The Antique Shop - Part 6

At least the little work I do is vaguely interesting. A magazine emailed me about covering the signing of a charter and budget vote speech in parliament today. At first the very word parliament made me shiver (Parliament Live was about the only thing that ever seemed to be on TV when I had school holidays. The scourge of not having M-Net.) but now that I think about it I’m really interested to see what goes down in person. I’m not particularly interested in politics, but to visit the halls where laws have been written and the entire history of South Africa has been shaped is a real opportunity.
I put on the one collared shirt and tie I own. I carefully slip the tie over my head so as not to undo the same Windsor knot that it’s been in for the last few years. I never could quite get the hang of it. My brother did this particular knot for me just before my graduation. My brother-
-I’ve tried not think about him or anyone else in my family but it just can’t be done. Everything I own, every association I have is wound through at least one of them in some way. No matter what subject flits through my mind, there is always an aspect that relates to them, even if only colliding at a tangent. I can’t think about this now. I’m going to be late. It’s nice to have an excuse to be somewhere, otherwise I’d end up sitting in my flat feeling sorry for myself.
I hate running late, but I seem to manage it every time. There’s no parking anywhere near the entrance to Parliament and I circle the block five times before I spot someone pulling out of a space in a little side alley. I run to the entrance and inside I’m met with classic bureaucratic lack of interest. Running the metal detector at the door are two portly police officers whose arteries have surely seen better days. The one doesn’t look up – I think she’s sleeping, but her partner looks up at me with bored eyes and holds my gaze for what must be fifteen seconds.
– Yes?
I baulk initially, because it only seems obvious that I want to come in.
– I’m here for the media briefing with the Minister of Minerals and Energy?
He sighs deeply and I can smell potato and boerewors. Any hunger pangs I might have developed for the next few hours wilt.
– Plees put all of your contents of your pockets in vis tray and step fru vis metal detector.
His accent makes me think of being trapped in Richards Bay just hours before a Steve Hofmeyr concert. I empty out my pockets and walk through the metal detector. The sleeping officer has managed to drool on her right shoulder. It’s a heart-warming sight and lifts my spirits just a little. I come to a bank of clerks sitting behind a long desk and join the queue. As soon as one of the clerks is free I walk up to him.
– Hi, I’m here for the media briefing?
– Sir, would you please wait to be called?
The guy behind the desk is the antithesis of the crack squad monitoring the metal detector. His suit is immaculate, his moustache trimmed to exactly the same width all the way along his top lip and he wears his glasses on the tip of his nose. I catch a whiff of the-lowly-clerk-on-a-power-trip and regret being next in line.
– Uh, okay.
I walk back to the front of the queue and turn around.
– Next.
I feel my blood begin to boil at his pettiness and walk over to him again.
– Name? Company? Identification?
I strain to answer all his questions politely and hand over my ID book. I try not to show my impatience – I’m already about half an hour late, but I know that as soon as he senses I’m in a rush he’ll be only too stoked to hold me up even more. He squints at my ID book, then at me, then at my book, then at me again. I’m sixteen in my ID photo, but not much has changed except for the patchy fluff I charitably call a beard when I look in the mirror. I decide to make light conversation to butter him up.
– Funny picture, hey?
