The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows

As the interview progressed and Johnny asked a series of probing questions, she reassured her potential employer that social media and company websites were her forte. The eccentric man before her was making her care about this job more than she’d expected.

‘Theodore is away at the moment, flaunting himself in front of television cameras across the land, so I have inaugurated a company shake-up whilst he is in absentia. It simply would not do to sit and dwell.’

‘I agree. Work can be an excellent distraction,’ Maisie said, thinking of her own situation. It wasn’t healthy to brood over things you couldn’t change, like unfaithful loser boyfriends.

‘Lamentably, he will be absent for longer than I anticipated. Apparently, the camera just adores him and he’s been asked to shoot some extra episodes.’ His eyes fluttered towards the ceiling, and Maisie couldn’t help but conjure up a mental image of Theodore as some kind of John Gielgud luvvie, but then chastised herself for perpetuating stereotypes. ‘But time and tide, dah-ling, so with that said, let us take a perambulation around the premises.’ Johnny wriggled to free himself from the confining arms of the chair. ‘Monday is valuation day so do not be alarmed by the proliferation of people. I shall introduce you to every member of our small but dedicated team and if you aren’t bored totally rigid to the point of needing CPR after ten minutes with Arthur, you’ll do for me.’

As they walked into the biting late January air, an attractive, clean-shaven man rushed past and nearly sent her flying.

‘My bad,’ he called as he disappeared down a gap in the buildings, leaving a musky scent and a startled Maisie behind. If he was the sort of customer the auction house attracted then working here might have its perks after all. A boozy New Year’s Eve might have allowed her to set her Gareth-trampled heart free, but a hungover New Year’s Day had brought back the reality of being alone. She longed for the companionship and security that Zoe had with Oliver. Being single was all very well until your ovaries started idly flicking through pension options – not that she was anywhere near that stage, but sand still trickled relentlessly into the bottom chamber of her hourglass. She pulled her coat tighter around her body and waited for Johnny, who’d been caught by the accounts lady on his way out of the office.

At the edge of the car park stood an elderly man leaning on a sack barrow next to a young girl clutching a bundle of folders to her chest. Maisie couldn’t help but notice a small port wine stain across the girl’s left eye and how she turned her face away as Johnny stepped from the building.

Maisie caught the old man’s strong Suffolk accent carried by the breeze. ‘… So, I told her we often have similar things come up and I could keep an eye out and let her know if any appeared, and she said she appreciated that, but it’s really no trouble …’ The girl was taking tiny backwards steps, nodding and trying to extricate herself with the minimum of fuss.

‘… You know as well as I do that there’s no rhyme or reason to what turns up each week,’ he continued. ‘Sometimes I look at the lots and think my Pamela would snap up some of them dainty bits and pieces in an instant. And there’s always weird and wonderful things out the back. Why, only yesterday I helped the lads unload one of them red telephone boxes. Now that’s something that would look lovely in a—’

‘Arthur, my dear fellow, Ella is obviously busy, and totally inappropriately dressed to be standing about in this most inclement weather.’ Johnny turned his head and stage-whispered to Maisie. ‘What is she wearing? An avocado blouse with that ghastly shade of blue?’ The volume of his observation made Maisie feel uncomfortable so she tried to make sympathetic eye contact with the shivering girl, but she was eyes down, staring intently at her elegant knee-high boots. ‘Let her go about her work, please.’ Half-grateful, half-embarrassed, Ella gracefully picked her way across the pot-holed forecourt and stepped into the front office.

‘Sorry, Mr Gildersleeve, sir.’ The old man nodded in deference to his boss. Ah, so that was where the company name came from.

‘Arthur is our head porter,’ Johnny announced, his eyeballs inspecting the insides of his upper eyelids, as if to indicate the job title was possibly inappropriate. ‘And this charming young lady is Maisie. She’s applied for a position in our burgeoning empire and I’m giving her a guided tour of our salubrious premises in an attempt to woo her over.’ Johnny really liked his big words. If nothing else, her vocabulary would expand should she take the position.

‘Right lovely to meet you, Maisie.’ The old man stuck out his hand. As she tentatively reached out, Arthur grasped her fingers, but didn’t let go as he began another verbal ramble.

