SHORT STORY 3
Mr Darwin’s Antiques
Mr Darwin’s antique shop had stood on the corner of the main street of our town for over thirty-five years. Unlike all the other shops that changed appearances annually like trees in autumn, Mr Darwin chose to keep his shop exactly as it always has been, ever since he opened for business as an enthusiastic young migrant from London. Every letter of the shop name was hand painted by Mr Darwin himself, in gold Copperplate Gothic Font on his enormous shop window. Velvety purple curtains bordered the window, which opened into a display festooned with a profusion of shapes and colours.
Here, you see a toy train set climbing around an embankment made of a rare typewriter before it tunnelled beneath a pair of luminous tiffany lamps. There you catch a glimpse of a mahogany rocking chair that provided a picnic spot for a party of handmade teddy bears dressed in sailors’ uniforms, each identified with a unique nametag. With chaotic flair, little porcelain figures populated the nooks and crannies of a cascading arrangement of first edition books and tea sets. And that was before you even stepped a foot in the shop.
When you walk in through the front door was when the magical experience began. Everything contrived to entice the mind's eye. A brass bell in the shape of an owl heralded your arrival with what seemed like an endless tinkling that resonated from wall to wall. Your feet sank into the lush, grey carpet of the interior space like the sensation of receiving a foot massage. And then the lavender smell wrapped around you. Mr Darwin always had a bunch of fresh lavenders from the florist next door in a tall Chinese vase by the door.
“That smell invites you in like a wife,’ he told me proudly.
Mr Darwin never married and had no children. In his early twenties, he had once been heartbroken by a girl and never quite found someone to replace her.
“Romance is like antiques,” Mr Darwin said whimsically, “they last a long time and sometimes one cannot bear to replace them due to inherent sentimental values not apparent to anyone else.”
And this was where I came in. My name is Ashley and I just became Mr Darwin’s one and only shop assistant because he had difficulties coming to terms with a major replacement of a more visceral kind, his knees. At the ripe old age of seventy-six, Mr Darwin was hospitalised for the very first time, having had recently undergone knee surgery after a terrible fall from his ladder. He had been dusting a small oil painting on the main wall behind the cash register counter.
“Fancy that,” he muttered softly in his hospital bed as he interviewed me for the job, “I’ve come to possess a few genuine masterpieces by local celebrity artists, but it’s that one by an unknown, obscure artist that has cost me the most.’ He finished by waving weakly at his immobilised lower body.
I frowned in concern.
“Sir,” I responded after thinking carefully, “when I was in New York, I saw a Picasso painting hoisted up by robotic arms.”
“Well Ashely,” Mr Darwin smiled, “our budget doesn’t stretch that far.”
I was hired on the spot, on account of me having been in the presence of a real Picasso.
Now convalescing in a wheelchair behind the counter, Mr Darwin directed me as I waltzed round the premises with a feather duster, furniture polish, glass cleaner and screwdriver strapped to a belt around my waist. Preparation to open for business took half an hour.
By the time the first ray of sunlight hit the top of the grandfather clock at ten o’clock sharp, the solar system on the roof was in full operation and the shop was lit up by multiple chandeliers and climate controlled by a dozen freshly watered pot plants.
As I made the first cup of tea and brought out two scones, cream and jam for morning tea, the magpie family outside would begin to sing.
These daily birdsongs always made me freeze. I forced myself to look away from the shelved walls burgeoning with fascinating paraphernalia, and remembered that I was somewhere in Australia, not some bustling European tourism centre. It was so easy to get lost in the Mozart record playing in the background and the whiffs of exotic incense sticks placed strategically throughout the premises. And as the sun rose higher, the sunbeams shifted infinitesimally and played with the glowing outlines of objects of all different origins that filled the shop close to bursting point.
Time seemed to slow down when I was here.
“To hold a million years in your hands…”
Mr Darwin’s voice startled me out of my reverie, and I followed his gaze and found myself staring at a case of amber stones underneath the glass countertop.
