The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows Read online

  ‘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.

  Johnny, Maisie and the porter headed to the gents’, a separate brick building with a corrugated metal roof and a brown tile-effect linoleum floor – draughty but functional. A lick of paint and a big mirror would brighten the place up a bit. Perhaps she’d mention it to Johnny later, although she knew she was volunteering herself for another job.

  ‘I’m a daft old bugger. The lock jammed. I panicked, used too much force and the knob came off in my hand, but you can take all associated costs out of my wages and dock the two hours’ pay when I wasn’t working. I don’t want to cost the company money.’ His disembodied voice floated over the cubicle, only a pair of scuffed brown Chelsea boots visible under the door.

  ‘Applying that logic, he’d earn about four pounds fifty a week,’ the porter mumbled.

  ‘Is the lock screwed to the door?’ Maisie called, trying to find a practical solution to the situation as fast as possible.

  ‘Well now, let me see … Yes, little cross-head screws,’ came the reply.

  ‘I’ll grab a Phillips,’ Beardy Man offered and disappeared, returning with the appropriate screwdriver and thrusting it under the gap below the door.

  After much huffing and tutting, it became obvious Arthur couldn’t undo the screws with his arthritic hands.

  ‘That’s it,’ Maisie announced. ‘I’m going over the top. Someone give me a leg up. Stand back, Arthur. I’m coming in.’

  ‘Oh, dah-ling, you aren’t serious,’ said Johnny. And then another stage whisper: ‘You don’t know what you are going to find …’

  She glared at him and he looked slightly abashed, clasping both hands together and bending forward to help her mount the cubicle door by way of an apology.

  One exuberant heave and she was half over the top. She leaned forward, shifting her centre of gravity to help propel herself forward. As her legs lifted, her floaty wool skirt slid towards her waist and revealed her sturdy underwear. Was it better or worse, she wondered for that suspended moment, that she was wearing tights?

  ‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Johnny from the other side, as her kicking legs disappeared over the top. ‘Look away, people. Preserve the dignity of this fair maiden.’ She fell awkwardly to the floor, next to a remorseful Arthur, sitting on the closed lavatory seat, with his head in his hands.

  Two minutes later and she’d liberated the pair of them to embarrassing whoops from the porter.

  ‘Would one of you take the dear fellow to the back office? There’s a comfortable old armchair in the corner somewhere, under a pile of coats. Someone should sit with him for a while and revive his flagging spirits,’ Johnny said.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ volunteered Maisie. ‘Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you a cup of tea. You could do with one, I imagine.’

  Arthur looked over to his rescuer and smiled a watery smile.

  ‘I’m a silly old fool, aren’t I? Don’t know what my Pam will say.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Maisie said. ‘It could have happened to anyone.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Here’s the camera I was talking about.’ Johnny handed Maisie a large, black digital camera. ‘But you might prefer your i-Thingy to upload pictures. A selection of photographs for the catalogue, focusing on our more lucrative items, if you would be so kind.’

  ‘Oh – me? Right.’ Maisie was hoping to crack on with updating the website. There wasn’t even a section detailing staff members – a must if they wanted to create a friendly, family feel about the business.

  ‘Everyone else is so dreadfully busy today. It won’t cause you an unnecessary degree of inconvenience, will it? The lot numbers are already in place, so all you have to do is fly around the saleroom with the speed of Hermes and take some photos of the more interesting pieces. It should be a breeze for someone as capable as your good self.’ Johnny’s round face broke into a charming smile and his fluffy eyebrows gave a little jump. Flatterer, thought Maisie – feeling suitably flattered.

  ‘I mustn’t linger, for I have a probate valuation in Norwich shortly. Deaths and doddery old dears,’ he joked. ‘Families can’t cope with a lifetime of accumulated possessions and are happy for us to dispose of it all – forever hoping there is an undiscovered masterpiece in the attic or some scandalous and valuable correspondence from an illustrious historical figure deposited in the secret drawer of a roll-top desk.’