– Sir, there is nothing funny about government documents.
I sigh and settle in for the long haul. More people are queuing up behind me, all looking harassed. I wonder if they’re also late for the briefing. The administrator doesn’t fail to notice that a longer queue has formed and his thin lips widen just a centimetre or two in what is barely recognisable as a smile.
He s-l-o-w-l-y opens a book, tears off a slip and copies the details from my ID onto it. I’ve seen calligraphers give less attention to their work. He finally closes my book and hands it and the slip to me without a word.
– Next.
As soon as I’m out of his line of sight I break into a trot. I go up a small flight of stairs and am greeted by yet another metal detector. With all the x-rays I’ll be passing through today I’m sure I’ll glow in the dark tonight. I wander through a few passages before finally stumbling across the meeting room I’m supposed to be in. I slip through the door and take a seat next to the wall. The Minister of Minerals and Energy fixes his eyes on me from across the table and I quickly look away. With just one glance he made me feel like a shamed schoolboy speaking to a headmaster after being caught cheating in an exam.
The room isn’t big – it has just enough space to fit a twenty-seater conference table, though there are people sitting on chairs against the wall on either side. I take out my notepad and start jotting down what the minister says. I don’t really have any context for what I’m supposed to be reporting on, but thankfully someone hands me a press release and copy of the budget speech the Minister will be delivering just now. I glance at the people in the room. Some are clearly journalists – no matter what events I cover, you can always spot the other journalists because they look like total slobs. I’m not particularly debonair, but at least I give a fraction of a damn about my appearance. Journalists are that special breed of person who know that they’re there to report, not to impress, and so can wear whatever the hell they like. They don’t have to answer to anyone they interview and use their independence as a license to act as they please. Sitting on the end of the table next to the minister are two or three textbook examples of reporters. I count one greasy ponytail, two stained t-shirts, one collared shirt only buttoned half way up with a gold chain nestled in some stunningly lavish chest hair, and three unshaven chins. I just know that as soon as they all stand up, at least one of them will be wearing parachute material tracksuit pants, probably lavender in colour.
Each journo asks questions which lie somewhere between probing and obtuse for the sake of it. They speak to the Minister in sneering tones of disdain, and I notice the lackeys around the Minister flinch each time a question is asked. I can tell that they wished they had the impunity to speak to him so frankly. The Minister seems unperturbed and answers each question confidently. It’s difficult not feel a little awe at the ease with which he responds to questions which accuse him of gross incompetence.
Everyone else in the room looks thoroughly bored. They’re all well dressed and look to belong to some tier of government or other. One guy picks his nose. Another doodles vapidly on a piece of paper. I suddenly realise that I should be taking notes and start scribbling so furiously that I don’t notice more people enter the room. It’s only as I hear Japanese that I look up in surprise. The Minister is shaking hands with three Japanese men. As they talk and a fourth man translates, I notice an older woman who must have come in with them. She is wearing a black suit and has cold, dead eyes. I know her from somewhere. I’m sure of it.
She flicks her eyes to me and I know where I’ve seen her before. She’s the old lady from the antique shop.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 5