‘Coming for a job, you say? It would be smashing to have another bright young thing about. We always seem to have more jobs than staff. Everyone is so busy, with barely a moment to pass the time of day.’ There was a small cough from Johnny but Arthur continued, undeterred. ‘If you get the job, and I know you will because I can tell by looking at you what an asset you’d be to the company, come to me for anything you need help with. I’ve picked up an awful lot during my time here and it would be smashing to pass that knowledge on to someone else. Always new objects to research and interesting people coming and going …’

On cue, the clean-shaved man who’d bowled past her earlier appeared briefly in the doorway, bobbing his head around the barn door looking lost. He must be a customer either dropping off items for sale or collecting things he’d bought in the auction the previous week. He caught her eye and grinned. She felt her cheeks burn hot and looked away but no one seemed to notice her discomfort or the bobbing man.

Two porters, one bearded and one bald, appeared from a huge barn, wrestling with a heavy green upholstered sofa that resembled a bathtub.

‘Art Dee-co, that is,’ Arthur said, nodding towards the sofa knowledgeably and stressing the first syllable. ‘Heavier than it looks.’

‘Can you get the door to the storage shed?’ one of the porters panted.

‘Don’t be stressing. I’ll be there presently. And, before I forget,’ he said, turning back to Johnny, ‘I noticed a nice little Moorcroft vase in the sale – Mrs Collins said back in the summer how she was keeping an eye out for them, so I thought I might let her know. She doesn’t make it to the viewings now the weather’s turned nasty. What do you think?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Johnny. ‘Whatever you think best. Anyway, don’t let us hold you up, Arthur.’

The two men rested the sofa on the damp concrete path by a large shed and looked over to Arthur, who ambled towards them, rattling a bunch of keys, as if he had all the time in the world.

‘Head porter, you say?’ Maisie clarified, her forehead creased into a frown, as they walked over to two gigantic farm barns.

‘Don’t ask, dah-ling. Don’t ask.’

Maisie stood in the doorway to Saleroom Two. It was the upmarket version of the larger barn they’d just walked through. Saleroom One held household and modern effects; this was antiques. Both had the large central space divided by trestle tables, strewn with boxes. Larger items, such as furniture, stood around the edge and pictures and rugs hung from the walls.

At the far end stood a glass-fronted cabinet that contained small objects of value, every item proudly displaying a numbered sticker, which Johnny explained was cross-referenced in their printed catalogues. In her efforts to understand the system she looked up the lot number for a pair of silver cufflinks and read the description with a £130–£190 estimate. It seemed a frustratingly vague idea of their value to her.

Having never been to an auction, Maisie was wary of them as a concept. She liked the certainty of wanting an object, knowing its price and being able to purchase it without competition. There were too many elements of chance associated with the random and unstructured nature of bidding for her liking.

Johnny leaned an elbow on the top of the cabinet and ran a hand through his bouncy hair. There was a pause when all she could hear was the echoing footsteps of the porters at the back of the barn.

‘Look, I’ll be brutally honest,’ he said, ‘I’ve only had seven applicants and interviewed three. You are far and away the most impressive candidate and possibly over-qualified for this job. We need marketing skills like yours to help the company grow but you’ll also be asked to lift tables, offer practical help on auction days and even sweep up occasionally.’ His foot toyed with some dead leaves blown in by the wind, letting them crunch beneath his highly polished shoes.

The advert in the local paper had been optimistically worded: Growing firm of Auctioneers seeks individual with marketing and communications skills to contribute to vibrant team. Maisie was beginning to suspect General dogsbody who knows a bit about computers because we’re largely clueless, and who’ll probably be asked to clean the toilets if we’re a man down might be a more accurate job description.

‘However, I promise you won’t have anyone looking over your shoulder or making you account for your movements, and I will genuinely listen to any input and ideas you have. I liked your portfolio, particularly the unusual Wickerman’s beer mats you designed for the Felixstowe Beer Festival. You are clearly creative and focused. But more importantly, I like you.’

For the first time that morning, Johnny looked slightly nervous; tiny beads of sweat forming on his corned beef-coloured brow. He was wringing his hands together and looking intently at her face. ‘So, my darling, I fall procumbent at your alabaster feet, and ask if you are in or out?’