  ‘And is there, ever?’ she asked. ‘A hidden gem that turns around the fortunes of the family?’

  ‘Closest we ever came was a little Constable sketch. Fetched thousands. The family were so delighted they quite forgot to grieve.’ He winked and slid a gold pocket watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and glanced at it. ‘But I must away – the traffic can be such a bore.’ He tugged on an outsized dark blue Barbour wax jacket, flung the tasselled end of a banana-yellow silk scarf over his shoulder and floated towards the door like an enormous and colourful hot air balloon.

  ‘And you’re still okay with me rearranging things, to get them looking their best?’ Maisie asked. She’d been itching to play about with the salerooms and put her marketing experience into practice, but was conscious of overstepping the mark.

  ‘Absolutely, dah-ling. I told you at the interview, you have carte blanche. We are so terribly behind the times. It’s why you got the job. I knew deep in my very soul you would be the restorative tonic this business needs.’

  Heaving back the huge door to the first saleroom, Maisie squinted to adjust to the dim interior. The day was sunny and bright but, typical of February, the underlying temperatures were colder than the bottom drawer of a freezer in the Arctic. There was a dusty smell, not unpleasant and reminiscent of old hymn books, the church feel accentuated by the loftiness of the barn ceiling and bare walls. Her eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness and then she walked over to the light switches, allowing the artificial blue-white light to invade the space.

  Remembering her lesson from Johnny on how to handle the items (ironically, not by the handle) she took several photographs, marking each item off on the sheet as she did so.

  She was halfway down the second aisle when a shiver of something rippled through her. The sensation came upon her so decidedly that she almost stopped mid-step. Her skin danced as a thousand tiny pinpricks exploded over her arms. It was a feeling she’d experienced many years before and one she’d all but forgotten about. Bending down, she pulled out a box of household objects from under a trestle table, the prickles moving up her arms like an army of inchworms. As she rifled through the mismatched saucers and dated kitchen paraphernalia, something at the bottom caught her eye and her heart gave a funny little jolt of recognition. It was a teapot, nestled between a yellow plastic colander and a cake tin – and one that was startlingly familiar.

  Kneeling on the cold concrete floor, she carefully lifted out the surrounding contents. With one hand about the body of the teapot and the other keeping the lid secure, she placed it on the trestle table and sat back on her heels.

  The china was white but the bold abstract pattern was in black, and it was a good size for a teapot, possibly holding five or six cups of tea. The squiggles and shapes that covered one side and crept over the lid were like jigsaw puzzle pieces, but not quite. And then sections of the pattern tailed off down and round to the predominantly white side – as if pieces of the pattern were drifting away from the whole.

  Her heart was beating like Ben’s thudding kick drum. She knew this teapot of old – she was damn sure of it. There was nothing else in the box that matched it – no china that would imply it was part of a set. But then the one she remembered from her childhood had also been a solitary item. Long-forgotten wo
rds floated into her brain – words the owner of the teapot had said to her all those years ago, and her heart began a slow tattoo.

  ‘It isn’t a set any more and my darling teapot so misses her companions.’

  Chapter 6

  How strange that Meredith Mayhew’s teapot should come up for auction and Maisie should stumble across it. No, strange wasn’t the word; it was disconcerting. Memories flooded back as her thumb traced the pattern around the pot and up the handle. Although not unhappy memories, they sat uncomfortably with her because they took her back to a troubled time in her life nearly twenty years ago …

  Meredith Mayhew had lived next door for as long as Maisie could remember. A funny old dear with tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses either perched on her elegant nose or on her aluminium-coloured shampoo-and-set hair. She always had a neatly pressed collar on her polyester print dress or floral cotton blouse, and there was invariably a string of beads hanging under the collar and around her neck. Sometimes jet black like small, shiny olives; sometimes bright red like ripe cranberries; occasionally, on high days and holidays, iridescent pearls. And, like many older ladies of Maisie’s acquaintance, she always smelled of Parma Violets and talcum powder.