It’s at least another hour before I fall asleep. I keep seeing that poor guy’s face when he was getting beaten up. There was such a strange look in his eyes, like a kind of resigned fear. I think he knew his fate the moment he snatched that bag. I think that despite how inexorable the result, it was a decision he had to make. I wonder how desperate he is. I wonder if he’s just an ordinary guy whose every effort at making a living has failed and he had to turn to crime or slowly starve. I wonder if we’d be kinder to criminals if we knew their stories. But then again, maybe he is a scumbag. Maybe he’s lazy. Maybe he would feel nothing plunging a blade between someone’s ribs for a cell phone. It’s so difficult to be truly empathetic, because you just never know who deserves it. Though who’s to say who deserves what? Those jocks that beat him up have probably date-raped girls before, drunkenly kicked the crap out of a gay dude or slept around behind their girlfriends’ backs. Which crime is greater – that of necessity or of simple wantonness? Why can’t there ever be clear-cut answers?
I love this country, but it’s so troubling sometimes. It was a small thing, but a while back I was driving along and saw a guy who’d blown a tire on the side of the road. He pleaded with me to stop but I dropped my eyes and drove right past because I’ve heard too many stories about blown tires being setups for hijackings. It feels like no one can feel free to be kind here anymore because the risk is just too great. Or is it? Is it worth living in a place where simple acts of help don’t exist? Maybe those very small acts are completely worth the risk of theft or death. Without them, we live in such a dehumanised place.
Ever since my life got turned upside down I feel like I’ve been swimming through jelly. Nothing seems real any more. What I wouldn’t give to be ten years old again, scuffing my feet outside, scurrying up trees, riding my bike like the devil around the garden, hurling insults and sand clogs at my brother. Where did that child go? At what moment did he scamper away and leave me suddenly older, self-aware? I guess there’s been too much tragedy recently to even warrant at guessing an answer. I think about reading the letters again. I told myself I wouldn’t, but right now I need them. Fortunately before I can, sleep comes and gently carries me away somewhere else, somewhere deep into the night, somewhere sacred, mine, where sadness cannot touch me.

