Downstairs, there was a reasonably sized kitchen and a small scullery which smelt strongly of lye soap and damp. There was also a front parlour, full of what Mrs Perkin considered rare and beautiful pieces of furniture, ornaments, rugs and the like. She explained to Corky that she did not use the room when she was by herself but only on high days and holidays, such as at Christmas, when her two sons and their wives came calling. ‘I got a son in the antiques business, that’s Wilfred, and another son, Rodney, who’s got a coal lorry,’ she said. ‘Neither of them live far away and they’re both doin’ very nicely, specially Wilfred. He keeps on at me to give up me work, to settle down to just keepin’ my house nice and spendin’ a bit more time with them. But, to tell you the truth, young Corky, I loves meetin’ people, and as a ragger I’m seein’ new faces all the time, so this ’ere quiet life our Wilfred recommends ain’t for me. Besides, I likes me independence. Wilfred says he’d make up any shortfall if I agree to give up raggin’, but to my mind that’s little better’n charity an’ I’ve not sunk that low yet.’
She was leading Corky upstairs as she spoke, on to a small, square landing from which led two doors. ‘I sleeps in the front, ’cos I’m of a nosy disposition and when you gets to be over seventy you don’t sleep so good,’ she explained. ‘Besides, it’s the bigger room an’ I like a bit o’ space round me.’ She threw open the door, revealing a sizeable bedroom with several thick, expensive-looking rugs upon the floor, an enormous brass bedstead – the bed covered in a colourful patchwork quilt – a heavy marble washstand against one wall and a comfortable cushioned chair pulled up close to the window, which was curtained in red velvet to match the cushions on the chair. It was easily the nicest and most luxurious bedroom Corky had ever seen and he told Mrs Perkin so. The old woman beamed at him.
‘Aye, it’s a bit of all right,’ she agreed. ‘My Wilf had the furnishing of it and he were determined it should be real pretty. He knows I don’t sleep so well, particularly in summer when dawn comes early, which is why that lovely chair’s drawn up to the window. You’d be surprised at what goes on once the light comes at this time o’ year, and I sees it all.’ She chuckled genially. ‘It were Wilf what gave me them binoculars what you can see on the window ledge. Once a week, sometimes more often, Wilf comes on a quick visit an’ I tells ’im everything I’ve see’d. But what am I gabblin’ away for when I brung you up here to show you where you can sleep.’ She trod heavily across the tiny landing and opened the second door. ‘There ain’t much room, ’cos Wilfred uses it as a kind o’ storehouse for stuff that he can’t sell immediate, from one cause or another. But I can bed you down on that there elegant sofy thing – Wilf says it’s a Georgian day bed, a chaise-longue by them Frenchies – but if you’re stayin’ for more than the odd day or two, I’ll get you to carry some o’ this stuff round to Wilf’s shop.’
‘Oh . . . but won’t he mind, if he wants it stored here for a bit?’ Corky asked, rather apprehensively. An antique dealer sounded important; the sort of person who might easily disapprove of a runaway orphan. ‘It’s all right, missus, honest; I can squeeze in there, snug as a bug in a rug.’
‘Truth to tell, lad, I think Wilf would be quite glad to get some of the stuff back. He were sayin’ only the other day that stuff what’s been here two years oughta be on shelves, ’cept he’s so busy he’s not had a chance to come and fetch it.’
‘But you said he comes visiting every week,’ Corky objected. ‘If he really wanted the stuff, couldn’t he have took it then?’
He happened to be looking at his hostess as he spoke and saw her eyes shift uneasily, but she replied in a matter-of-fact tone: ‘It’s plain to see you’ve never met my Wilf! He’s a real gent, dresses to kill, you might say. He wouldn’t dream of being seen cartin’ stuff through the streets like any common carrier, and he wants the stuff a few pieces at a time, see. Otherwise, he could send a handcart, or even a van, for them. It’s all a matter o’ space. He used to rely on me fetchin’ ’em round whenever he needed ’em, but there’s no denyin’ I’m not what I was. Why, that little walnut table, which is real old – hundreds of years, I dare say – and worth a mint, Wilf tells me, felt heavy as lead when I tried to lift it and the bloody legs got between my old pins an’ near as dammit tripped me up, an’ I was only movin’ it across the room, which were a good thing because if I’d tried to take it downstairs I reckon I’d have broke me neck before ever I reached the front door.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘I know Wilf wants the table and the shop ain’t difficult to find. Would you take it round to him for me? It ain’t very big, it’s just awkward, like.’