Not quite sure whether being procumbent was a good thing or not, Maisie gazed across the cluttered room of miscellaneous objects, contemplated the joy of a ten-minute commute, and the distinct and welcome lack of potential romantic partners in the workplace.

‘In,’ she said.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_a540e538-aedb-5309-aeda-592c6c6fc132)

Maisie didn’t regret her impulsive decision to take the job for a moment. It was nothing like working for Wickerman’s and nothing like Johnny had led her to believe, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

For the first week, she shadowed various members of staff because he insisted she got a feel for the place. With an evil north-westerly wind slicing across the forecourt every time she ventured between the salerooms and the offices, bloody freezing was her overriding feeling. Now she understood why so many of the staff wandered around in fingerless gloves and quilted jackets. But somehow even this lifted her spirits. How much more invigorating than sitting at a desk all day, trying to remember to get up and move every half an hour to encourage blood flow and reduce eye strain.

She realised now that even though she’d worked in an office full of people at Wickerman’s, there had been a sense of isolation. Tied to a desk, each person in their own little computer-centric bubble, interaction was sparse. The auction house by comparison was a bustling and varied working environment.

Maisie quickly settled into the weekly routine. Monday, the public dropped off items for sale. Tuesday and Wednesday Johnny dealt with private appointments or left the site to oversee probate valuations. Thursday was a frantic collation of the lots and production of the catalogue – all ready for the sale on Friday. People were invited to view Thursday evening or early Friday morning. No one, with the possible exception of Arthur, paused for breath. And then on Monday, the whole cycle started again.

Maisie was given a desk and a computer in the back office with Johnny and, in amongst the clutter, she created an oasis of calm and order. By the second week, she was keen to put her marketing skills to good use, and her priority was to tackle the dated brand. Simple was the way to go, with a clean GA monogram and a coffee, aqua and teal palette of colours.

‘Oh, you are an absolute darling of the highest magnitude,’ Johnny gushed, resplendent in a double-breasted suit of British racing green, with a cheeky silk handkerchief poking out the left breast pocket. They were gathered in the front office-cum-reception – Maisie showing everyone the new logo and gauging opinion.

‘Ladies, what do we think? I value and indeed actively solicit everyone’s input.’ Johnny turned to Maisie. ‘They are, after all, the frantically paddling legs under the surface of the water, whilst we glide along like the serene and elegant swans that we are. Ella, stop hiding behind the computer screen. Do you not agree Maisie has captured the very essence of Gildersleeve’s? Sophisticated and professional?’

The poor girl coloured up faster than a halogen hob and although Maisie liked the exuberant Johnny enormously, sensitivity and tact were not his forte. She threw what she hoped was a conciliatory smile across the office but the girl didn’t raise her eyes and instead chewed nervously on her bottom lip, reluctant to leave her desk. The glossy mahogany curtain of hair that covered the left side of her delicate face swished as she gave a brief nod.

‘Arthur’s had a slight accident.’ The bearded porter ambled into the reception and Maisie immediately raised a concerned head.

‘What is it this time?’ Johnny sighed. ‘Ran over a customer’s foot with the sack barrow? Dropped a box of crystal glasses? Or got his wretched foot caught in the storm drain again?’

‘No, he’s excelled himself with this one. Locked himself in the men’s toilet cubicle and managed to pull the handle off completely. Apparently he’s been in there nearly two hours. Poor bloke is getting a bit agitated,’ the porter explained.

Johnny let out a long sigh. ‘I know Theodore is terribly fond of him, and it’s largely why I feel obliged to keep him on, but really? He should have retired years ago. Why work here when he could be at home, enjoying his retirement, pottering about the garden, and playing bowls? – or whatever it is old people do.’

What business the staffing of the auction house was to Theodore, Maisie couldn’t possibly imagine and hoped Johnny’s boyfriend wasn’t the sort of person who knew nothing about the business but still waggled his oar about in the company waters as he rowed past.

‘Perhaps Arthur’s wife doesn’t want him under her feet all day?’ ventured the accounts lady.

‘I fear the poor woman more likely craves respite from his incessant chatter,’ said Johnny.

Or he needs the money, thought Maisie, rather more charitably than the rest, wondering how no one, including her, had missed the old man for two hours.