I wake with the sun on my face. I must have forgotten to close the curtains in the night. There are two tall trees outside, and the sun shines through them like a dandelion in negative. Why is the sun shining? It’s unfair that it should be so bright when I feel like this. It’s not right that there are families eating breakfast together now, or newlyweds delightedly surprised to wake up next to each other on honeymoon. I scold myself for thinking like a morbid, self-obsessed teenager carrying on about how unfair life is and how no one has it so bad.
But I can’t help indulging in my mood a little bit. My flat is so quiet. It feels dead. It makes none of the noises a living house should: a cupboard banging closed; a runny nose being blown loudly; the clatter of spoon on bowl as cereal is eaten; the scuttling of a dog’s claws on floor tiles. There’s just my breathing. I hold my breath to allow the sounds of the city to slowly make themselves known. They come to me in tendrils. From under the door I hear distant steps as someone down the corridor leaves for work. Someone in the flat next door bumps something against the wall. The windows rattle gently as a truck gears down in the distance. There is life here. It’s timid, different, but it’s here.
The alarm on my phone breaks the peace and I jump in fright. Time to face the day.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 4

Okay, so I don’t hate this city. It’s more of a mild dislike. It’s beautiful, sure, but in my opinion there are too many people walking around wearing scarves and drinking box wine obfuscating (my favourite word) about crappy artists. Everyone here looks like they play in a drug-addled indie band. We can’t all be ordinary I guess.
My flat is a mess. I moved in three weeks ago, and with each day that goes by my “I’m still sorting through my stuff” excuse holds less water. Or it would if anyone ever came to visit. The loneliness of a new city is oppressive, but I can’t really complain about that seeing as I came here to be anonymous. I wonder if I’m that guy – there’s always one – everyone sees and takes a little pity on sitting alone in a coffee shop reading his book, or watching a movie by himself. Solitude, the social sin.
I clear my coffee table of the tottering piles of cds and books for the five stolen pieces and look at them properly for the first time. Piece of Contriband #1 is a photo of an old ship. I flip it over and “Ovington Court, 27 November 1940, 4 died that night, he was one of them” is written in a beautiful flowing hand. A woman’s handwriting I should think. The way the letters loop into each other look like an intricate dance. There’s something very sad about the detachment of what’s written, the selection of facts and the impersonal mention of someone the writer knew. I put the photo put face down on the table.
Contraband #2 is an old art deco clock. It’s small, about the size of both my fists and surprisingly heavy. It’s peach and turquoise, with a stylised swallow painted onto the clockface. There’s a small chip on one of the corners. I notice the mechanism is working. I compare it to the time on my microwave which is plugged in on the floor next to the couch. Surprisingly, it’s correct. Not bad. I put it next to my bed.
Contraband #3 is one of those fancy teaspoons old ladies collect. It has a family crest it with some kind of latin motto. Man, these things are dime-a-dozen at all the antique places I visited today.
Contraband #4 is a locket without a chain. It looks like it’s made of silver and gleams prettily, even in the yellow light of my flat. I try to open it, but the latch is stiff and my bitten nails can’t get a grip on it properly. I’ll come back to it later.
Contraband #5 is dainty little teacup. It doesn’t have a saucer. I turn it over and there’s something written underneath, but it’s pretty faded. I’m feeling a bit too rattled to try decipher it, so I put the teacup down and sink back into the couch.
I don’t know what to do. I was hoping one of these things would have an owner’s name on it, or at least some kind of vague clue as to how I could find them. I feel like such an idiot. I could have offered to buy them from the old lady instead and then just given them back to her in the street or something, and I would have saved myself a whole lot of trouble and a whole lot of elaborate fantasies of birdshot turning my chest into a pulpy sieve.
I close my eyes and realise how tired I am. I think I’ll just have a quick snooze---
---a scratching at the door wakes me. My stomach sinks into the springs of the couch. So my number’s up is it? I can’t imagine how the police have found me. Surely stealing a handful of antiques isn’t that big a deal that they’d send out a squad to hunt for me in the midle of the night? I adjust my weight and the couch groans loudly. The scratching stops and I hear footsteps hurry away. I hold my breath and strain to hear if there’s any more movement. I get up slowly and in my stealth manage to kick the table and then a stained coffee mug, which rattles over the parquet floor. I walk slowly to the door and can’t help but have visions of Anton Chigurh waiting there with his cattlegun and looking at me in his bored but somehow fascinated way before asking me to hold still… I shiver. I put my ear to the door but can’t hear anything. I unlock it painfully slowly and then turn the latch. I inch the door open and stare into a sliver of the passage but can’t see anything. I take a deep breath, open the door completely and step outside.
Of course, there’s no one there. No Anton Chigurh, nobody. I decide to try bluff anyone who might be hiding there.
– I can see you you idiot. Come out.
The plan is to make my voice deep and intimidating, but I balldrag on idiot and just sound stupid. The only way anyone who might be hiding would give themselves away now is through laughter.
I feel like a dweeb. I obviously watch too many movies. I go inside, turn off the lights and flop into my unmade bed. The art deco clock says it’s 2am. Crap, I have to be up in four hours. I know this is going to be a bad day already. I can feel it.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 3

