CHAPTER 1
"DALE! TRY THE basement! Some new stock came in the other day!"
"Thanks, Mr. O'Brien!"
I know this shop, and many like it, like the back of my hand. I scour the flea markets, the waterfront antique markets and these little second-hand furniture shops every spare moment I have, always on the lookout for that elusive piece that would make my career. Don't get me wrong, I love restoring old furniture, but I also wish for the day when my break will come.
I had worked in one of those larger antique clearing houses when I first came out of school, reinforcing my love for all things old, but like any large organization, it was more interested in the politics rather than the preservation of beautiful furniture. It broke my heart.
So, now I work alone but, as they say, I have to 'pay my dues'. I certainly don't have the reputation or the finances to play with the big boys, so I have to resort to freelancing, restoring old furniture for those families on fixed incomes who are looking for a piece of 'old world' for their new homes. It's my bread and butter and it pays my bills. C'mon Dale, it's what you chose to do…
I reach for the light switch, fumbling around in the dark until I feel the familiar fixture. The light blinds my eyes for a moment, casting an eerie glow across the room packed with everything from bookcases to bed heads and cupboards, and some things that defy description. I walk gingerly down the stairs, feeling it creak under my own slight weight. These things must groan under the substantial weight of Mr. O'Brien.
The newest stock is, of course, closest to me. The older pieces are slowly gathering dust and spiders from their long hibernation in the basement. None of these move unless he sells something upstairs.
I'm on the hunt for an armoire for a client, its age is not important, but something that doesn't look like the modern stuff. Not that I can blame them. Today's furniture is all steel and chrome. There is nothing like the smell of real wood and old leather. It can permeate the room with memories of a long-forgotten age. Perhaps, to some, it smells like grandma's house, but to me it's history.
This shop is my last stop before returning to my loft. I've been wandering around most of the morning without success. I spot a couple of new armoires in stock and quickly shuffle down the narrow passageway in an attempt to get them. No wonder Mr. O'Brien never comes down here, he'd get stuck between the furniture.
While one is a little too modern, the other one has possibilities. I quickly check its condition, vainly trying to look inside through the narrow crack of the open door. Hmmm… maybe. There is no ticket on it and I only hope it's in my price range. While I consider this, I wander through what is left.
I just can't help myself. I'm still hoping that somewhere in this jumble of wood is my future. I look through an assortment of old paintings leaning against wall. I usually steer clear of art, but I use the exercise to think. Can I afford this? I don't get paid for it until I deliver the restored piece. I look through the half a dozen frames, not really liking what I see. My love is furniture, not art.
Tucked away, behind the artwork, is a mirror... well, its frame anyway. The paint is thick and pock-marked, a hideous pale blue in colour, and it makes me cringe. I suspect there are many layers of similarly abusive paint underneath it. Still, there is something about it that is calling to me.
I ascend the stairs, holding on for grim death as the wood under my feet bends under my weight. How on earth do they get this stuff down here in the first place? Perhaps I don't want to know.
I find the portly owner at his desk, leaning over the morning paper with coffee mug in hand, just as I always find him whenever I visit. He watches me over his glasses, perched on his ample nose. "See anything you like?"
"Perhaps. You have an armoire down there. Not the pink one. The other one with the small carved panel in the top corner."
"Yeah. That only came in yesterday."
"How much?"
"For you, sweetie, how about two hundred dollars? You're my best customer."
Two hundred. I wouldn't get much more than that in profit if I bought it. Still, it would fit the bill and he usually delivers it to me for nothing. Do I want to spend any more time looking? Not really. I still have a lot of work back at home.
Before I answer I pause, not wanting to seem too eager about what I really want to ask him. "I see you also have an old mirror frame down there. What do you want for it?"
"I have? I don't remember it."
"It's sitting behind the paintings against the wall. Big ugly thing painted a hideous blue."
"Oh, that. Came in a lot sale."
"I'm looking for something for home." Keep calm, Dale, you want this. Appear disinterested. Yeah, right…