  There were several years of exchanged pleasantries over the garden fence between Meredith and her mother, often as Maisie tumbled cartwheels across the lawn, or sat cross-legged, threading daisy stems together to make chains whilst her mother hung out a never-ending line of cotton tops, branded jeans and more odd socks than she had pegs for. (How is that growing family of yours doing? Oh, you know. Eating me out of house and home. Cue an eye-roll and a flustered expression. You’re always welcome to pop in for a cup of tea. If only I had the time, Meredith, but I never get so much as five minutes to myself …)

  All this changed on a blustery morning in April, as the scampering wind scraped the branches of an overgrown buddleia across the wall outside her bedroom window, even though the day was bright and inviting. A seven-year-old Maisie woke to Zoe perched on the edge of the twin bed, headphones on and staring straight ahead. Competing with the buffeting wind from outside was the sound of someone pummelling on the front door.

  ‘Come on, Bev. Be reasonable.’ The voice was pleady and distant.

  ‘I’ll give you sodding reasonable,’ her mother’s voice shrieked from the hall. Bleary-eyed and half-asleep, Maisie stumbled out of her bedroom to witness her irate mother launching a brown leather shoe out the landing window – three black sacks of clothes and books at her slippered feet.

  ‘Owww. That got me across the shoulder. Look what you’re doing, woman.’ Her dad’s troubled voice floated in through the open window and across to a bemused Maisie. What was Daddy doing on the outside?

  ‘It was meant to land smack bang across your lying, cheating mouth and break a few of those perfect teeth of yours,’ her mother yelled, pulling back a Russian shot putter’s arm, pausing to take considered aim, and launching its companion on a similar trajectory. Open-mouthed, Maisie watched as her mother heaved up one of the sacks and tipped the contents out the window, giving the bag a final shake, before it was caught by a gust of wind and carried into the stratosphere.

  ‘And I’m changing the locks. You’ll have to find somewhere else to live because you aren’t welcome here any longer.’

  ‘Why does Daddy have to live somewhere else?’ Still in her Hello Kitty pyjamas, Maisie returned to her bedroom to ask Zoe what the confusing scene was all about – it was Saturday so neither Lisa nor Ben would surface until the afternoon. Zoe wasn’t quite a teenager like her older siblings but she was at high school so practically a grown-up. She kissed boys and everything.

  ‘He’s got this … friend that Mummy doesn’t like. In fact, she’s only just found out about her. But it’s complicated,’ Zoe sighed.

  Maisie thought about this for a moment and her eyes expanded as she processed the information and its consequences. Inwardly, she resolved to steer clear of that new girl in her class. All showy-offy and sly. Mummy wouldn’t like her at all.

  The verbal warfare continued through the open window as her mother stomped backwards and forwards along the landing, scouring the house to seek out all vestiges of her husband. The lawn was now a colourful and abstract display of one man’s possessions as the owner chased loose sheets of paper across lawns and pavements. Amused neighbours gathered at the edges of their gardens, intrigued by the spectacle, as he repeatedly begged his wife to let him in.

  But the lady was not for turning. Her father eventually scraped together his scattered belongings from the front lawn and drove off in his company car. And Meredith Mayhew, who had remained inside for the duration of the showdown, opened her front door, walked purposefully down to the road, U-turned up her neighbour’s drive and gave the front door three sharp knocks. It was opened by, Maisie’s sobbing mother, floundering around in a world that had collapsed overnight, and in which she was now bereft of adult companionship.

  ‘The offer of tea still stands. The kettle is on and we only have to talk if you want to.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ her mum replied between sobs, and the older lady ushered her down the front path with Maisie trotting behind, determined not to lose both parents during the course of a morning.

