Part 1

There is an old lady in my street that everyone knows as Grandma Gum. She is something of a hermit, and her house is tattered with unkempt gardens: weeds and brambles clawing their way over stone paths and decaying trellises. She is rarely seen by day but by night her silhouette dances in time with waltzes and foxtrots that play upon an old gramophone.

Grandma is bent double with osteoporosis. She creaks with arthritis and moans from bursitis. Her skin is thin, stretching deep lines made of laughter and from crying. She has knotted swollen joints, liver spots and dentures that hold loosely to her gums. They flip-flap up and down when she laughs. When she talks they slip gently, drawing lines of pooled saliva in her smile and making her slur. She has a smell of old porridge, sometimes mixed with urine; and she wears old taffeta, sometimes corduroy, surgical stockings, and orthopaedic sandals secured with Velcro that catch along the carpet making her zip when she walks.

Grandma has a dachshund named Albert who never leaves the house. He leaves presents on the carpet and barks intermittently at shadows during the night. She feeds him baked dinners brought to her by Betty who visits each night with dinner and the pills.

They sit in the drawing room, sipping tea from bone china, looking through the same old photographs, week after week, until Betty has to leave. Leaving Grandma Gum alone.

Grandma likes to make lace doilies with crochet hooks. And she knits woolen coat hangers for church markets, which no one seems to buy. She sits in the front pew at Sunday service and complains when she can’t hear the priest, asking him to "speak up" unashamedly.

As children, we were afraid of Grandma Gum. She would talk to us as we passed beside her fence and we would run away quickly. Sometimes she’d catch us as we climbed her fence to retrieve our ball. She’d wave her stick at us, then phone our parents who made us knock on her door to apologize to her face…Knock, Knock… She would stare at us through cataract eyes - shaking her head and holding her tongue forward in her mouth as though she was preparing for communion.

We’d be invited in for cake, which mother would accept on all of our behalf then we’d follow her through dusted hallways into the shuttered drawing room where we’d hold our breath to stop the smell from reaching our throat, if it did it would make us cough.

Grandma Gum would sit in her chair and rock to and fro. Mother would make small talk about the business of the neighborhood, and we’d gaze around the room: transfixed by ancient plates and statues, lamps and lights and photographs that looked like ghostly images in dark brown and white.

The men had large moustaches and they wore funny hats and coats with stripes and plaid. The women wore large dresses and serious faces and broaches and bonnets around their head. Albert slept before the fire and from time to time he’d wake and bark loudly before returning to sleep.

Grandma Gum would listen to Mothers news. Her ear would turn towards mother as she spoke and she would nod up and down as she listened. Occasionally her head would fall and we’d hear a long slow snore, which Mother would ignore and she’d continue speaking as if nothing had happened. If Grandma’s mouth fell open, we’d see her dentures slip to rest against her lower lip. Sometimes she’d pull them out whilst we were there and leave them swimming in a glass before Mother would help her into bed.

Part 2

It was midday on a Sunday afternoon when Grandma Gum heard knocking at the door. She rose slowly from her seat, gathered her stick and limped along the hallway whose floorboards creaked gently as she passed.

The door did not open easily, four heavy locks begrudgingly unbolted before the door swung four inches and the safety chain caught its pendulous swing. The day was bright although you could not tell so from inside. The sun shone through clouds, which held loosely in the skies and washed backward and forwards like a tide. The street was quiet except for the playful sound of children in the background, and traffic in the distance. A white delivery van was parked on Grandma Gum’s unkempt lawn. A series of footprints led from it to the front door where a peculiar man stood waiting.

"William Pedderson of the Pembrokeshire Antiquities Society," said the man’s voice as he pushed a business card through the narrow gap.

Grandma Gum looked slowly past the chain.

"Can’t read that!" she croaked.

"William Pedderson, at your service, Madam."

"My service?"

Pedderson was a tall, thin man aged in his fifties. His hair was not so much in recession as clinically depressed. You see the thinning had occurred uniformly; patches of cool pink skin peaked from beneath the wiry ginger covering of his egg-shaped head. He wore a suit, which in its day must have been the height of fashion. Alas this was not that day for it hung on his pot bellied form like an old lizard’s skin. His skin was pale and speckled with light ginger freckles. He stood with the gangling grace of a marionette, giving the impression that his spindly bones could fail him at any moment; allowing him to fall to the ground. His face wore deep lines yet his expression was cut with certainty and assurance. He had the smile of a vicar, the eyes of a weasel and the honeyed tongue of a salesman with well-rounded vowels and many practiced speeches.