I can’t go back the way I came. That shopkeeper is probably standing outside his store with a sawn-off and begging me to return to the scene of the crime. He’s probably fantasising about the look my face will make as the bore thuds into my torso, narrowly missing the stolen pieces which he’ll carefully pry out of my lifeless hands, clean up, and sell to the buyers already waiting in his store. As a final humiliation, my bladder will empty itself. I shiver as I think about facing that evil bastard again. I make a quick vow to never enter another second-hand store again, antique or otherwise.
I decide to hole up somewhere, which essentially means going back to my flat and trying to figure out what to do next. At this stage the most attractive option is to throw away these damn antiques and brain myself until I forget about the whole incident. When I peek out into Long Street again the foot traffic is thinning, which means I’ll be easily spotted, my mind screams.
I hide the antiques under my shirt and hope no one will notice the odd bulges and my guilty expression. I turn left into Long Street, away from my would-be murderer with the itchy trigger finger and walk quickly, avoiding the impulse to run. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and it’s all I can do to not turn around and scan the faces behind me for the one that will scream and shout…
– That’s him there!
– Someone stop him!
– He’s getting away!
My heart freezes, but before I can tell my jellied legs to start running someone slams into me and sprawls to the floor. I stumble but stay on my feet, and turn around just as four guys scoot around me and dive onto the hapless guy before he can get up. A wave of relief washes over me instantly, but the joy breaks as I see the first blow landed. One guy has wrestled a handbag from the guy on the floor and the other three hold him down, one sitting on his back with his right leg twisted behind him, one holding his arms and the other his neck. He doesn’t seem to be struggling, but that doesn’t stop the guy holding his neck from punching him in the mouth. The guy who’s just taken the handbag from him kicks him in the ribs and he cries out. I wince at the dull thud it makes. It’s the same noise that bullet made when my dad shot a baboon on his farm – to this day I can hear the wheeze from its ruined throat as it gasped for air which bubbled through the blood in its lungs before my brother shot it in the head with a pistol.
– See what you get, ey?
– Hold his arm tighter bru!
– He’s not going anywhere.
– Hey, someone call a cop.
– Ugh, I’ve got his blood on my shirt. YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME AIDS?!
– Where’s your Mandela to protect you?
Everyone in the street has stopped what they’re doing and watch the man get the crap beaten out of him. It really is this thief’s unlucky day. These guys have probably been looking for a good brawl for a few days and this guy came to them like a gift. All four are smiling sadistically. Back-sitter gives the man’s leg a sharp twist. Neck-holder lifts his head and bangs it hard into the pavement. Bag-holder spits on his head. Even if someone else there is as disgusted as I am, no one says or does anything. I’m about to say something when Back-sitter looks at me.
– Shot for stopping this black bastard. Thought he was gonna get away.
He smiles at me and I feel sick. Guilty. Party to the crime. I wonder if these guys would have beaten me as much if they’d caught me. I guess catching me wouldn’t have given an outlet to their latent racism. I turn around and my head feels light. I stumble through the gawking crowd – some are visibly repulsed, others entranced by the reality show they’ll talk about at braais and work for the next few weeks. I need to get out of here right now.
My car is only about 200 metres further down the road, but it feels like hours before I finally reach it. I’m not even inside before the car guard is hassling me for change. I’m not used to how aggressive Cape Town car guards are. In Durban they seem to be grateful for what they get, but down here they count your tip in front of you and tap on your window if they’re not happy. Giving these guys a tip feels like you’re handing over protection money to a mobster. I scratch around in my ashtray and groan – all I have is a couple of 5c pieces and a R1 coin. This guy is going to hate me. With him hovering next to me I can’t even process the events of the last hour. I put the antiques on the passenger seat and start the car. I want to tear off as soon as the coins land in this dude’s hands; before he can bang on my window and demand more. I wait for a gap in the traffic, throw the coins at the car guard and speed off before I can see his reaction.
The road is busy and I’m not too familiar with the route back to my flat yet, but I haven’t driven two kilometres before my hands start shaking and I pull over into a petrol station. Whenever I blink I can see the fear in that bag-snatcher’s eyes and the gleeful smiles of his attackers. But what scares me is that even though I feel sick, I’m still relieved that it was him and not me. It seems like this morning is all about being ashamed and powerless. I feel like such a tool. Not only did I not help that lady, I’m pretty sure that if I’d said something to those jocks other people would have backed me up and the guy would have been spared some broken ribs. I hate myself sometimes.
I take a deep breath and pull out onto the road again. What I wouldn’t do now for a strong cup of coffee and the tranquility of my bedroom back at home in Durban. I hate this city.