  Meredith’s house was the semi attached to their house. Everything was mirrored. And considerably tidier. And smelled less like stinky socks and overused deodorant. As she walked into the kind lady’s living room, Maisie felt all fuzzy and peculiar – a bit like when you had to stand up in assembly and talk to the whole school, and were worried everyone would stare and laugh. She sat on the edge of the floral-patterned sofa, her small feet barely reaching the Chinese rug that covered the centre of the room. Maisie crossed her chubby legs in front of her and then uncrossed them again. They sat in silence for a few moments until Meredith reappeared with a tray.

  ‘Drink this,’ Meredith ordered, picking up a curious black and white teapot and pouring a steaming stream of dark brown tea into a dainty cup. The tulip-shaped cups and saucers matched each other, but didn’t match the pot – Maisie always noticed things like that. ‘It will take the edge off things, Beverley. I promise.’

  Unable to drag her eyes from the teapot, Maisie felt the pricklings become more intense. Meredith looked across at her as Maisie stared, transfixed, and rubbed her small hands up to her shoulders and down to her elbows.

  ‘Are you okay, dear?’ she asked, returning the teapot to the tray. Maisie’s wide eyes followed her movements, as if hypnotized.

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Can you feel something?’ She bent over the little girl, her voice breathy and excited. ‘Gamma used to go all peculiar and tingly whenever she brought out this tea set. She was so insistent it was like a family and should be kept as a whole. “Split the set; split the family,” she used to say. It had been in our family several generations, so she was very attached to it. But then it isn’t a set any more …’ The old lady looked sad, Maisie noticed. ‘And my darling teapot so misses her companions.’

  Maisie shook her head but kept her lips firmly pressed together, not wanting to be associated with a mad, old and long-dead relative of Meredith’s. There was something funny about the teapot, but at seven, she couldn’t even begin to articulate what it might be. And with two grown-ups both staring at her, she wasn’t inclined to try.

  Maisie uncrossed her arms and stared down at her blue T-Bar canvas shoes.

  ‘I think we’ve all got rather more on our minds than a silly old teapot – no offence,’ her mum sniffed.

  ‘Of course. I suppose I always wanted to believe there was something unworldly about the teapot or even that I might feel it too …’ Meredith’s voice tailed off and she placed it back on the tray.

  Maisie’s mum lifted the delicate bone china cup to her trembling lips, eyes red-rimmed and posture defeated, and half-sipped, half-choked on the scalding tea.

  And a silent seven-year-old Maisie tried to ignore the continued prickling sensatio
n, as she watched the pain drain from her mother’s face and her hunched-up shoulders relax.

  ‘Wow,’ said her mum. ‘You’re not wrong, Meredith. That tea is remarkable.’

  Chapter 7

  The saleroom find unnerved Maisie for the remainder of the day. It opened a chapter of memories she’d not allowed herself to dwell on for many years. The divorce had been difficult and drawn-out but the children were shielded to a degree. Ultimately, the Meadows siblings knew they were loved by both parents; Mum’s love a daily dose of kisses to heal grazed knees, broken teenage hearts and academic disappointments. Dad’s love demonstrated by the fun activities he did with them every weekend, facilitated by his bulging wallet. His magnetic personality made him a delight to be around. But then everyone who came across David Meadows fell under his spell. His monumental charm was used to great advantage at work – hence the healthy finances – but more destructively with the female population of the planet – hence the divorce.

  Despite a busy afternoon setting up social media accounts for the company, Maisie felt called back to look at the teapot before she left for home – the blissful ten-minute commute still a novelty. As she wandered towards the centre of the barn, Johnny bumbled in. The pricklings had started as soon as she walked up the middle aisle.

  ‘How are you doing, most magnificent of marketing executives?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together and blowing over them, trying to summon a warming flow of circulation from somewhere. ‘Found something interesting?’ He wandered over to where she was prodding about in the box.

  ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘It’s this teapot …’ She lifted it out and held it aloft.

  Johnny peered over the steel rims of his spectacles. ‘Part of a household clearance from last week. These boxes of odds and sods don’t fetch much. Five to ten, at best.’