Page 86 of A Good Heart is Hard to Find
‘You’ll probably get old Mr Browne this year then,’ I told her maliciously.
‘I sincerely hope not! I was hoping for something a bit friskier.’
‘They don’t come much friskier than Mr Browne,’ I assured her. ‘I thought I was hired to give his antique shop a jolly good clean andturn out, but if he chased me round that inlaid pedestal table once, he chased me ten times. I was quite exhausted.’
‘Who got you last year?’
‘Miss Gresham – don’t you remember? First she made me give a talk on writing to the WI, then she invited her particular cronies over and tried to make me read their fortunes, and she just didn’t understand when I said I couldn’t do it to order.’
‘I gother the year before last, and she made me wash all of her little Pekes, and Sung bit me!’
I nudged her. ‘Shush – the vicar’s about to start.’
The line of slaves shuffled their feet, and laughingly formed into numerical order. I was between Emlyn’s wife, Clara, and Orla, a thorn between two roses.
Come in, number six, your time is up.
Pushing the twin portholes of his glasses up on to thebridge of his insignificant nose, the vicar beamed at the assembled throng like a friendly turtle.
‘Welcome to the ninth Westery Annual Slave Auction, everyone. Glad to see a good turn-out for such an excellent cause, and for those newcomers among you who might think a slave auction an unchristian event, let me just explain: the very idea of real slavery is, of course, absolutely abhorrent tome and to all of you, and I’m sure we all stand firm on that. But today, these good people have volunteered their services for a day, and the money they fetch will go to a very good cause: the fund to send a little local girl, Kylie Morgan, to America for life-saving surgery.
‘Now, I have a fine assortment of slaves here, willing to do your bidding. The usual rules, ladies and gentlemen: onewhole day, regular rest and food breaks, and don’t ask them to do anything dangerous or – ahem! – naughty. But do utilize the talents that they have so generously offered. Thank you.’
His audience of the drunk, the sober, the curious, the convivial and the calculating settled into their seats and waited for lot one.
Dante didn’t bid for any of the first lots, just sat there darkly brooding withhis arms crossed over his manly bosom, while a parade of slaves passed before his eyes.
Eddie and Rosetta seemed to have vanished, but to my dismay Jason suddenly appeared at the back of the room: he must have closed his shop up especially.
Clara drew the short straw and went to Miss Gresham this year, but she was extremely practical so I expected she could cope even if asked to wash the horridlittle Pekes. Or perhaps Miss Gresham wanted something knitted? Clara was an ace machine knitter.
Then it was my turn, and I thought maybe I might derive some pleasure (if Dante actually did bid for me), in seeinghim outdone from afar, even though it was going to make giving Max the final heave-ho just a little bit more difficult than it already was.
‘Next we have Miss Cass Leigh,’ the Rev.said enticingly. ‘Rumoured, like her namesake Cassandra, daughter of Priam and Hecuba, to have the gift of prophecy. Her talents might be a little on the dark side, but she will hardly be burned as a witch these days!’
There was dutiful laughter: he says much the same thing every year. Glancing across at Dante I was disconcerted to find that, although his head was still slightly bent, his brighteyes were fixed speculatively on me.
It was a bit unnerving, actually, but made me think what a great character he would make for a cartoon strip,stripbeing the operative word. Or in one of my books, as the ghost of some ancient warrior perhaps? With his floppy, unkempt black hair, glistening muscled torso, and maybe leather wristbands or an armlet …
Wolfric paused, looking about in a puzzledway. ‘This is not my world,’ he said. ‘I was called from my eternal rest by a power stronger than death …’
‘Twenty pounds? Who will start the bidding at – oh, thank you, Mr Browne. Now, do I hear thirty – forty – fifty …’
The bidding paused, not surprisingly, at this point. Then the vicar’s housekeeper, her cheeks red with excitement, said, as one making the clinching bid: ‘Sixty pounds!’
‘Thank you, Mrs Grace! Sixty pounds …’ began the vicar happily. ‘Six—’
‘Seventy!’ said Jason’s voice from the back of the room. Every head turned to stare.
‘A hundred,’ said Dante laconically.
All eyes swivelled back, and the vicar nearly fell off his perch. ‘A hundred!’
He swallowed, beamed, and continued: ‘A generous offerof one hundred pounds for Miss Cassandra Leigh, from Mr Dante Chaseof Kedge Hall. Would … er … anyone like to raise that?’ he asked hopefully.
Mr Browne shook his head, looking disappointed, as did Mrs Grace.
Clearly Max had underestimated the value of my assets – and so had I. Could somebody have doctored my list of skills?
