Then, if there aren’t enough bids, you can take it home again.” Rachel shook her head. “I wouldn’t want that to happen. Not now I’ve made up my mind to sell it.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Martin told her. “I’m chief auctioneer. Why don’t you leave it to me? If it’s not getting the bids, I’ll withdraw it and put it in the next sale.
“That will give you a bit more time to decide whether you want to let it go cheaply or hang on to it instead. Auctioneer’s discretion.”
“That’s very kind.” “Right,” he said. “I’ll need your details.”
He took a form and put it on the counter. She pulled out a pen and filled in the form.
Martin checked it then issued her with a number.
“Now you can make a bid and the auctioneer will know who you are.”
“Thanks, but I’m not even sure I’m coming,” she said.
Time seemed to stand still as Martin struggled to find the words he wanted to say. If he didn’t do or say something, and soon, she’d be gone. He might never see her again.
By the way his heart was pounding, and if he hadn’t known better, he might have thought young Ben was right and he was falling for Rachel. But that wasn’t possible, was it? They’d only just met!
The truth was, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her since the valuation day.
He did want to get to know her better. All he had to do was ask her out, for a meal or even just a coffee, but the words refused to leave his throat.
Do it now. Don’t wait until the auction. You’ll be too busy then, he thought to himself.
She turned and walked away.
Too late.
Frank brought the suitcase full of puppets downstairs and spread them out on the table. It had been so long since he’d seen them, he’d forgotten about most of them.
Katie’s father, Peter, had given her the first one – an old, tired-looking witch – for her seventh birthday. She’d played with it for hours.
That gift was such a success he’d bought her another one – a scarylooking black cat – for Christmas.
After that, he’d continued giving her puppets, even after she’d stopped playing with them.
A few of the earlier ones, including the witch, had fallen apart from being played with so often, but there were still twelve in good condition, most with their original boxes.
“Do you remember the plays Katie used to put on?” Frank asked.
Iris nodded.
“She’d put on strange voices and pull such funny faces.” She smiled at the memory. “It’s a shame children have to grow up.
“She hasn’t played with them for ages. Can you remember the last time she even looked at them?” Frank shook his head. Not since her father walked out, he thought.
“We’ll have to ask her if it’s OK for us to sell them. Do you think she’ll mind us getting rid of them?”
“Getting rid of what?” Katie demanded. She’d managed to come home without them hearing her.
She spotted the puppets on the table and ran over to them, scooping them into an untidy heap.
“What are you doing with my puppets? You can’t get rid of these. They’re mine!”
“We were thinking about selling some of them at auction. We were going to ask you first,” Frank explained.
“We took a couple to the valuation day at the Town Hall to see if they were worth anything,” Iris added quickly.
“How much are they worth? Did they say?”
Frank noticed that his granddaughter’s attitude had changed as soon as she realised the puppets might be worth something.
“Apparently, it varies from puppet to puppet.”
He picked up the cat in one hand and the dachshund in the other.
“This one might fetch fifteen or twenty pounds, but the dog might go as high as a hundred pounds, possibly more.”
Katie ran her hand over the pile of puppets.
“My dad gave me these,” she whispered.
“We know, sweetheart, and if you want to keep them, that’s fine,” Iris said, “but . . .”
“What your grandmother is trying to say is that money is tight. The truth is, we’re struggling. The boiler’s getting old and we’re almost at the point where it can’t be repaired.
“If we sold some of the puppets, the money would go towards getting it replaced.” Frank paused. “What do you say? You haven’t even looked at those puppets for years.”
Iris gave him a look. Frank knew she didn’t approve of his bluntness, but sometimes the truth needed saying.
He loved his granddaughter every bit as much as Iris did, but he was worried about her. He hated to see people he cared about wasting their lives.
He swallowed. Sometimes Katie reminded him so strongly of her mother, it broke his heart. She’d had a stubborn streak, too.
He watched as Katie slowly sorted the puppets into three piles.
When she’d finished, she turned to her grandparents.
“These, I want to keep. I’ll look up the dachshund and the clown on ebay before I decide what to do with them. You can sell those and put the money towards the boiler.” She picked up the first pile and headed for the door.
Frank thanked her. Katie wasn’t a bad kid. Once she’d gone upstairs, they probably wouldn’t see her again for hours.
He sighed and went to fetch the newspaper, which had just thudded on to the mat. After flicking through it, he passed it to Iris.
“Look, that’s us. We’re in the news.”
A reporter had done a
two-page spread all about the valuation day and the forthcoming auction.
The biggest picture showed a watercolour by an artist Frank had never heard of, but there, in the bottom left, was a photo of him and Iris sitting with the auctioneer as he held the dachshund puppet in his hand.
“Fame at last,” Frank said with a smile.
Ben liked viewing days. The hard work of sorting and arranging the lots was done, but it was still busy enough that he didn’t get bored. His number one priority was to keep an eye on everyone.
“Some people have sticky fingers,” Martin had told him on his first day. “Things go missing despite the security cameras.”
Thanks to the TV programme and the extra publicity, a lot more people than usual were turning up.
If they were new customers they had to be registered and issued with a bidding number. Some had never been to an auction house before so Ben told them how it worked.
“So if I scratch my head I won’t get lumbered with ten pairs of wellingtons?” one man joked.
Ben smiled.
“No. The auctioneer won’t take a bid unless you wave your bidding number in the air.”
The TV cameras were only coming for an hour later in the day, but the auction house had kept that piece of information to themselves. If they hadn’t, everyone would have come to view at the same time.
The day was flying past, just the way Ben liked it. It seemed like no time at all before Carol, the lady who worked in the office, tapped his shoulder.
“I’ll take over while you have your break.” “Cheers.”
He went outside, ate his sandwich in record time, then hurried back inside. He enjoyed watching people as they inspected the lots, searching for something valuable that had been missed.
He’d been working there for nearly a year now and knew all the regulars. Some people came along every fortnight to browse, but never actually bought anything at the sales; then there were the people in the trade, hoping to snap up a bargain and sell it on at a huge profit.
There were also a number of experts who only looked at the silver or the ceramics, as well as young couples looking to furnish a new home on the cheap.
The puppets were getting a lot of attention, Ben noticed, which was hardly surprising as they were such a mixed bunch.
He guessed that many people might have had Pelham puppets when they were children and were enjoying a nostalgic wallow.
Then he spotted Katie. He’d noticed her when she’d registered at reception. She was one of the few people there who was close to his own age.
He remembered thinking how pretty she would have looked without that frown on her face.
But it wasn’t her face that had grabbed his attention now. There was something else that set off his radar – the way she kept coming back to the same spot; the way she kept glancing about her.
Ben started to shadow her, taking care that she didn’t notice him.
Before long his suspicions were confirmed as, in one swift movement, she took a piece of jewellery from a large box and slipped it into her pocket, before moving on to the next box.
Ben sighed. The auction house had a strict policy. If anyone was caught stealing the police were called.
He strode up to her and put his hand on her arm.
“Excuse me, miss. I need a word.”
To be continued.