Buried in Clay Read online

  The atmosphere was soft, quiet and secretive, whispered comments wafting through the air unclear, tangled up like Chinese whispers. A time or two a phrase would unravel itself quite clearly – ‘eighteenth – not nineteenth century… Alpha piece…commonplace… damaged.’

  It would all affect the price.

  I worked steadily for two whole hours, absorbed in the task, until I reached the far side of the room and a tall glass-fronted cabinet with a brown-coated porter standing guard, holding the door open, observing the activities. And there it was, on the top shelf – a tall creamware jug with the most exquisite design on the front. I felt my pulse quicken in recognition of its quality as I moved forward to pick it up. It was eighteen inches tall, perfect and undoubtedly late eighteenth century.

  Dealers have an almost fey superstition for a piece of singular beauty. It happens rarely but sometimes an object will wind its way towards your heart. It is a dangerous thing because it robs you of every ounce of business sense you might have built up over the years but it is unavoidable in a business which relies on your aesthetic sense.

  I knew before I picked it up what it would feel like in my hands, lighter than expected, the body soapy smooth, almost warm. But what was remarkable for a jug of this age was that the transfer design on its front was unrubbed so the design was still perfectly clear. It must hardly have been handled, lived its life inaccessible, on a high shelf, rarely dusted – or else preserved in a glass-fronted cabinet with its doors locked. Either that or some miser had concealed it, wrapped it in tissue paper and hidden it in a box, away from avaricious eyes. I also knew that for me this beautiful jug was the prize lot in the entire sale.

  I would have it.

  And so my fate was sealed. The thread of fate had bound me to this object and all that it represented. I was now powerless.

  I bent my head and studied the design.

  The picture on the front was of a house which looked sixteenth century. It was black-and-white, wattle and daub crooked walls, half-timbered in the intricate Cheshire design known as magpie work which was peculiar to Cheshire three centuries ago. Casement windows stared out blindly from beneath heavily carved eaves and a roof which dipped down low then rose steeply. Beneath the transfer was the name of the house, Hall o’th’Wood.

  I remember wondering then whether such a place really existed, whether it ever had or whether it was yet another figment of the potter’s mind.

  Like the camelopard.

  I turned the jug around. On the back was confirmation of my dating. Rychard Oliver, I read. Hys jug. Below was the date, 1787.

  But what struck me was the macabre scene depicted. It was of a public hanging, the man’s head lolling at such an angle there was no doubt that the man was dead and of a broken neck. A ring of faces mocked. Yet I shouldn’t have been so intrigued by the depiction of a gruesome subject. The Staffordshire potters had loved a whiff of crime and mystery. Lucrezia Borgia, Mazeppa (stealer of women’s hearts, strapped to the back of a wild horse which was then whipped into a gallop), William Palmer (the poisoner) and the Red Barn and Stanfield Hall, both houses connected with murder, always fetched a good price. Even the Tichborne Claimant was a popular piece.

  I held the jug for a moment, intrigued by this glimpse into an unknown story and reluctant to put it back on the shelf, still wondering why the potter had decided to paint such a macabre scene on the back when the exquisite Hall o’th’Wood was on the front. I turned the jug round again to look at the house, wondering what ‘hys story’ was, then noticing that on the bottom, in hand-painted, tiny lettering, was something which made the jug even more of a treasure. The potter had signed it.

  Matthew Grindall, hys work.

  Rebekah Grindall, hys sister.

  And with these added crumbs, the Ring of the Tolkien stories could not have held more power over me than this simple piece of domestic pottery. I felt then that I had to have it, to possess it, to own it and to keep it.

  But for what price? I was a dealer, existing on profit, occasionally forced to swallow a loss on an ill-advised buy.

  But I could afford, on odd occasions, to indulge myself as another woman might do with an expensive gown or exotic holiday. But these baubles did not interest me so much as holding a piece of beautiful history in my hand.

  I struggled to screw my business head back on.

