Sample chapter from A Writer's Year
There’s something irresistible about antique shops, bric-a-brac fairs, jumble sales, car boot sales and house clearances that attracts the dyed-in-the-wool bargain hunter. It’s like being a heron flying over a pond full of caviar-flavoured goldfish. All it takes is a sign saying ‘second-hand’ for the individual to reach into his or her pockets to see how much cash they’re carrying. This is how I came to be in a bric-a-brac shop today.
Mrs H and I were shopping in the Cotswold town of Cirencester. We’d visited a gentleman’s outfitters, enjoyed lunch at a pie shop and looked at ladies’ fashions in shops with bright lights. Everything was going to plan until the prospect of visiting a shop filled with stilettos proved too much for me to bear.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “I’m going to look over there; see you in a minute.”
I left Mrs H to her footwear indulgence and headed across the market square to a row of boutique shops. One of them specialised in antiques and curios. From what I could see in the window it stocked everything from old coins to authentic Second World War uniforms.
Ooooh. Tingle. Tingle tingle. Thumpety thump. It wouldn’t do any harm to have a quick look, would it?
The second-hand shop turned out to be a labyrinth of interconnected rooms, each selling a different type of treasure. There were areas that showcased cutlery and crockery, others displayed cut glass, gardening tools, books, furniture, in fact anything and everything to furnish a traditionalist’s home. It was a shop that knew and understood its customers who, like me, didn’t want to find things easily. They wanted to rummage and make chance discoveries. Vinyl records were displayed alongside old army boots; an antique wardrobe was filled with teddy bears; a bowler hat was resting upon the head of a rocking horse, and a fishing creel held an assortment of Bakelite doorknobs. It was my sort of place. Inviting, mysterious, inexpensive.
I worked my way from one room to the next, surveying the contents as quickly as possible in case there was an absolute ‘steal’ to be found. There were many. A pair of wooden candlesticks caught my eye, then a cut glass decanter, then a garden trowel. But I kept my hands in my pockets. The well-trained bargain hunter always believes that there could be something better around the corner. He or she only picks something up if the item and price tag are right. Which is what finally happened when I opened the lid of a wicker laundry basket and found a gleaming typewriter inside. It was a Corona No. 3 with polished workings and enamelled casing. The keys were worn but usable. It looked as if it had come straight from the study of a great writer. Someone of learning, who had used this machine to type a modern classic, while knowing that it was a thing of beauty – a dream to use and something that told the world of the writer’s refined taste and literary standing. I had to have it. I looked at the price tag. Fifteen pounds. Was that all? Surely the price was missing a zero? It was such a bargain. A real bargain. And, in case you’d missed the message: it was a total and utter bargain. Yet how could I approach the shopkeeper who’d apparently under-priced the item? I’d look like a teenage boy requesting an under-counter copy of Melons Monthly from his newsagent. I knew the solution. I’d get Mrs H to buy it.
I exited the shop and ran over to my beloved, who was waiting for me in the middle of the market square.
“Babe, you’ve got to come and see this. This amazing, perfect, stunning thing. I…I…need you to buy it for me.”
“I see,” she replied. “Like the time you got me to buy that rusty primus stove on FleaBay. The one you said would make our camping trips perfect but which wheezed, farted and squealed like an orgasmic wart hog every time we used it?”
“This is different. It’s such a bargain. It’s just what I need to write ‘the’ book. And it would look sooo good in my study.”
“What, between the dried-up oil lamp and that lump of driftwood that’s supposed to ‘have meaning’ but which smells like King Lear’s codpiece?”
“No, no. This is better. I neeeed to have it.”
“So, what is it?”
“Come and see.”
I walked Mrs H to the shop, through the door, past the shopkeeper and to the alcove with the wicker basket. I removed the lid and lifted out the vintage typewriter.
“Here. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It’s a typewriter.”
“Yes.”
“An old typewriter.”
“Yes.”
“That’s missing the A, B and N keys.”
“Oh. What? Well that doesn’t matter.”
“What if you want to write an article about a banana?”
“Well I don’t. I want to buy this typewriter. Before someone else buys it and we have to leave the shop knowing that we could have bought a bargain but instead we missed out and have to go and look for another one exactly like this and at the same price and that will take ages and…”
“Okay. How much is it.”
“Fifteen pounds.”
“Oooh. Bargain.”
I handed the typewriter to Mrs H and, being the gentleman that I am, picked up her shopping bags and cowered six feet behind her as she approached the shopkeeper.
“My husband wishes to purchase this typewriter,” said Mrs H. “He believes that it could aid his creativity.”
The shopkeeper looked up from his magazine and raised an eyebrow. He stared in my direction. I needed urgent credibility. With confident swagger I said, “Ah yes; you probably haven’t heard of me, but I’m the writer who was called upon by the Government to write leaflets about the safe disposal of agricultural waste plastics. I also penned a national press campaign about planting trees for the Millennium”.
“I know your type,” he replied. “You’re a writer. Always got your head in the clouds dreaming up your next story. I bet you’ll write about me someday, twisting the facts to suit whatever angle you’ve adopted. Well if you do, be kind. Tell everyone that I’m the Cotswold’s answer to Mel Gibson, that I drive a Ferrari and that Claudia Schiffer is my girlfriend.”
“Sounds reasonable. Do I get a discount?”
“No.”
“Okay then Mel, sell me the typewriter and go back to reading your copy of Patchwork Weekly.”
Mrs H handed over the cash and we left swiftly, half expecting the shopkeeper to chase after us. But he didn’t and we made it home, smugly knowing that we’d secured the bargain of the day.
That was earlier today. The typewriter now has pride of place on my writing desk. I’ve run my fingers over its keys, flicked levers and turned dials. I can push the keys and hear miniature hammers punching the roller. Doing so gives me a feeling of power, as if I’m in control of every letter. Well, every letter except A, B and N. I can open my study window and let the sound of typing inform my neighbours that I’m overflowing with ideas. The village will be buzzing with news that Fennel is working on his latest masterpiece. I will be known for my talent. And all because of this wonderful, beautiful machine that sits on my desk like…oh dear. Like a hunk of polished junk.
Time, I think, to make an escape.