‘Course I will,’ Corky said stoutly. He just hoped the antique shop wasn’t on a main road or near a police station. It was still broad daylight outside and Mrs Perkin had not yet gone through her rag collection to find him suitable clothing. However, in view of her kindness, it would have been churlish to point this out. Corky went over to the little walnut table and picked it up, discovering that it was indeed heavy.
Mrs Perkin beamed and nodded approval as he carried it carefully down the stairs, but when he took it along the short hallway she called him back, almost sharply. ‘No, no, no, not right now. I’ve got to find you some clothes what won’t scream orphanage at every passer-by. Best wait till it’s a bit dusky like, too, ’cos you don’t want to be recognised, do you? And don’t think you’re goin’ to have to carry it all the way to my Wilf’s, because I know – none better – how heavy it is. Agin the privy there’s a lean-to shed; I’ve a sturdy little wheelbarrow in there that you can use. Put the table in the parlour for the time being and we’ll deal with it when we’ve ate our meal – it’s shin of beef stew – and found you something to wear.’
Corky thought the shin of beef stew was the nicest food he had ever tasted, even better than the buns, and he was pleased with the clothing Mrs Perkin provided. It was just right; the shirt was much mended and the sort of shade, between grey and blue, which showed that it had not been washed too often. And the strides, both patched and frayed, were still sturdy enough to be useful, and dark grey. So when at last Mrs Perkin began to tell him how to reach her son’s shop, he felt pretty confident that he could do her errand without trouble, especially when she cast some filthy old rags over the walnut table, saying that this was the way she had always taken goods to her son, before her strength had failed her. ‘No one’s likely to try to thieve from a ragger,’ she said comfortably. ‘But that there table’s a little gold mine . . . well, no, it ain’t worth that much, but it’s a nice piece, all the same. If you get it safe to my son, then you’re sure of a home wi’ me, so long as you want one. And if you take a few more things out of the back bedroom – Wilf will tell me what an’ I’ll pass it on to you – then I dare say, when you
do
leave, you’ll find yourself the richer by a bob or two.’
This sounded ideal to Corky, who could not believe his luck. Earlier that day, he had been homeless, friendless, hungry and, if he were honest, frightened. Then, out of the blue, Mrs Perkin had recognised him for what he was, a penniless, runaway orphan, and had taken pity on him. Now, he had a home – for a while at least – a good friend and even a job – of sorts – for the back bedroom was crammed from floor to ceiling almost with bits of furniture, rich-looking leather-bound books, ornaments so beautiful that they took Corky’s breath away, and many other similar things. Wilfred, Mrs Perkin had implied, would be glad to receive the stuff, a few items at a time. Suppose he gives me threepence every time I take something round, and suppose Mrs Perkin lets me stay with her until the room’s empty, Corky dreamed, trundling the wheelbarrow over the uneven flagstones, then I’ll be an old man as rich as the king before I have to leave. The thought tickled him and he began to whistle and to glance around him as he pushed, for this was a part of London in which he felt at home, though he had never been here before. In the small side streets, kids played hopscotch, marbles or skipping. Despite the lateness of the hour, some of the small shops were still open, and because it was a warm evening women gathered on their doorsteps, gossiping and calling out to each other as they did so.
It was because he was so interested in his surroundings that the accident happened. The wheelbarrow caught on an uneven flagstone and tipped sideways, depositing the little walnut table upon the pavement. Corky had noticed, vaguely, when he had been wrapping the table in rags, that there was a little drawer beneath it which had been held shut with pieces of tape. It now appeared, however, that the tape was quite old, for the drawer shot open a couple of inches and, as Corky tenderly stood the table on its feet, it opened a little wider, allowing him to see the contents. For a moment, Corky just gaped, then he rammed the drawer shut, lifted the table back into the wheelbarrow and smothered it in rags once more. Jewels! The little drawer had been stuffed with necklaces, brooches and earrings. No wonder the table had seemed so heavy.