  Normally such a jug, in 1967, in such fine condition, might have fetched ninety pounds. With provenance providing a back story, possibly double that. The price I wrote in my catalogue was more than three times the estimate.

  ‘Nice little piece.’ The voice came from behind me.

  John Carpenter was an antiques dealer who had a shop in Chester, less than a mile from here. We were friendly rivals. He dealt in much the same sort of stock as I. But because more people come to Chester as tourists than visitors to Stoke-on-Trent he had a healthier list of customers than I. I clutched the jug and he looked hard into my face and must have read some of my determination because he looked thoughtfully at me.

  Dealers can work together at salerooms. They can ring pieces – that is buy an item for a knock-down price and then bid between themselves later. Or they can simply stand aside on the understanding that you will accord them the same courtesy. ‘Ringing’ is illegal and it goes on in salerooms up and down the land. But I had already made a bad move if this jug was to be ‘ringed’. To display too obvious an enthusiasm is always a mistake. Your colleagues can bid you up – and up – and up. So I smiled at him and put the jug back in its place on the top shelf of the cabinet, near the back. There is even the slimmest of chances that a fine piece such as this might slip by unnoticed. On such luck fortunes are made.

  ‘Time for a coffee?’ John asked and I nodded. This was a coded message for a swapping of intention.

  Next door to Sotheby’s salerooms an enterprising woman called Sandra Pool had opened a coffee bar. Full of smoke and hot as the Black Hole of Calcutta. We found an empty table and a pert, blue nylon-overalled waitress brought us two mugs of steaming coffee. Moments later Eric Goodwood joined the party.

  ‘So, Susie,’ John said slyly. ‘What are you after today?’

  I laughed. Because I was young they often tried me like this. But I had learnt not to be too open.

  ‘The usual,’ I said vaguely. ‘A few of the Staffordshire flatbacks, one or two of the figures, some of the plates. You know.’

  Eric spoke next. ‘Anything special?’

  This put me in a dilemma. I wanted to tell them that I would buy that jug. As there is honour amongst thieves so too there is honour amongst antiques dealers.

  Of a sort.

  If I really desired the Hall o’th’Wood jug they would let me buy it. If it was so important I could have it – at a price. The trick was to affect indifference, buy it for the lowest possible price, without them knowing quite how much I had wanted it and was prepared to pay.

  ‘A few things,’ I said casually. ‘Bits and pieces.’ I diverted the subject, spooned some sugar into my tea. ‘Anything you’re particularly interested in?’

  ‘I’d like to have a go at the Meissen,’ John said. ‘I’ve done well out of that in the last couple of months.’

  I nodded. I had no interest in German porcelain.

  ‘What about you, Eric?’

  ‘I’m buying a lot of the transfer blue-and-white printed ware at the moment. Particularly Spode.’

  I nodded again.

  John Carpenter was eyeing me. ‘Funny,’ he said, smiling, ‘I could have sworn you had your eyes on that nice creamware jug.’

  ‘I might have a go at it,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice casual.

  ‘It’s a lovely piece,’ he commented. ‘In nice condition too.’ Interestingly his next comment reflected my own observation. ‘Must have been put away,’ he said. ‘It’s never stood on a dresser for nearly two hundred years. The enamelling’s not rubbed at all. Did you notice?’

  Of course I’d noticed. I’d no
ticed everything about it.

  Eric Goodwood was watching me slyly. ‘Know the place, do you, Susie?’

  That was when I first learnt that Hall o’th’Wood was real, and still stood today. I would not have believed such a place could exist outside a particularly pleasant dream – had it not been for the hanged man depicted on the same object which turned the dream into what? A nightmare?

  Surely not. Surely the house had too much perfect beauty to be that. I pictured it again, as a real place, and did not know whether I wanted it to exist outside my own imagination and on the jug.

  ‘No,’ I said baldly. ‘I don’t know it.’

  Eric Goodwood spoke. ‘It’s in Balterley. I’d have thought you’d have seen it, Susie. Don’t you drive from Stoke to Chester that way? It stands back on a hill. Quite visible from the road. Beautiful house. Been in the same family for generations, I believe.’

