The Doulton Lady (TMA01)

'To enter the charity shop', wrote Peregrine Short in his journal, 'is to negotiate two separate barriers: one physical, the door; then the perceptual, the invisible wall that traps the fusty smell of moth balls, old paper and cheap detergent.' He didn't mind giving money to charity but if he thought there was nothing to be made from a find, he wouldn't bother. And he was in one of those charity shops right now.

On arrival, he surveyed the colourful blotches of junk assembled, wondering if there was anything of value. This to Peregrine meant monetary value. He began rummaging through the blue plastic box placed close to a lady’s hat stand which he thought looked rather like a tall plant that had spawned hats as flowers. Edith wore hats, he remembered. He continued his rootle through the box, and whilst slipping a nest of beaded costume bracelets coolly through the cracks of his fingers as if they were small snakes, his thoughts wandered.

He thought, on hot summer days like these, the customers cooked through the plate glass, and sweated with the heat and the effort of the search, whether screech-dragging the tightly squeezed hangers along the steel rails, doing endless, seam- splitting squats to check out the lower shelves where the shoes and heavy items are stored, or doing creak- inducing back stretches to reach the top shelves where the tiny ornaments are displayed. The charity shop, Peregrine searched for the simile, ‘junk shop, sauna, and gym; fitness centres to exercise the unwary.’

Now 63 and retired, he felt too old for gyms, and his knees too arthritic for golf. But this new hobby, with all its bumping, and shuffling around, its smell, the unwanted workout, was worth it for that valuable find. The antique hunt is my new golf he thought; life is pretty empty without an interest, whether it’s lowering golf handicaps or outwitting Miller’s Guides.

As he creaked up from his wicket keeper's squat, another old sport from long ago, he felt the clamminess of his clothes. But he knew that come winter, things would be even worse: people in damp smelly overcoats hogging his sections; pushchairs shoved in with muddy rattling wheels containing wool- swaddled babies peering out of their spattered plastic covers. And the paraffin heaters, all fumes and flickering, stinking in the corner, emitting just enough heat to stop the old ladies behind the tills from freezing to the spot, all adding to the smelly mix of paper, rubber and cloth.

This new interest would have suited Edith he thought. She loved her pottery. Until that is she made what she considered to be a schoolgirl error, by accidentally boxing up a particularly treasured, if slightly damaged, lady dancer figurine with some cheap ones and packing it off to a school jumble sale. How upset she’d been, and his response was no help, disdainfully telling her to grow up as it was worthless, before going out to play golf. He’d shown no sympathy. As he watched an old couple engaged in spinning the wobbly carousel that held all the romantic novels, he winced at the memory.

She always said they should 'do things together' as she simply 'didn't do sports' herself even when young; with the singular exception of being the best girl high jumper at Arundel Grammar for girls when as sixth former she was the first girl to ever clear six feet utilising the western roll technique rather than the scandalous 'Scissor-leg method.' (‘Boys should never see young ladies open their legs,' Edith used to declaim in the haughty tones of her old school mistress - ' it is far better to fail and fall on your face with dignity than to show your undergarments in quite such a way!’). Peregrine smiled sadly. Doing something together never really occurred to him. A good mimic, Edith, he thought; amusing, fun, caring. He forgot to remember this when she was alive.

He made his final sally to what he always referred to as the ‘what-not shelf,’ typically a spinster’s clutter-clear out of twee Lilliput houses, chunky glass candle holders and ugly photograph frames from the 1970s - loft rather than house clearance items. As he turned disdainfully away he almost missed it, tucked in the corner, a smudge-swirl of pink and white. In a heart jolt he recognised it, the colour, the pose, right down to the tiny wound in the foot. Trembling he reached for it, and held the dancing lady figurine gently in his hand.