"Madam, I ask for but a moment of your time."

Grandma Gum began to close the door.

"It could be to your advantage," said Pedderson.

He lodged his foot firmly in the doorway, until Grandma Gum unbolted the chain. He edged his way gently inside until he was face to face with Grandma Gum.

The air was stifling and for a moment Pedderson caught his breath and adjusted his eyes to the darkness. Grayness enveloped the room in the same way smoke fills the air, leaving its smell, taste and its smoky residue upon everything it touches. The crimson carpet seemed coated in gray dust. So too did the walnut hat stand, which held coats and umbrellas covered with the same gray hue. Grandma Gum pulled the curtain to banish the light, then led him by the elbow to the front room.

"You sit there, Mr. Pickwick"

"I beg your pardon Madam?"

"It really is nice of you to visit me Mr. Pickwick. I don’t have many visitors."

"Really?"

"You’ll stay for tea, wont you?" said Grandma Gum. Then she rose from her chair and walked slowly into the kitchen.

Part 3

Pedderson’s Antiques and Collectable’s sat at the northern end of Kensington Church Street near Notting Hill Gate. It was a small cluttered shop filled with rare obscure items of considerable value. The type of shop through which one could spend an entire afternoon, exploring and sorting through the items (the ones that weren’t locked safely behind glass), or staring at them in pure amazement of their construction and quality.

The shop was patronized by the crème de la creme of London society, and many a renowned hallway or dining room boasted a "Pedderson’s Relic", as the shops wares soon became known.

The proprietor, William Pedderson, was an oddity. However the quality of his wares and the reputation of his shop ensured his popularity within the ranks of society.

The source of his antiques was a hot topic of conversation. He attended the same auctions and exhibitions as his competition, yet he uncovered items far rarer and more precious than anyone else. It was rumored he had a special arrangement with Sotheby’s to purchase stock prior to auction. Or with the Bank of England, that were alleged to inform him whenever an aristocrat hit hard times and needed to sell an heirloom to make ends meet. The speculation and rumor only added to his reputation and to the success of his little shop.

Pedderson had a secret that he shared with one other person in the world. They would take it to their grave for they owed whatever fame and fortune they had in the world to the little shop where Edwina Pedderson stood proudly in its front window, dusting the newly set display with extravagance whilst glancing secretly at her watch.

"To perfection," she said, as the elongated shadows of Lord and Lady Hawthorne appeared at the corner.

She busied herself as they walked toward the shop, pretending not to see them as they stood before her admiring the new display.

"Lord and Lady Hawthorne!" she exclaimed as she looked around.

They waved enthusiastically, tapping at the window with a cane, then pointing toward the front door.

"Just a moment!" she said, as she climbed carefully over the desk, removed her apron then she paused to adjust her hair in a mirror.

"Lord and Lady Hawthorne! Always such a pleasure!" exclaimed Mrs. Pedderson.

"It’s nice to see you too," barked Lord Percy (who was almost completely deaf).

"Splendid day," said Lady Prunella while glancing judiciously at Mrs. Pedderson’s plain frock.

"Smashing desk. New purchase?" asked Lord Percy.

"William found it last week. We’ve had it with the French polishers since Wednesday. It’s Louis the fourteenth."

"Be a good girl and have William phone me would you?" said Lord Percy. "You don’t know whether he’s had any luck finding me the German clock we spoke of, do you?"

"Hmmm, Hmmm…A word please Mrs. Pedderson," said a voice from behind the Hawthorne’s who turned suddenly about.

"However can I help you Sargent Barnes?" asked Mrs. Pedderson.

"Looking for Mr. Pedderson, Madam. Is he about?"

"You’ll excuse me won’t you?" she said, addressing the Hawthorne’s who were busy looking over the desk.

Part 4

With a quick sweeping glance Pedderson looked about the room, poking his long probing nose into nooks and crannies, shelves and drawers and cabinets, working feverishly about like a hound hunting for scent. His eyes darted madly from place to place following thin pointing fingers, which led him about like a divining rod. He sidestepped cabinets, chairs and tables, pressing feverishly through drawers and shelves: holding up cutlery, china, lead crystal; filing through sideboards of silver and pewter looking for hallmarks or signs of limited edition.

"Not a thing," he said as he rolled his eyes in desperation.

Grandma Gum walked cautiously through the doorway, carrying a tray, which she set upon a large oval table.

Tic-Toc…Tic-Toc…

Grandma settled comfortably into the old Chesterfield sofa. She leaned forward, pouring milk into the china cups before setting a strainer to their edge. She raised the teapot with an elaborate, high-arm swinging motion to pour the sweet smelling tea.

