The Antique Shop - Part 2

The objects are just too dirty to have been found at the back of a cupboard and cleaned to be sold. There is a wornness to them which indicates use and intimacy. They have the look of things loved and cared for, which have been looked upon with affection every day. There is a far off dreaminess to her eyes as she looks at each object on the counter. Her eyes reflect a thousand memories, a million associations. She runs her fingers tenderly over each piece. Her eyes darken.
– I’m not sure if you would take these? What do you think?
Her is voice is a little flat, and inside I beg the shopkeeper to say he can’t sell any of them. He picks up each object in turn, glaring at them critically, accusing them of pretending value.
– I’ll give you R100 for the lot. There aren’t many people interested in this kind of stuff. I can maybe find a buyer for one or two of the pieces. Best offer.
His tone doesn’t invite bargaining, and her face blanches at what he’s offering, though she quickly masks it with a smile.
One he coldly returns.
I can see the battle she’s waging, weighing up their loss to the money she so badly needs. The shopkeeper can see it too, and is enjoying himself immensely.
– I rather thought they’d be worth more than that. Are you quite sure that’s all they’re worth?
– I’m sure. I run a business here. I have overheads. It’s the best I can do.
It breaks my heart as I picture her going through the last of her treasures at home, weeping over each one quietly. It really hits home. I remember my own mother selling off trinkets from around the house so she could buy groceries when I was young, though I never saw the ritual on this end. I’m suddenly grateful I never had to see her gamely finding the courage to sell off another precious possession to one day regret, this calculation of short-term gain versus long-term loss. I’m glad I never had to witness the shame a shopkeeper like this would make her feel. Though maybe if I had seen it I would have grown up less selfish, helped out around the house some more. My cheeks redden with guilt, and I’m embarrassed that I’m witness to a moment so hurtful as this.
– Well, Christmas is such an expensive time of year. Every little bit helps.
She affects a cheerful chuckle, but her back is rigid. I wonder if she is fighting back tears? The shopkeeper rings it up and hands her a couple of notes. He’s smiling. She takes his money without a word and walks out the shop. I notice that she doesn’t look at the possessions she just left behind. I feel completely ashamed that I watched the entire transaction go through without stepping in and somehow making a difference. I feel like a teenager again, rooted to the floor at school as a bully picks on me, dreaming of saying something clever to say, but only offering my silence and the shame of being the nerdy kid. We all play our roles.
The shopkeeper’s chuckling brings me back to the present. He looks more vile now than he did when I walked in.
– How much?
Was that my voice?
– Huh?
Before I know it I’m standing in front of the counter.
– How much for all the stuff that lady just brought in?
He arches an eyebrow and looks me up and down.
– It’s hard to say. I’ll have to compare it to some of the pieces I already have in stock. A grand, grand and a half?
My face feels hot. It’s such a small act in the great scheme of things, but this injustice makes me feel a rage I’ve never known before. It’s the same feeling I get when I watch a movie or read a book which chronicles people being taken advantage of, leaving me angry and despairing but frustrated in my inability to do anything. That frustration, however, is a stranger now.
– I’ll give you R100.
– Who do y--
– I’m not bargaining.
He looks me up and down, measures me for my fairly unathletic body and weighs it against the look in my eye.
– What are you going to do, catch up to that lady and give her back her things? Will that help? She’ll just flog them to another place as soon as she needs groceries again. You come in here ogling all the things in my shop. How do you think most of it got here? Desperate people like her. It’s the way it is.
He stiffens and stares me in the eye.
– Now, unless you have a grand, get the hell out of my shop.
I don’t know what to do. To just leave will be to admit defeat, but I can’t let this guy take advantage of someone so desperate.
– Do you accept debit cards?
The man relaxes somewhat and smirks at me.
– Sure.
As he turns to reach for his card machine, I scoop up the pieces on the counter and sprint for the door. My mind is screaming that I’m going to be caught and arrested, but before I can change my mind I’m at the door, which mercifully did not click shut when the old lady left. I can barely hear the shopkeeper’s cursing over the blood pumping through my ears, and I don’t turn around to see if he’s following me.
The street is busy. Holiday shoppers throng Long Street. I realise that I must look like the stereotypical shoplifter, arms filled with booty, feet slapping the pavement, scattering people. I even knock into someone and they drop their bags. Gifts roll onto the floor. I would laugh at the gimmickiness of the getaway cliché but I’m too scared to think about anything other than getting out of sight of the antique shop.
I turn left down a little side street which is fairly empty and lean against a wall, my lungs complaining bitterly with every breath. I should really get more exercise. As I catch my breath I start to think about the implications of what I’ve done and wonder why I did it. The only way any good can come of this is if I can find the old lady and give her her treasures. It takes a moment before I realise it’s going to be almost impossible to find her in this crowd, and that’s if she’s still around. She might be on her way to Simonstown now for all I know. Or Graaf-Reniet. What the hell am I doing?

*There's more to come!*
© William Edgcumbe