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unused to new eyes looking at them, new hands handling them, suddenly in this strange place where their true value has been replaced by a number, ther real reasons for existence – perhaps a gift from a long-dead boy to a girl, a treasure from childhood, an heirloom passed down from a leathery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