  ‘Really?’ I had never taken that particular road.

  My affected casual tone must have sounded fake. Eric and John exchanged amused glances. ‘OK by us,’ they said. ‘You may have competition, Susie, but it won’t be from us.’

  So it was settled. I would be quiet when the Meissen and blue-and-white was being held up and they would not bid against me for the jug.

  The business was over.

  We discussed a few further lots and the tacit deal was set. There would be no saleroom battles between us today.

  I wasn’t naive enough to think that there would not be other competition. John was only one dealer, Eric one more. There would be others – and that was discounting any private customer who braved the jungle of an antiques auction.

  But John and Eric would have been serious competition and at least they were out of the running.

  Ten minutes before the sale was due to start I took up my place – half-hidden behind a pillar but in full view of the auctioneer, a young, ginger-haired public schoolboy named Saul Winters about the same age as myself. He was confident and loud and could move swiftly through the lots which suited us all. We dealers wanted to be back at our shops by lunchtime.

  I did not want to attract attention but to blend in with the background. I was well known in the salerooms as a dealer in pottery. My reputation was fast growing and anything I gave too much scrutiny to would inevitably invite interest. This, in turn, could force the price up. Dealers could, on occasions, be petty, or influenced by rivalry, or even just plain greedy. If they knew that I was interested in a piece they may well try to bid me up or even affect interest simply to squeeze some more money out of me. It was simply a way of making money in a tricky, volatile world. Added to that the vendor could be at the sale, note my interest and push the bidding up. And it is a well-known fact that an auctioneer might take bids ‘off the wall’.

  There are as many pitfalls in a saleroom as there are sharks in the sea around Australia. One does not have to be bitten by one to know that they are there.

  There is an air of tension as the pieces are held up by the porter and the bidding opens. The trick is to catch the auctioneer’s eye early on. Only your initial bid needs to be showy, to attract his attention. After that the slightest movement will be interpreted. You will have more trouble giving that final shake of the head than getting your bids accepted. Auctioneers know the serious bidder. They won’t miss their bid. It’s their business and their profit. Saul Winters moved swiftly through the lots, pointing here and there, giving the sale an air of excitement, banging his gavel down noisily for each sale. I was soon in the rhythm of things, bidding on a few lots and marking my catalogue, watching who was buying what, noting that John was successful buying his Meissen while Eric had trouble acquiring the blue-and-white against stiff opposition, but really my mind was fixed on the beautiful jug and I had great difficulty not turning my head every few minutes to look at it, sitting proudly on the top shelf of its cabinet to the left of the auctioneer.

  I had been dealing in antiques for almost six years – ever since I had left university, the proud possessor of a BA in Fine Art. I had opened a shop and from then on I had learnt and the shop had flourished. I was now worth four or five times my initial investment and had even taken on a girl, Joanne, to manage the shop while I was away buying. But even though I was a hardened dealer, gaining experience, I still felt the familiar jolt in the pit of my stomach when the porter finally held the jug up and Saul Winters started extolling its beauty.

  ‘What a lovely item this is. Eighteenth century jug in perfect condition…’

  He stopped. The porter was whispering something to him. It was causing some concern. And the confusion was doing nothing for my nerves. I nibbled at my index fingernail – a habit my aunt had told me off for since I was a child, painting it with cloves and aloes and mustard and finally nail varnish which had virtually cured me of it – except in cases of extreme anxiety.

  Like now.

  Finally the auctioneer straightened and smoothly continued praising the jug. ‘Lovely piece here. We have one or two bids on the books… Start me at fifty pounds.’

  No one moved. Certainly not me. It was better to lurk in the deep, dark water before splashing around in the shallows, attracting attention and making that first bid. Because once I had made my first bid I would hang on tenaciously, until the jug was mine.

  ‘Twenty pounds then,’ the auctioneer said.

