advert in the local paper had been optimistically worded: Growing firm of Auctioneers seeks individual with marketing and communications skills to contribute to vibrant team. Maisie was beginning to suspect General dogsbody who knows a bit about computers because we’re largely clueless, and who’ll probably be asked to clean the toilets if we’re a man down might be a more accurate job description.
‘However, I promise you won’t have anyone looking over your shoulder or making you account for your movements, and I will genuinely listen to any input and ideas you have. I liked your portfolio, particularly the unusual Wickerman’s beer mats you designed for the Felixstowe Beer Festival. You are clearly creative and focused. But more importantly, I like you.’
For the first time that morning, Johnny looked slightly nervous; tiny beads of sweat forming on his corned beef-coloured brow. He was wringing his hands together and looking intently at her face. ‘So, my darling, I fall procumbent at your alabaster feet, and ask if you are in or out?’
Not quite sure whether being procumbent was a good thing or not, Maisie gazed across the cluttered room of miscellaneous objects, contemplated the joy of a ten-minute commute, and the distinct and welcome lack of potential romantic partners in the workplace.
‘In,’ she said.
Maisie didn’t regret her impulsive decision to take the job for a moment. It was nothing like working for Wickerman’s and nothing like Johnny had led her to believe, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
For the first week, she shadowed various members of staff because he insisted she got a
She realised now that even though she’d worked in an office full of people at Wickerman’s, there had been a sense of isolation. Tied to a desk, each person in their own little computer-centric bubble, interaction was sparse. The auction house by comparison was a bustling and varied working environment.
Maisie quickly settled into the weekly routine. Monday, the public dropped off items for sale. Tuesday and Wednesday Johnny dealt with private appointments or left the site to oversee probate valuations. Thursday was a frantic collation of the lots and production of the catalogue – all ready for the sale on Friday. People were invited to view Thursday evening or early Friday morning. No one, with the possible exception of Arthur, paused for breath. And then on Monday, the whole cycle started again.
Maisie was given a desk and a computer in the back office with Johnny and, in amongst the clutter, she created an oasis of calm and order. By the second week, she was keen to put her marketing skills to good use, and her priority was to tackle the dated brand. Simple was the way to go, with a clean GA monogram and a coffee, aqua and teal palette of colours.
‘Oh, you are an absolute darling of the highest magnitude,’ Johnny gushed, resplendent in a double-breasted suit of British racing green, with a cheeky silk handkerchief poking out the left breast pocket. They were gathered in the front office-cum-reception – Maisie showing everyone the new logo and gauging opinion.
‘Ladies, what do we think? I value and indeed actively solicit everyone’s input.’ Johnny turned to Maisie. ‘They are, after all, the frantically paddling legs under the surface of the water, whilst we glide along like the serene and elegant swans that we are. Ella, stop hiding behind the computer screen. Do you not agree Maisie has captured the very essence of Gildersleeve’s? Sophisticated and professional?’
The poor girl coloured up faster than a halogen hob and although Maisie liked the exuberant Johnny enormously, sensitivity and tact were not his forte. She threw what she hoped was a conciliatory smile across the office but the girl didn’t raise her eyes and instead chewed nervously on her bottom lip, reluctant to leave her desk. The glossy mahogany curtain of hair that covered the left side of her delicate face swished as she gave a brief nod.
‘Arthur’s had a slight accident.’ The bearded porter ambled into the reception and Maisie immediately raised a concerned head.
‘What is it this time?’ Johnny sighed. ‘Ran over a customer’s foot with the sack barrow? Dropped a box of crystal glasses? Or got his wretched foot caught in the storm drain again?’
‘No, he’s excelled himself with this one. Locked himself in the men’s toilet cubicle and managed to pull the handle off completely. Apparently he’s been in there nearly two hours. Poor bloke is getting a bit agitated,’ the porter explained.
Johnny let out a long sigh. ‘I know Theodore is terribly fond of him, and it’s largely why I feel obliged to keep him on, but really? He should have retired years ago. Why work here when he could be at home, enjoying his retirement, pottering about the garden, and playing bowls? – or whatever it is old people do.’
What business the staffing of the auction house was to Theodore, Maisie couldn’t possibly imagine and hoped Johnny’s boyfriend wasn’t the sort of person who knew nothing about the business but still waggled his oar about in the company waters as he rowed past.
‘Perhaps Arthur’s wife doesn’t want him under her feet all day?’ ventured the accounts lady.
‘I fear the poor woman more likely craves respite from his incessant chatter,’ said Johnny.
Or he needs the money, thought Maisie, rather more charitably than the rest, wondering how no one, including her, had missed the old man for two hours.
Johnny, Maisie and the porter headed to the gents’, a separate brick building with a corrugated metal roof and a brown tile-effect linoleum floor – draughty but functional. A lick of paint and a big mirror would brighten the place up a bit. Perhaps she’d mention it to Johnny later, although she knew she was volunteering herself for another job.
‘I’m a daft old bugger. The lock jammed. I panicked, used too much force and the knob came off in my hand, but you can take all associated costs out of my wages and dock the two hours’ pay when I wasn’t working. I don’t want to cost the company money.’ His disembodied voice floated over the cubicle, only a pair of scuffed brown Chelsea boots visible under the door.
‘Applying that logic, he’d earn about four pounds fifty a week,’ the porter mumbled.
‘Is the lock screwed to the door?’ Maisie called, trying to find a practical solution to the situation as fast as possible.
‘Well now, let me see … Yes, little cross-head screws,’ came the reply.
‘I’ll grab a Phillips,’ Beardy Man offered and disappeared, returning with the appropriate screwdriver and thrusting it under the gap below the door.
After much huffing and tutting, it became obvious Arthur couldn’t undo the screws with his arthritic hands.
‘That’s it,’ Maisie announced. ‘I’m going over the top. Someone give me a leg up. Stand back, Arthur. I’m coming in.’
‘Oh,