*This ball is gonna keep on rolling*
© William Edgcumbe

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

The Antique Shop - Part I

There is something a little morbid about antique shops that I’m sure most people think but rarely mention. Entering one is like probing the mind of a dead man to examine the treasures of his waking days, or prising open a tomb and picking and choosing which artefacts from another’s life, home, world, dreams to make your own. There are whole histories in each item, chipped or flawless, valuable or cheap, in demand or yellowing further in its same place on the counter.
Each piece has a story to tell, how it got there, by whom, when, how many hands it passed through. Some may have changed owners a thousand times, wanderers which visited homes, loyal to no one, eager for the next mantle, the next attic, the next cardboard box. Others would have been prised reluctantly from their pride of place on an old dresser, unused to new eyes looking at them, new hands handling them, suddenly in this strange place where their true value has been replaced by a number, ther real reasons for existence – perhaps a gift from a long-dead boy to a girl, a treasure from childhood, an heirloom passed down from a leathery forefather – to never be understood by another. They are observers of our shifting world, created in times much different, much the same, sitting patiently through wars, vendettas, upheavals; withholding judgement on family quarrels, on things done in secret in rooms where no one seems to be watching; listening to intimate whisperings shared between two people for whom no one else exists; tenderly watching baby fat melt away, lean muscles develop, the first signs of hair in previously bald places, babies becoming children becoming teenagers becoming adults becoming old becoming remembrances.
They are the quiet watchmen of countless lives lived and lost, the witnesses of our true natures in their mute and unassuming way. I want to pick up each piece, hold it to my ear to hear its whispered story and take it to where it really belongs, to where it means something beyond aesthetics, to put it before that one pair of eyes which will light up when they see it.
I can’t help but look at the shopkeeper with distaste. Here are countless Rapunzel’s aging prettily, their silvering hair let down but no true knight to rescue them, no one worthy to pay the ransom their captor asks. This one is particularly vulgar. Surrounded by pretty, dainty things, he slobs at his counter in a stained vest looking at a selection of treasures in a box. His eyes flick to mine and I can see that there is no spark to them, little reason and a coldness that makes my fists clench involuntarily. He returns their glare to the box, in which I can make out some ceramic figurines, a wizened old book and a glittering pendant which boldly declares, “LOVE!” in the voice of bright days and summer dresses. These scattered pieces united in the box are redolent with the stories of their creators, owners, lovers, readers, givers, receivers. I can smell the heady days of their youth, taste the adventures they have known, see a brightness in them which makes each piece priceless. But the man paws at them gruffly, holding each piece up to his dead eyes and grunting the grunt of a long-time cigarette smoker before writing down a number in a catalogue.
I allow myself fantasies of winning the Lotto and sweeping in here to rescue each item from their sorry fate, or coming back after closing time and emptying the place out and giving them homes where they will be treasured.
It is while I am examining the jewellery in a dirty case and trying to hear what story each possesses that the door bell rings and the gate clicks open. I nod and smile at the woman who enters. She appears not see me.
– H-hello. I was wondering if you buy antiques?
I know strained politeness when I hear it. It is usually in bed with desperation and gives itself away in its small pauses, in a summery breeze of syllables that in spite of their intent fall brackish on the air. The repugnant man looks up from his box and grunts in the affirmative. There is a particularly unpleasant glint to his eyes that is new. He can sense something too. He has caught a whiff of her desperation and leans back in his chair, savouring it like a fine wine, identifying all its little nuances. He can identify that smell anywhere. It is pungent with unpaid bills and sleepless nights, pregnant with a desperate counting out of coins, the adding up of exactly what groceries will cost and putting back what cannot be bought. He enjoys the sharp tang of someone who will do anything for a pittance to carry them through another day, put something in their belly which gnaws on its own juices.
– I was cleaning out my house this morning and came across these things I thought you might be interested in. I don’t know if they’re worth much but I thought they might fetch me something. They’re not doing much good in the back of a cupboard.
She chuckles airily. She speaks too quickly and her smile is that quarter inch too wide to be genuine, something which the shopkeeper doesn’t fail to register as he watches her unpack her bag and place objects on his counter. There is something very wrong here.

*I'll post the rest of this story as soon as I finish it.*
© William Edgcumbe

The wedding rehearsal

*I wrote this the night before Patrick and Robyn's wedding almost two years. I love weddings.*

The joy is bottled up like a shaken Coke, ready to burst and explode sweetness everywhere. In casual clothing we smile and giggle and elbow each other at the shadow tomorrow casts on today, a faint imprint of the joy of two young people so madly in love with each other they can only whisper it in case its spell is broken. We are told our whole lives that fairy tales don’t exist anywhere other than in well-thumbed picture books or on celluloid screens, and yet here it is, right in front of us. Though we are not in a wooded glade or the topmost tower of a castle surrounded by magma and kept by dragons, here is true love’s kiss, true love’s smile, a snapshot of a future in which two lives never part. The wedding rehearsal couldn’t have been long, but time wore boots of lead and dragged us through the treacle thick air so as to leave us suspended in this moment of such bliss; for what other word is there to describe times like these? And yet it falls short, as all words do, as the two fumble through their vows which tomorrow will shake and crack in their throats as two bodies come to terms with the earth-shattering moment of becoming one. Every pair of eyes in the room quietly practices what they will surely do tomorrow, though for now we hold it in as best we can. We keep our tears in our eyes and our laughter in our throats. We giggle and jostle and look forward to tomorrow, to gazing on as the miracle of love happens right in front of us; (oh watchers, you are blessed!) We remind ourselves of the privilege of being in proximity to such great love. And as the rehearsal draws to an end, if you look carefully enough you can see tomorrow’s photo slowly develop just as timid stars press through an evening sky. You blink, and there they are in a future a mere breath away. A crying groom, a smiling bride.