The Posy Ring

Mrs Cameron puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh!” she says. She flushes an even brighter pink and now Daisy feels worse. Stop it, she thinks. Stop being so sensitive. “My dear, it never even occurred to me, but so he is. The family have a wee cottage at Carraig, beyond Scoull Bay and Ardachy. Cal is the only one who comes these days, but he spends quite a lot of time here and I’ve known him since he was a lad. I hardly ever think about what he does for a living.” “No, I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you do.” “He’s Cal, that’s all. His father used to come here to paint... Pictures, not houses. With his wife. Before the children came along. But I believe his parents still run the shop in Glasgow and Cal does a lot of the buying. Island Antiques, they call it.” “He told me. In fact, I know it.”

“He goes here, there and everywhere. Looking for… oh!” She halts again. “Well I do see what you mean. He has occasionally said he’d do anything to get a look inside Auchenblae.”

Daisy starts to laugh. And that clearly includes chatting me up, she thinks. Holding hands. Charming me.

“He’s got some cheek,” says Mrs Cameron, laughing as well. “Now I feel bad. Maybe he is just being helpful.”

“Maybe. But I’m not surprised you’re suspicious.”

“He’s gone to the mainland for a day or two. But he says he’s coming back.”

“Oh he’s always coming back. Can’t keep away from Garve. I think if he didn’t have the shop and a house in Glasgow he’d be here all the time. He loves it so much.”

“I pass the shop sometimes, although I’ve hardly ever been in. I live in Glasgow too. It’s pretty impressive – one of those gorgeous shops where you just know you won’t be able to afford anything. Everything set out as though it’s in a house.” “Like Auchenblae?”

“No. Nothing like Auchenblae. A much grander house altogether.”

“So what will you do, when he comes back?”

“I suppose I’ll ask him what he really wants. Thing is, Mrs Cameron, I’m an antique dealer too. After a fashion. Oh, nothing like Cal’s shop. I sell online, and at fairs. And I used to pay for a bit of space in a big antique centre. Not very good space, as it turned out. Things kept being pinched. But I know how it all works.”

She wonders how she can explain. “There’s such a hierarchy in the antiques world. I might buy something at auction, say a silver toddy ladle or an old teddy bear. I know I’m going to sell it on, but a lot of the time I’ll be selling to another dealer – maybe a specialist.

“Then he or she will sell the thing on again. Most of the selling is done to other dealers. I often buy from dealers and sell to dealers. And every time, the price goes up. Everyone gets his or her bit of profit.” “I never realised.”

“But I’m way down at the bottom of the pecking order, and Cal, he’s right up there with the pricey people, the objects of virtue, so called, the fine art. They sell a lot of stuff with a Scottish provenance, but it’s very good stuff. Wemyss ware, Monart glass, Glasgow Boys, Arts and Crafts. I expect they sell on to London dealers as well. But then they have huge overheads. And Byres Road can’t be cheap.”

“Oh, I think they own the building.” “Do they? Well that would make a difference. They’re not exactly struggling are they?”

She thinks of herself, haunting chilly car boot sales at six in the morning, hauling a ton of boxes out of her car, which always seems to have to be parked half a mile away from the entrance to whatever hall the antique or vintage fair is in this month, unpacking and arranging, only to have to do it all again at the end of a long day spent being nice to the public.

She thinks of the free-for-all at the end of the fair, when everyone, weary and sometimes disappointed to have barely made the cost of the stall, tries to escape at once. “It must be nice to have a shop like that,” she concludes, ruefully. “I miss so many good things at auction because I just can’t afford them.”

“William Galbraith, that’s Cal’s dad, he’s very successful as an artist, I believe.”

“Well, I’ve certainly heard of him and seen some of his pictures, but I don’t know very much about him.”

It strikes her that she has seen the odd canvas displayed on an easel in the window of the Byres Road shop: gloomy urban landscapes mostly. They are not pictures she would want to live with.

“His mum, Fiona, is an art historian. She worked for one of the big auction houses. I think between them they invested wisely and Cal reaped the benefits.”

“Is he an only child?”

“No. There’s a younger sister, Catriona. She’s married, living on the mainland. Hill farming, I believe. Has kids. Three at the last count.

“But you know, he’s a nice man. He had a bit of a reputation as a bad lad when he was young but I think he’s managed to live that down. It was mostly mischief anyway. Never sits still for a minute, but I don’t think he’d do you a bad turn.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but most of the big dealers I know – well, all the dealers really – seem to think that business is business, and their generosity tends to evaporate where a bargain’s concerned.”

There’s still something nagging at her, the renewed sense that she has seen Cal before. But maybe it’s just that she has seen him in the shop, in passing.

“Are you all right, dear?” Cameron.

“Yes. Just a feeling. I keep thinking I’ve met him before, and I’m sure I have, but I can’t quite put my finger on where. Glasgow’s a big place, but you do tend to run into people. Maybe I need another spritzer.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Only a couple of biscuits. I’ll just have to wait for dinner now, I suppose.”

“Oh I think we can rustle up some sandwiches for you. Would ham and cheese do you?”

“Wonderful.”

Mrs Cameron fetches another white wine spritzer from the bar, and presently the young chef emerges from the kitchen with a round of ham and cheese sandwiches on home-made brown bread, and a bowl of salad on the side.

“You’re a saint,” says Daisy. She’s suddenly ravenous.

More tomorrow. asks Mrs

I’m way down at the bottom of the pecking order, and Cal, he’s up there with the pricey people, the objects of virtue, so called

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.