customers rummaged, exclaimed, admired and made their discoveries.
And there were discoveries to be made. Declan, as Claudia admitted, had an eye. He loved beauty, variety, oddity. He was extraordinarily knowledgeable in fields of which she knew little. She was as amazed by the things he knew as by the things he didn’t know. Occasionally his findings would be promoted to the front of the shop when he would immediately lose interest in them, but his love for all his acquisitions was fickle. “You do see, Claudia darling, how I had to have it? You do see how I couldn’t not buy?” He would stroke, admire, research, gloat over every acquisition, give it pride of place. But three months later it would have mysteriously disappeared to be replaced by the new enthusiasm. There was no attempt at display; objects were jumbled together, the worthless and the good. A Staffordshire commemorative figure of Garibaldi on a Horse, a cracked Bloor Derby sauce tureen, coins and medals, stuffed birds underdomed glass, sentimental Victorian watercolours, bronze busts of Disraeli and Gladstone, a heavy Victorian commode, a pair of art-deco gilt wood chairs, a stuffed bear, a heavily encrusted German air force officer’s cap.
She had said, examining the latter: “What are you selling this as, property of the late Field Marshal Hermann Goering?”
She knew nothing about his past. Once he had said in a broad and unconvincing Irish accent, “Sure, aren’t I just a poor Tipperary boy, my ma dead and my pa off God knows where,” but she didn’t believe it. There was no hint to background or family in his light, carefully cultivated voice. When they were married—if they were married—she supposed that he would tell her something about himself, and if not she would probably ask. At present an instinct warned her that it was unwise and kept her silent. It was difficult to imagine him with an orthodox past life, parents and siblings, school, a first job. It sometimes seemed to her that he was an exotic changeling who had spontaneously materialized in that crowded back room, reaching out acquisitive fingers to the objects of past centuries, but himself having no reality except in the present moment.
They had met six months earlier, sitting in adjacent seats in the tube on a day when there had been a major breakdown on the Central Line. During the seemingly interminable wait before they were instructed to leave the train and make their way along the track, he had glanced at her copy of the
Independent
and, when their eyes had met, had smiled apologetically and said: “I’m sorry, it’s rude I know, but I’m slightly claustrophobic. I always find it easier to cope with these delays when I have something to read. Usually I have.”
She had replied, “I’ve finished with it. Do have it. Anyway I’ve got a book in my briefcase.”
So they had sat together, both reading, neither speaking, but she had been very aware of him. She told herself that this was a result of tension and of a touch of fear. When the instructions to leave the train had at last come there was no panic, but it had been a disagreeable experience and for some very frightening. One or two comedians had reacted to the tension with attempts at crude humour and loud laughter, but most had endured in silence. There had been an elderly woman sitting close to them in obvious distress and they had half-carried her between them, helping her along the track. She told them that she had a heart condition and was asthmatic and was afraid that the dust in the tunnel might cause an attack.
When they reached the station and had left her in the care of one of the nurses on duty, he had turned to Claudia and said: “I think we deserve a drink. I need one anyway. Shall we find a pub?”
She had told herself that there was nothing like a common peril followed by a shared benevolence to promote intimacy and knew that it would be wiser now to say goodbye and be on her way. Instead she
And there were discoveries to be made. Declan, as Claudia admitted, had an eye. He loved beauty, variety, oddity. He was extraordinarily knowledgeable in fields of which she knew little. She was as amazed by the things he knew as by the things he didn’t know. Occasionally his findings would be promoted to the front of the shop when he would immediately lose interest in them, but his love for all his acquisitions was fickle. “You do see, Claudia darling, how I had to have it? You do see how I couldn’t not buy?” He would stroke, admire, research, gloat over every acquisition, give it pride of place. But three months later it would have mysteriously disappeared to be replaced by the new enthusiasm. There was no attempt at display; objects were jumbled together, the worthless and the good. A Staffordshire commemorative figure of Garibaldi on a Horse, a cracked Bloor Derby sauce tureen, coins and medals, stuffed birds underdomed glass, sentimental Victorian watercolours, bronze busts of Disraeli and Gladstone, a heavy Victorian commode, a pair of art-deco gilt wood chairs, a stuffed bear, a heavily encrusted German air force officer’s cap.
She had said, examining the latter: “What are you selling this as, property of the late Field Marshal Hermann Goering?”
She knew nothing about his past. Once he had said in a broad and unconvincing Irish accent, “Sure, aren’t I just a poor Tipperary boy, my ma dead and my pa off God knows where,” but she didn’t believe it. There was no hint to background or family in his light, carefully cultivated voice. When they were married—if they were married—she supposed that he would tell her something about himself, and if not she would probably ask. At present an instinct warned her that it was unwise and kept her silent. It was difficult to imagine him with an orthodox past life, parents and siblings, school, a first job. It sometimes seemed to her that he was an exotic changeling who had spontaneously materialized in that crowded back room, reaching out acquisitive fingers to the objects of past centuries, but himself having no reality except in the present moment.
They had met six months earlier, sitting in adjacent seats in the tube on a day when there had been a major breakdown on the Central Line. During the seemingly interminable wait before they were instructed to leave the train and make their way along the track, he had glanced at her copy of the
Independent
and, when their eyes had met, had smiled apologetically and said: “I’m sorry, it’s rude I know, but I’m slightly claustrophobic. I always find it easier to cope with these delays when I have something to read. Usually I have.”
She had replied, “I’ve finished with it. Do have it. Anyway I’ve got a book in my briefcase.”
So they had sat together, both reading, neither speaking, but she had been very aware of him. She told herself that this was a result of tension and of a touch of fear. When the instructions to leave the train had at last come there was no panic, but it had been a disagreeable experience and for some very frightening. One or two comedians had reacted to the tension with attempts at crude humour and loud laughter, but most had endured in silence. There had been an elderly woman sitting close to them in obvious distress and they had half-carried her between them, helping her along the track. She told them that she had a heart condition and was asthmatic and was afraid that the dust in the tunnel might cause an attack.
When they reached the station and had left her in the care of one of the nurses on duty, he had turned to Claudia and said: “I think we deserve a drink. I need one anyway. Shall we find a pub?”
She had told herself that there was nothing like a common peril followed by a shared benevolence to promote intimacy and knew that it would be wiser now to say goodbye and be on her way. Instead she
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