"One lump or two?"

"Two thank you Madam"

Grandma leaned back into the sofa, smiling warmly while Pedderson waited for her to talk. He waited and waited and waited yet she maintained her silence.

"I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced Mrs…" he tried.

"I said that I don’t believe I’ve yet been told your name…"

"Zzzzzzz…Zzzzzzz…" snored Grandma Gum.

The appearance of a small fast moving object distracted Pedderson for a moment. He looked toward his feet where he felt the sudden pinch of razor sharp teeth at his ankle.

"Ahhhh!" he screamed.

"Grrrrrr," Albert growled.

"He likes you! He usually doesn’t like visitors, you know?" Grandma said seriously

With a swift kicking motion Pedderson sent Albert sailing across the room. Into a corner where gnawed at a cushion, snarling himself to sleep.

Gong…Gong…Gong…

Pedderson’s shaking head stopped suddenly. Something tweaked he heard that sound. He concentrated, pursing his lips and his eyes became little more than narrow slits as he searched for its source. He shuffled forward in his seat, revealing mismatched socks & thin hairy ankles as he leaned forward. There was something familiar about it that sound…

Part 5

Mrs Pedderson approved of the constabulary. She encouraged their presence about the neighborhood, acknowledging them with a polite wave; sometimes inviting them in for hot cocoa on cold evenings. At parties she’d remark on the benefits of their presence about the neighborhood. They were good for business. Yes. They reassured the customers and they kept away they riffraff. They were a public service, as long they realized their place. Mrs. Pedderson believed those within a civilized society needed to know their place…

"Perhaps you’d like to come into the office?" said Mrs. Pedderson.

Sargent Barnes followed her through the shop, disturbing a brass statue from a shelf with his truncheon as he passed, then knocking down another as he swung about to retrieve it.

"Leave it! And do please be careful!" she scalded him as she opened the office door, then she pointed to a carved, ornate chair where he was seated while Mrs. Pedderson paced up and down the narrow room.

She closed the door firmly then turned to face him, setting her feet widely and pushing out her chin.

"That was most inappropriate," she said with a scowl.

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Sargent Barnes defensively.

He felt prickles of sweat begin to form upon his brow.

"I was talking to with the Hawthornes and you interrupted me!"

"This is official business Madam"

"Official business?" repeated Mrs. Pedderson with an icy glare as she pulled herself to her full five feet and placed her fists onto her hips.

"Is it official business of the Metropolitan Police to interrupt my business? Is it official business of the Metropolitan Police to interrupt the conversation of a Peer of the House of Lords? Lord Hawthorne is a member, you know?"

"Well Madam…" Sargent Barnes began.

"Who, might I add is a close and personal friend of the Commissioner of Police!"

"Well Madam…"

"I expect that my husband and I shall the Commissioner too. We’ve invited him to dinner and I believe he’d be most interested to hear of your conduct!"

Sargent Barnes was a soft-spoken man with large bushy mustache and pink cheeks that glowed whenever his temperature began to rise. Right now, his cheeks were burning!

He hadn’t wanted to be a policeman. His father was a policeman, as was his grandfather. Sargent Barnes wanted to be a farmer. During times of stress he’d imagine himself standing in a field, looking toward the sunset, smoking a pipe, with a terrier running nearby. These images relaxed him. They helped him to forget…

"Are you listening to me Sargent?" shouted Mrs. Pedderson.

"Madam, it’s about the desk."

The desk?" Mrs. Pedderson answered.

"The desk in the window"

"Yes it’s lovely isn’t it? Now tell me man! Whatever do you wish to know about it?"

He pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it at the middle then pointed to his chubby finger to the narrow scribbled writing.

"You see Madam. It matches the description. I realize that it’s probably just a coincidence however I’m afraid that I’m going to have to a receipt for the item."

"Are you suggesting the desk is stolen?" barked Mrs. Pedderson.

"I’m not suggesting anything Madam, however I will have to take the item pending our investigation unless you can produce a receipt."

"A receipt indeed! William keeps all the receipts…You will take this desk over my dead body!"

"That would not be my preference madam, however…if you could tell me Mr. Pedderson’s whereabouts, I could continue the investigation and perhaps I could leave the desk here. For now, you understand?"

He’s at an auction in Surrey. In Farnham I believe."

"Thank you Madam" said Sargent Barnes as he stood up to leave. "It’s been a pleasure as always."

04/05/2004

Author's Note: A work in progress

Posted on 04/05/2004
Copyright © 2024 Graeme Fielden