The Cutting Room (2 page)

She slid a jumble of keys across the table.

`Come and go as you need. I’ll trust you to secure the

house.’

`Well, if it’s going to get done, I may as well start now.

What about personal effects - papers, letters, anything of a private nature you might want to keep? Have you been

through them with someone already??

‘My brother had a study on the ground floor. I’ll continue

to work through that myself.’

`Okay. If there’s anything we think you may want to see

we’ll bring it to you there.’

I turned to go. I wasn’t looking forward to the phone call I was about to make; three weeks’ work to be done in one and

the usual sale only three days away.

`Mr Rilke.’

I halted, my hand resting on the door jamb. She was staring

at me hard, hesitating, as if she was trying to make up her

mind about something.

`My brother had a second office at the top of the house. He

had the attic floored and worked up there when he wanted

total peace. It’s one of those pull-down-ladder arrangements, too much for me. I would be grateful if you would work on

that yourself. I don’t think there will be anything of interest to me, more fuel for the bonfire I suspect, but I would appreciate your discretion.’

`You have it.’

I gave her my best smile, the one that flashes gold, and

made my way upstairs.

I hate a death.

Especially a recent death with the grief - or greed - still

fresh.

Dealing with the bereaved is a strain. As the man said, you

never know what to expect. I have packed away lifetimes

while daughters watched me and cried. I have seen siblings

feud over trifles, the earth still fresh on their parent’s grave.

How Miss McKindless felt about her brother’s death I wasn’t

sure

I made my phone call. It went no better than I’d

anticipated. I promised to come in at five and explain

myself. The rest of the afternoon would be spent on a

rough inventory - furniture, paintings and miscellaneous objets d’art to be removed first. Rule number one: always move the good stuff first; that way you won’t lose it or drop it, and if the deal falls through, you may still get something.

The crew arrived at two, mutinous at the prospect of double

shifts. I jollied them into a semblance of good humour - told them I was sure it would be thirsty work. I could see my

commission ending up down their throats come the end of the

week. When they saw what we had, they quietened down. The

job was big. It was a while since we’d had a whole town house and the tight schedule meant we’d need extra hands - the usual unemployed sons, brothers, cousins, dragged away from their

beds and daytime soaps for cash in hand.

And it was good. Better than good. Antiques of that calibre

hadn’t seen the inside of a Glasgow saleroom for years, hadn’t seen Bowery Auctions ever.

My apprenticeship had been served in an atmosphere of

regret. The regret of my elders at the passing of `the good

stuff’, the Georgian silver, treasures and spoils of empire that according to CP had littered the salerooms of his day. I’d

rolled my eyes and cursed him for an old man. Now I

mourned junk-shop Victorians and art-deco bibelots. I missed the street hawkers and book barrows of Paddy’s Market’s

prime, shook my head at what passed for quality, and pitied

youth. The best was not yet to come. It had vanished for ever.

Or so I had thought.

I wandered through silent rooms, whistling under my

breath. Scribbling an inventory dotted with stars and exclamations.

Trailing my fingers along the perfect grain of

furniture old when Victoria was a girl. Opening drawers to

reveal trays of rare coins, stamp collections neatly hinged in albums, jewellery pouched in velvet bags, faceted crystal

wrapped in tissue, good silver and fine linen of a sort found only in old houses. His sister must be the last of the line, crippled by taxes or on the lam. She was selling the heirlooms too fast, too cheap. It should have smelt wrong but my senses were overwhelmed. I kept right on going, as pleased as

Aladdin when he first rubbed that lamp and discovered his

Genie.

Still, impressed as I was, I did notice an absence. Usually you get a feel for the person who used to live in the house you’re clearing - little things, style, a mode of living. You find

photographs, souvenirs and keepsakes. Their books reveal

interests, and inside their books are clues: tickets for a train taken every day; cinema stubs; theatre programmes; letters.

I’ve found pressed flowers, leaflets from Alcoholics Anonymous, birthday cards, the bottle behind the wardrobe, love

notes, cruel letters from the bank, baby’s curls, the leash of a dog long dead, neglected urns, whips, library books years overdue, size-twelve stilettos in a bachelor’s apartment. Of Mr McKindless I was no wiser by the end of the day than I’d been at the beginning. There was a sterility to the collection, an almost self-conscious expense about the dead man’s possessions.

Everything said: I am a very rich man; nothing more. I

found one crimp-edged photograph. A black-and-white image

of a stern, ba’-faced man. His eyes looked out at me piercing, frozen. I shivered. Well, I didn’t take that good a photograph myself. The inscription on the back read Roderick, 1947. I put the photograph absently in my pocket, then left the crew

under the tutelage of my head porter, Jimmy James, and

made my way back to Bowery Auctions.

It was dusk. Not five o’clock yet, but the light was fading, streets lamps glowing into life, small squares of shop windows illuminated. I crept the van along the Great Western Road, an inch behind the car in front. In the window of Zum Zum

Fabrics three high-quiffed dummies cut dance poses, sheathed in silks and brocade. A couple had rung the bell of the

jeweller’s next door and now stood rapt over trays of dowry

gold. African drumming gone funky drifted from Solly’s Fruit & Fine Veg. The traffic eased onto the bridge and me with it.

Beneath the orange U of the underground hot air turned to

steam. Commuters disappeared into the sudden mist, some

reappearing on the other side, others taking the glowing

caterpillar tunnel that leads beneath the river and disappearing from view. The cab radio drifted from music to news…

Things were still bad in Ireland, they were still fighting in Palestine, and Tories and Labour still disagreed. A boy had

been stabbed outside a football ground, a toddler lost, a

prostitute murdered.

I looked across the bridge and into the darkening afternoon.