Beginning to trudge along the road once more, Corky thought, first, that it was none of his business and, second, that an antique dealer had every right to put jewellery in a reliable hiding place, if he so wished. He rather doubted if Mrs Perkin knew about the jewellery, but again that was neither here nor there. He was sure she would never have poked around, examining her son’s property; why should she? He had seen the beautiful ornaments casually displayed in the little room, so Wilfred was not trying to hide anything from his mother. But he would just mention that the drawer had fallen open, when he reached the antique shop, and see what Wilfred said. He realised, belatedly, that had the drawer shot even wider open and had he not noticed it, some of the jewels might easily have got lost. Yes, he would tell Wilfred exactly what had happened so the older man would know that he was honest and had no intention of cheating, or deceiving, either Wilfred himself, or Wilfred’s mother.
Presently he reached the shop, which was quite large, though not on the main road, as he had imagined, but down a side street. Over the door, the legend
Wilfred Perkin: Antique Dealer
was painted in gold on a green background, but when he tried the door it was firmly locked and he remembered Mrs Perkin’s instructions. ‘Me son lives over the shop so if he’s already locked up, you’ll find a little side passage to the left of the frontage, what leads round the back. There’s a cobbled yard and you just cross that and knock as loud as you can on the back door. Wilfred’s cautious by nature so he’ll mebbe ask who you are before he opens the door, but just you say you’ve been sent by Mrs Perkin of Herbee Place and he’ll have that door open and you inside afore you can say knife.’
It was all exactly as Mrs Perkin had said. Corky trudged across the cobbled yard, knocked on the door, and was asked, in a suspicious voice, to name his business. Corky shouted back that he had come from Mrs Perkin of Herbee Place and waited, listening to what sounded like half a dozen doors being carefully shut before the back door was opened and he was ushered inside. It was a strange room, panelled from floor to ceiling in varnished wood. There was a table and several upright chairs in the middle of the room and, glancing round, Corky realised that the panelling was, in fact, the doors of cupboards where, he presumed, Wilfred Perkin must store a good deal of his stock. None of the cupboards had handles or knobs on – presumably so that burglars would think the room was empty – but, despite his care, one of the cupboard doors had not been completely closed, and through the tiny crack the lamplight revealed something shiny within.
Corky was still thinking what a clever scheme this was, because burglars would have no idea that the room contained hidden treasures, when there was another knock on the back door. Hastily, Mr Wilfred Perkin bundled Corky, the wheelbarrow and the walnut table through another door which led into the darkened shop. ‘You’re a pal of me mam’s so I know you’s trustable, but I don’t want a peep out of you, understand?’ he hissed. ‘This’ll be some – some customers as I’m expectin’ but they – they are very shy and wouldn’t want you watchin’ while we does our business, so just you keep mum and it’ll all be fine and dandy. Awright?’
‘Hey, wait a minute, mister, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ Corky whispered. ‘That there table . . . the drawer came undone when I wheeled it over an uneven flagstone and there’s stuff inside. It’s all right, I didn’t lose nothin’, but the tape’s old and wouldn’t stick back again, so . . .’
‘Yes, yes, yes, so long as nothin’ fell out,’ Wilfred Perkin said distractedly, pushing Corky further into the shop and beginning to close the door. ‘I shan’t be long, so just you stay mum till I calls ya.’ And on the words, he pulled the door softly to. Corky heard him cross the room, ask a question and then creak the back door open and usher someone into the stockroom. For a moment he stood in the dark but then, realising that Mr Perkin’s business might take some time, he lifted the walnut table carefully out of the barrow, stood it down, noiselessly, on its spindly legs and settled himself, as comfortably as he could, in the place the walnut table had just vacated.
Sitting thus in the dark was rather an eerie experience and Corky soon grew both bored and stiff. He rose quietly to his feet and went over to the door, hoping to hear some indication that the business being conducted on the other side of it would soon be over. However, the voices continued to murmur and he realised that there were at least three people in the stockroom and, obviously, there was haggling going on. Corky knew little about business, but he did know about haggling, since the boys did it all the time. If you had acquired a good big conker and wanted to swap it for half of someone’s seed cake at teatime, the seed cake owner would try to retain as much of his booty as he could whilst the conker owner praised his property to the sky, swore it was a tenner when it might really only be a fiver, and eyed the seed cake hopefully.