Chapter Nineteen
There’s a man coming today to assess the furniture for its sale value.
Margot has been aware of this appointment for several days but that hasn’t helped her accept its imminence.
Indeed, she’s hoping that he just won’t turn up and therefore she won’t have to think about the furniture being sold nor deal with the fact that she has no money.
Of course, the not-dealing is what’s brought them to this point, but Margot honestly doesn’t think it’s entirely her fault.
She was nineteen when her mother died. Nineteen and trained to be someone’s wife, not a financial wizard.
The husband hasn’t materialised, and that’s probably because she never meets anyone given she’s mostly at home with Lavinia.
But why should it all be her responsibility?
Looking after Lavinia is enough of a responsibility.
Very occasionally Margot will contemplate the idea that the reason she’s done nothing to address her straitened circumstances is because she’s ashamed she didn’t notice them developing.
She is letting her parents down, and even though they’re no longer here, she feels paralysed by the shame of it all.
The man coming today was recommended by one of the nosy neighbours.
Yes, that’s how Margot thinks of them even as she’s aware that their kindness somewhat keeps her afloat.
She can’t help being peevish about poverty.
It’s how she was raised, with a father who remembered the Great Depression and never wanted to experience anything like it again.
The doorbell chimes. That will be him now – Mr Williams, from the antiques shop up the road.
‘Margot, darling!’ Lavinia calls from downstairs.
Her aunt will be ensconced in the sunroom far from the front door and she moves slowly, so Margot knows it’s her responsibility to open the door. Not that she wants to. But she has to.
‘What will we do when they turn the lights off?’ Lavinia said a few days ago, looking as worried as Margot has ever seen her. ‘When we don’t have a refrigerator? Summer’s here. We need a fridge.’
Yes, they do need a fridge. And lights. And running water.
And it’s Margot’s responsibility to provide those things – but, oh, how she wishes someone could take care of it for her.
It is hard enough, most days, for her to take care of herself.
Ablutions, dressing, talking, eating … she finds them exhausting a lot of the time.
Her mother used to say that Margot was like a fairy, flitting around without a care in the world. She has all the cares in the world now but wishes she were still that fairy.
This is on her mind as she opens the door to a middle-aged man with olive skin and thick, sharply cut hair.
‘Mr Williams,’ she says, and he smiles. It’s a kinder smile than she was expecting from someone who is here to, most likely, take away her furniture.
‘Mrs King,’ he responds.
‘Miss,’ she says quickly, although she’s not sure why she wants to correct him so promptly.
‘Miss King.’
He’s still smiling and she realises she’s left him standing at the door. ‘Please, come inside.’
She holds the door open for him as he nods and enters, and she feels something she hasn’t felt since her parents were alive: truly present in this moment, in this space.
It is the oddest thing, almost as if a gear has shifted into place. Except she doesn’t know this man. Doesn’t know why she would feel this way. Unless it’s a presentiment about what he’s here for. So maybe selling the furniture is indeed the right thing to do.
Lavinia has, by now, manoeuvred herself into the sitting room and is leaning on the cane she’s just started using.
It’s one of Margot’s father’s, and they found it tucked in his old wardrobe after Lavinia announced that she was ‘feeling wobbly’ on her feet.
Wobblier, that is, given her permanent limp.
Lavinia isn’t prone to admitting to weakness, so Margot knew it must be a serious amount of wobbliness for her to say something.
‘My aunt, Lavinia King,’ Margot says.
Mr Williams takes Lavinia’s hand and bows his head, which Margot finds both unnecessary and charming.
‘Miss King,’ he says.
They all smile benevolently at each other, like he’s here to take tea, not rip half the house away from them.
Margot realises someone has to move things along. She raises her eyebrows at Lavinia, who nods her understanding.
‘Shall we?’ Lavinia says, pointing the cane at the mahogany lowboy that’s been in the family for so long its provenance is unknown.
‘Thank you.’ Mr Williams walks slowly toward the piece of furniture, as if he has little interest in it. He puts his fingers on the wood and presses. ‘A fine piece,’ he says. ‘Mid-eighteenth century, I think. George II.’
‘Perhaps,’ Lavinia says. ‘It belonged to my grandparents. They brought it on a ship from England.’
Mr Williams smiles vaguely. ‘Are the other pieces of the same era?’
‘Not all.’ Lavinia gestures toward the first floor. ‘There’s an Art Deco dresser in the main bedroom that you may wish to see.’
He looks more interested in this, although Margot is fairly sure the lowboy is more valuable, based on what the neighbour told Lavinia when he decided to offer an assessment, unprompted.
After Mr Williams has seen the rest of what’s on the ground floor, Margot leads him up the stairs, two of which need repairing. Something else on the list of what she can do when she has money.
She takes him into the master bedroom, where Lavinia sleeps and Margot keeps clean, so there’s hardly any dust on the dresser.
Although a dresser properly belongs in a kitchen, Perry liked to keep it up here.
It was her favourite piece of furniture in the house, and that’s another reason why Margot is pained about selling it.
‘You must love this furniture,’ Mr Williams says as he walks over to it. ‘Some of it is beautiful.’
‘I do, but as you can see, with only two of us here we don’t need much of it. So we thought we should sell it. Perhaps go on a holiday with the proceeds.’
It’s the story she’s prepared in order to preserve her dignity and Lavinia’s. It’s important to act as though the money isn’t necessary so as not to come across as desperate, even if you are.
‘I imagine you’d enjoy that.’
He is properly looking at her now, in a way that makes her believe he can both see her and see through her.
See that she’s lying and respecting that she needs to.
It’s unsettling, to be seen. And a relief.
After all these years, someone has noticed that she’s a person.
That she’s not just a daughter and a niece.
‘Do you take holidays, Mr Williams?’
It’s an odd thing to say, yet she knows she can be odd. Perhaps he’ll forgive her.
‘Not as many as I used to.’ He smiles sadly. ‘My wife died three years ago.’
‘Oh – that’s …’ She doesn’t want to say she is sorry. She didn’t know the woman. Yet she must say something. ‘That’s awful.’
His eyes look into hers and they are deep and brown and unreadable. ‘Yes,’ he says after a few seconds. ‘It was. But life moves on. My daughters need me to be strong.’
She doesn’t want to pry so she doesn’t ask about the daughters, and he returns to looking at the dresser.
‘Well, Miss King, you have some lovely pieces here. I shall prepare an estimate, if that suits?’
‘Thank you,’ she says.
Wordlessly he descends the stairs and she follows.
‘Thank you for coming, Mr Williams,’ Lavinia says as he reaches the door. ‘We look forward to hearing from you.’
‘And you shall, Miss King.’ He smiles kindly, then turns toward Margot. ‘A great pleasure to meet you both,’ he says but he’s looking only at her. ‘A great pleasure indeed.’
Margot blushes as she closes the door.
‘He seems reasonable,’ Lavinia says.
‘Yes,’ Margot squeaks. ‘Tea?’
She doesn’t wait for an answer before she goes to the kitchen and boils the kettle, wondering why her heart is beating so fast.