The last shades of light were fading into grey, night beginning to veil the park-land. I thought of my boyhood when chemicals

foamed the Clyde and every sunset had been a tainted, pyrotechnic blaze. Bowery Auctions stood outlined against the sky

like the hull of a mammoth upturned ship, four red-brick storeys swelling into the curved flank of tiled roof. The third floor was lit. Rose Bowery would be waiting for me.

It had started to rain; water dripped into the well at the

bottom of the ancient elevator shaft. I hailed the lift and

listened to the clamber of clattering chains as it descended.

The tired grille creaked as a hand from within concertinaed it back.

They were the perfect couple, a rare balance of fat and thin which weighed together would equal two right-sized men.

Their worn complexions, dirt-grained collars and creased

jumble-sale suits spoke of late-hour, long-drinking nights and blank stumbles into unmade beds. Fats carried a sheaf of

papers stuffed carelessly into a folder. Skinny made do with carrying himself. They stepped by me, lowering guilty eyes. I watched them go, wondering who they were collecting for,

and if this would be the day the lift stranded me between

floors. If it was, Rose Bowery would probably leave me there until an object of value came along. The lift juddered to a halt, I eased back the metal grille, the heavy outer door crashed open and there was Rose.

If Maria Callas and Paloma Picasso had married and had a

daughter she would look like Rose. Black hair scraped back from her face, pale skin, lips painted torture red. She smokes Dunhill, drinks at least one bottle of red wine a night, wears black and has never married. Four centuries ago Rose would

have been burnt at the stake and some days I think I would

have been in the crowd cheering the action along. They call

her the Whip; you might think she likes the name, she

encourages it so. Rose and I have worked together since Joe

Bowery died twenty years ago. I have never been so close to a woman, never wanted to be.

`So, Rilke, tell me why we are about to do three weeks’

work in one?’

I settled myself on the edge of a 1960s dressing table and

fingered a black hollow where a cigarette had burnt away the veneer.

`No choice, Rose. It’s good stuff. We’ll do well. It was

take it or leave it.’

`And you thought that was a decision you could make on

your own??

‘Yes.’

`Rilke, when my father left me his share in this auction

house it was little better than a junk mart and organised fence.

What is it now? I raised my eyebrows; never interrupt the

litany. `It’s the best auction house in Glasgow. But it’ll not stay the best if you do things like this. There is no way we can shift that amount of stuff in a week.’

`Wait till you see it. We can shift it, Rose.’

`We can shift it, Rose. There’s no we about it. You made this decision all on your owney-oh. What if I’d arranged something else??

‘But you haven’t.’

`Lucky for you. But I could have. You’ve never grown up if anything you regress a little every year. It’s going to be a real push to manage this job in the time allocated. What if I had got something else? Whenever I think you’re calming down

something happens and I’m visiting the police station or

the hospital. Sometimes I think you’re the reason I never

had kids, I’ve been lumbered with you since I was eighteen.’

She turned away. `Jesus, it’s been some bloody afternoon.’

`The reason you never had kids, Rose, is you would

strangle them in the first week. But if you’ve changed your

mind we could probably have them together. I owe you that

much. You’re forever getting me out of trouble and I never

have to hit anyone in your defence or mind you when you’re

on a tear.’

`Ach.’ She waved my words away. `Do you not think I

should have been consulted??

‘It was take it or leave and it’s unbelievable stuff. Christ knows why they’ve called us in, but be glad they have. This

could make us, and if we pull our finger out we can do it in a week. Look around you. What’s in here right now?

The room had the dead feeling common to public buildings

when empty of people. Without the activity of a sale it was a ghost of itself, an echoing shell. There was a junk of heavy oak furniture, monstrosities too big for modern apartments,

boxes of soiled drapery and bric-a-brac. Six large wardrobes stood like upright coffins against the far wall.

`For God’s sake, Rose, look at those wardrobes. The Sally

Ann had a sign in their window last week, Buy one wardrobe, get another one free.’

`We’ve had better sales.’

`Woolworth’s has had better sales. It’s sad, Rose, sad.

Crap furniture for DHSS landlords and it’s been like that for weeks, months. This is good stuff, the best. I’ve seen it,

you’ve not. We can shift it, but only if we stop arguing and get moving.’

Rose had taken out her cigarettes while I was talking and

was searching in her handbag for her lighter. I caught a

glimpse of make-up, black nylons, a packet of tampons, a

sheaf of unpaid invoices, a dog-eared paperback, before she

caught me watching and gave me a quick, sharp look. I took

out a book of matches and sparked her up.

`Thank you.’ Her tone was not entirely sincere.

`I saw your visitors leaving.’

Rose took a long drag on her cigarette, and shook her head.

`When I was a girl I thought all sheriffs would look like Alan Ladd.’

`Problem??

‘The usual. We turn over a lot, but the money we get stays

the same while the price of everything else goes up. I asked the council for time to find last quarter’s rates. They told me, no favours.’

`This could solve that.’

Rose took a deep breath and dredged up a smile. I knew

her well enough to know she was miserable, and I appreciated the effort.

`All right,’ she said, `shall we have a drink while you tell me about it?’

`I thought you were giving up during the day?’

`It’s been a hard day. Anyway it’s after five.’ She went into

the back office and returned with a bottle of wine already two glasses low in the mark. `Here, you’re allowed one when

you’re driving, aren’t you?

She polished a tumbler on the edge of her skirt and handed

it to me.

`Rose, did you just take this out of one of the boxes? I nodded towards the cartons of bric-a-brac under the centre table.

`It’s clean. Christ, I remember a time when you weren’t

bothered whether you had a glass or not, so long as there was some alcohol on the go. Now drink up and tell me all about

it.’

And I did. Pleased with my prize, laying it at her feet,

never once thinking where it might lead us.

The roses every one were red,