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I always loved visiting my grandparents when I was young, and helping them out in their shop.
I think my love of history must have grown from witnessing their enthusiasm for antiques and listening to their stories of how they obtained their items to sell.
Unforeseen circumstances in my life led me to working in the shop alongside them when I was younger, with me eventually taking on the running of the shop when my grandfather passed away and my grandmother decided to take a back seat.
It was a difficult time for both of us, and, when she sadly passed a few years later, I fully took over the ailing business, determined to make it profitable once more.
Performing house clearances was my idea, a way to procure items for the shop at a lower margin than buying them at auction or car-boot sales as my grandparents had favoured.
I managed to come to an arrangement with a large local auction house – they would take on any larger clearances that I was offered and I couldn’t handle, and if they received a property too small for them to bother with, they would pass the details on to me to take care of.
This mutual relationship has been working well for both of us over the last few years.
The bus arrives in Grantchester – a small, picturesque village just outside of Cambridge.
I hop off at the bus stop in the centre of the village and walk the rest of the way to the house on the outskirts.
Past Times House , a slate sign declares on the sandy-coloured brick wall that surrounds the property.
Next to the sign are a pair of black wrought-iron gates, one of which has been left open – presumably for me.
I walk through the gates and up a long gravel driveway.
The large stately-looking house at the end of the drive has been built in the same sandy-coloured brick as the wall that surrounds it.
I date the house immediately as Georgian.
The symmetrical architecture, the long sash windows with white panels, each containing smaller panes of glass, and the no-nonsense black front door give it away as dating from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century.
But for all its sleek lines and precise, neat architecture, the house manages to look warm and inviting as it watches silently over the gardens and pathways that surround it.
House clearances are always a difficult part of my job and I never know quite what I might find when I turn up at a house, usually to meet a recently bereaved relative.
They normally fall into two camps. The first group just want the house cleared as quickly as possible; they don’t really care what happens to their relative’s possessions, only that they need it to happen fast so they can prepare the house to be sold.
The second haven’t quite come to terms with what’s happened yet and can hardly face the thought of removing their loved one’s possessions from their home.
I have to tread super carefully with the second group – one wrong word and the whole process immediately stalls until the relative can bring themselves to begin it all again.
Today I don’t know which group the grandson I’m meeting will be in.
We’ve only had brief contact over email so far.
Apparently, his grandfather specifically requested that Rainy Day Antiques perform the clearance of his house and possessions.
As I told the others earlier, this house is a lot bigger than the ones I usually take on, so why he specifically wanted my little shop, I have no clue.
Perhaps he’d visited the shop before, or knew of our reputation in the area.
Whatever the reason, I’m here now. I’m about to rattle the brass knocker at the side of the elegant front door when, to my surprise, the door swings open.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say brightly to the person in front of me. ‘I have an appointment to view the house this afternoon for a possible house clearance?’
As I look up at the slightly dishevelled-looking man in front of me, I’m doubtful this is who I’m supposed to be meeting.
If this is the grandson of the owner, he’s not what I’m expecting at all.
He was very eloquent over email – formal, even.
Here he looks a bit … well, scruffy is the only way I can describe him.
He’s wearing blue jeans that look a bit tatty, a white T-shirt with a black emblem emblazoned across the front, a battered well-worn leather jacket, and black boots with far too many buckles than are necessary to fasten any shoe.
And as his tanned face stares quizzically at me, I get the feeling he has no idea what I’m talking about.
‘Are you Eve?’ he says in a deep, gravelly voice, making me jump a little inside. The bright eyes that look me up and down are a piercing shade of sapphire blue.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say hurriedly, wondering why my insides are suddenly wobbling a little. ‘I’m here to look at the interiors for a possible house clearance?’
‘Come on in,’ he says casually, taking a step back to let me through the door. ‘Pleased to meet you, Eve. My name is Adam.’