  John put his hand up. He would take the bidding up until I entered the battle. For make no mistake about it, it is a battle, to own the piece you have decided is your star lot of the day and fight off the opposition. To go home without it would have been a battle lost.

  The auctioneer looked straight at me, waiting for my bid. Winters had an instinct and he must have known, even before I waved my hand, that I would be interested in this piece. Perhaps he had seen the way I had handled it with that reverence we dealers reserve for only the most special of pieces.

  I still didn’t move.

  The bidding reached eighty pounds and Saul Winters caught my eye. I nodded and he smiled. He knew he had me by the fish hook of desire. I felt myself flush with the exhilaration of it all.

  ‘One hundred pounds. Saying once, saying twice. Oh – one hundred and ten pounds is that, sir?’

  I did not look around but fixed on Saul Winters and gave the most imperceptible of nods.

  ‘One hundred and twenty pounds. Saying once. Twice. Sold.’ The gavel slammed down. ‘Sold for one hundred and twenty pounds to Susanna Paris of Bottle Kiln Antiques.’ I let out a sigh of relief.

  The jug was mine.

  But the sale was not over. I bid, almost casually, on a few more lots, bought a nice collection of Victorian chimney pieces for a knock-down price, and a set of three graduated earthenware plates with a rare blue-and-white pattern which Eric obviously didn’t want. They weren’t Spode and I suspected this was why.

  Stock replenished. My shop would look good tomorrow.

  But already I doubted that the creamware jug would ever sit in the window of Bottle Kiln Antiques. I didn’t think I would be able to part with it.

  ‘That ends this sale of pottery. Our next sale is…’

  I moved across to pay for my lots. It was lunchtime. I was hungry and anxious to return to Bottle Kiln Antiques and gloat over my purchases. I queued behind a man I did not know. My eyes ran over him casually as I waited. He was not tall – only an inch or two taller than myself. I had an impression of square shoulders, a grey suit, very well cut, short, greying hair – and intense anger.

  I corrected myself. No – not anger. Fury. He was furious with the cashier.

  ‘I left an order to buy.’ His voice was clipped. Public school. Autocratic.

  The girl was very young and red in the face. Close to tears. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I did try and explain over the phone. We’re not allowed to take instruction merely to buy. We must have a ceiling bid.’ She appealed to him. ‘I mean – the lot could have fetched anything. Anything.’

  The man wasn’t mollified. ‘I’ll speak
to the director.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The girl picked up the telephone. Then she caught my eye. I gave her a smile of shared sympathy. She spoke quickly and put the phone down. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, ‘perhaps I could sort out someone else while you’re waiting.’

  The man stood aside.

  I put my catalogue on the counter and the girl and I ran through the lots, ticking them off, checking prices. ‘Lot 4…Lot 185…246.’

  ‘246?’ The man spoke from behind me.

  I turned around. And met a pair of very clear, grey eyes, a firm, full mouth, smooth skin with the faintest of tans. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The jug?’ he said eagerly. ‘The jug with Hall o’th’Wood on it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said again.

  ‘I’d like to buy the jug from you. I left an order to bid but…’

  Behind me the girl was watching curiously, wondering how this encounter would end.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I returned, angry at his peremptory tone, ‘but the jug isn’t for sale.’

  He had a flash of temper. ‘Are you a dealer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well – surely dealers buy items to sell for profit.’

  I was astonished at his tone. Who did he think he was?

  ‘I’m offering you a profit on the jug,’ he continued. ‘A good one. So?’

  ‘I don’t sell everything I buy,’ I said angrily. The man was riling me. ‘I haven’t quite decided what to do with it yet.’

  He put his hand on my arm. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘I really want to buy that jug.’

  Something in me smiled.

  Didn’t he know the classic rule of purchase – never to let the possessor know your desire?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said a little more gently. After all – he simply wanted the piece as I did – and his leak of enthusiasm marked him down as an amateur buyer – someone unused to saleroom manners.

  ‘It isn’t for sale.’ I fumbled in my bag, found a card and handed it to him. ‘If I do decide to sell I promise you can have first refusal.’