Page 2 of Right Place, Right Time
From the upstairs window I can see people walking the paths that lead through the trees and across the grass of Jesus Green – a large park that links the two shopping districts of Cambridge. In the summer, the green is filled with people picnicking and students lolling around on the grass in between lectures. But today, it’s just people hurrying about their business. All of them bundled up from the cold, not wanting to be outside too long, and as I watch them, I wonder how many people have walked those same paths before them over the years. Cambridge has such a rich history – there’s so much more to the city than the grand universities with their many students, the thousands of tourists who flock here every year to go punting down the river, and the hundreds of bicycles either being ridden around the ancient streets or chained to the railings while their owners attend a university lecture in a nearby building.
I’ve always enjoyed thinking about the history of any place I visit or live in. I find myself wondering about the people who lived and worked there before me. I want to know more about the stories that unfolded within buildings and behind closed doors. It’s the same with the antiques in my shop. Most of them belonged to variousowners over the years and usually resided in many different homes. I love trying to figure out their background and their stories. In fact, I pride myself on being able to give most of the objects in my shop some sort of provenance, which is always written on a little white card next to their price tag. I call it giving them their own story and my customers really seem to love it.
Of my many success stories, I once traced the history of an antique teddy bear back over several owners. The bear lived quite the life and travelled with its owners all over the world, only for me to rescue it from a wet car-boot sale one Sunday morning, where it was being used to demonstrate a baby’s high chair that was for sale. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to sell the bear so I called him Bill, after my grandfather, and he still resides behind the counter in my shop, watching over the customers who come in to browse and hopefully make a purchase.
The bus finally pulls away from the station and as I watch the familiar streets of Cambridge pass by, I think about my little shop in Clockmaker Court.
I never set out to own an antiques shop. Rainy Day Antiques was owned from its inception by my grandparents, Sarah and William. Before that, the shop was run by my great-great aunt as a dressmaker’s.
I always loved visiting my grandparents when I was young, and helping them out in their shop. I think my love of history must have grown from witnessing their enthusiasm for antiques and listening to their stories of how they obtained their items to sell. Unforeseen circumstances in my life led me to working in the shop alongside them when I was younger, with me eventually taking on the running of the shop when mygrandfather passed away and my grandmother decided to take a back seat. It was a difficult time for both of us, and, when she sadly passed a few years later, I fully took over the ailing business, determined to make it profitable once more.
Performing house clearances was my idea, a way to procure items for the shop at a lower margin than buying them at auction or car-boot sales as my grandparents had favoured. I managed to come to an arrangement with a large local auction house – they would take on any larger clearances that I was offered and I couldn’t handle, and if they received a property too small for them to bother with, they would pass the details on to me to take care of. This mutual relationship has been working well for both of us over the last few years.
The bus arrives in Grantchester – a small, picturesque village just outside of Cambridge. I hop off at the bus stop in the centre of the village and walk the rest of the way to the house on the outskirts.Past Times House, a slate sign declares on the sandy-coloured brick wall that surrounds the property. Next to the sign are a pair of black wrought-iron gates, one of which has been left open – presumably for me.
I walk through the gates and up a long gravel driveway. The large stately-looking house at the end of the drive has been built in the same sandy-coloured brick as the wall that surrounds it. I date the house immediately as Georgian. The symmetrical architecture, the long sash windows with white panels, each containing smaller panes of glass, and the no-nonsense black front door give it away as dating from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century. But for all its sleek lines and precise, neat architecture, the house manages to look warm andinviting as it watches silently over the gardens and pathways that surround it.
House clearances are always a difficult part of my job and I never know quite what I might find when I turn up at a house, usually to meet a recently bereaved relative.
They normally fall into two camps. The first group just want the house cleared as quickly as possible; they don’t really care what happens to their relative’s possessions, only that they need it to happen fast so they can prepare the house to be sold. The second haven’t quite come to terms with what’s happened yet and can hardly face the thought of removing their loved one’s possessions from their home. I have to tread super carefully with the second group – one wrong word and the whole process immediately stalls until the relative can bring themselves to begin it all again.
Today I don’t know which group the grandson I’m meeting will be in. We’ve only had brief contact over email so far. Apparently, his grandfather specifically requested that Rainy Day Antiques perform the clearance of his house and possessions. As I told the others earlier, this house is a lot bigger than the ones I usually take on, so why he specifically wanted my little shop, I have no clue. Perhaps he’d visited the shop before, or knew of our reputation in the area.
Whatever the reason, I’m here now. I’m about to rattle the brass knocker at the side of the elegant front door when, to my surprise, the door swings open.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say brightly to the person in front of me. ‘I have an appointment to view the house this afternoon for a possible house clearance?’
As I look up at the slightly dishevelled-looking man in front of me, I’m doubtful this is who I’m supposed tobe meeting. If this is the grandson of the owner, he’s not what I’m expecting at all. He was very eloquent over email – formal, even. Here he looks a bit … well, scruffy is the only way I can describe him. He’s wearing blue jeans that look a bit tatty, a white T-shirt with a black emblem emblazoned across the front, a battered well-worn leather jacket, and black boots with far too many buckles than are necessary to fasten any shoe. And as his tanned face stares quizzically at me, I get the feeling he has no idea what I’m talking about.
‘Are you Eve?’ he says in a deep, gravelly voice, making me jump a little inside. The bright eyes that look me up and down are a piercing shade of sapphire blue.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say hurriedly, wondering why my insides are suddenly wobbling a little. ‘I’m here to look at the interiors for a possible house clearance?’
‘Come on in,’ he says casually, taking a step back to let me through the door. ‘Pleased to meet you, Eve. My name is Adam.’
2
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s joking with me. He looks the type that doesn’t take life too seriously.
‘Oh,’ I say carefully, wondering if my initial thoughts were right. ‘I thought I was here to meet with an Alexander Darcy?’
‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he says with a glint in his eye. ‘When I found out your name was Eve, I thought you’d think the house clearance was a wind-up if I said my name was Adam, so I said it was Alexander instead. Same initial in my email address.’
‘Oh, right …’ I’m still a bit confused, and, if I’m honest, a little taken aback too. I just hadn’t expected to be greeted by anyone like Adam today. He’s confident and relaxed. Everything I’m not right now.
But I still don’t quite see why you’d pretend to be someone different?’
‘Adam and Eve? Surely I don’t need to explain that to you, do I?’ He raises his dark eyebrows at me, while a lopsided grin appears on his face. Then he tilts his head to one side awaiting my reply.
I see,soit’s like that, is it? I have a joker on my hands …I have a feeling that how I respond to this could make orbreak our professional relationship, and as a result, the success of the house clearance.
‘Perhaps you’d prefer it if I referred to you asMrDarcy instead?’ I say innocently, hoping he’ll respond well to playing him at his own game.
But Adam just blinks steadily back at me.
‘You know, with the age of the house and all,’ I add, hoping I haven’t gone too far. ‘And you appearing to be the lord of the manor?’
Adam doesn’t respond. He simply watches me from the same position, leaning casually up against the door frame of the house.