“Just look at the poor beetle trapped in this hardened resin,” he murmured, “once crawling along some primordial forest, now a specimen destined to captivate a school excursion group for fifteen minutes.”
I liked it when Mr Darwin talked about the items in his shop. He prompted me to think outside the square, and reimagine the past for an interesting future.
Every day, as I helped Mr Darwin down the lift from his compact but elegant living quarters above the shop, he would regale me with anecdotes of the London years he spent saving up money from his patisserie apprentice to pay for his part-time archaeology degree.
“In my night shift, I would mould dough sprinkled with nuts and raisins into hieroglyphic shapes and Egyptian artefacts and bake them into crispy buns. The head baker called my little line of creative baking ‘The Time Capsule’. It was a hit with the local college students from the science department. I simultaneously got a raise and graduated with first class honours.”
Mr Darwin swung steadily between the past and present like the pendulum in the grandfather clock he like to watch and meditate on.
“Eventually my baking skills, and my course readings, traversed through the centuries to Ancient Greece. The shape of my buns became little cinnamon-flavoured palatial columns and honey glazed olive leaf wreaths.”
I salivated at the various aromas I could imagine emanating from Mr Darwin’s long-ago oven.
He sipped his tea delicately and leaned back in his wheelchair. There was a faraway look in his eyes.
“The problem was that even as I filled the stomachs of customers with reminders of the achievements of ancient civilisations, I discovered that the relics of our more recent past was being trashed and vanishing due to rampant consumerism.”
“Stunning, one-of-a-kind davenports left on the side of the street for garbage collection, lovely chinaware from distinguished manufacturers practically ignored at garage sales.” Mr Darwin sighed. “I wanted to save these treasures for someone who could appreciate them, they were like time capsules. It shouldn’t go to waste.”
He smiled at me.
“That’s why I came to Australia. I saw a great opportunity to salvage the history of a country with an identity still in upheaval, transitioning between fear and self-knowledge.”
Mr Darwin lifted a boomerang. His fingertips first brushed the bend in its middle, then traced the two kangaroo silhouettes outlined by dot painting covering the two ends.
“If we could dig up all the earth’s hidden resources, would we ever find a better use for it than to simply set up a campfire to heat a billy can and bake a damper, so that wise elders could convene and work out how best to keep peace in all the lands?”
I had to agree. There was always a comforting sense of homey genius in Mr Darwin’s unassuming logic.
Sometimes, the shop would be packed with weekend tourists from the big smoke, bring along with them the heavy perfume of glamours modern lifestyles. Yet only after a few minutes in the shop, I would discern that the heavy tread of these visitors became lighter, and their hurried voices had softened a notch.
Couples would end up gaze longingly at the model aeroplanes suspended from the ceiling and daydream of long overseas holidays as their children poked at blinking, heavily lashed dolls dressed in beautiful Victorian attire. More discerning buyers appraised our array of marble sculptures for their fireplace mantles or private collections. Boys would be magnetically drawn to peeking through telescopes and girls would marvel at the Mr Darwin’s account of the creation of an iridescent opal.
I observed Mr Darwin, or Dar Darling, as the locals called him, gift-wrap each item he sold as though it was a newborn.
There was always a glint of merriment in his expression as he finished the transaction with his customary spiel: ‘Remember, returns are always welcome. These old things only go up in value the older they become.”
When Mr Darwin was finally deemed nearly healed, he was sent away for a week of rehabilitation in the nearest city facility. It was left for me to run the shop all on my own. And that was when I became aware of the more subtle contributions the shop made to the community. This was a place where people could soothe their spiritual side. The shop offered a glimpse into another world that gave intellectual stimulation and invigoration, fusing philosophy with art. There was a chance to venerate the passage of life here.
I felt like the curator of a special museum where anyone and everyone could take home their own piece of history. I grew to love the instant the beauty of one particular object captured the eye of a shopper, like a curious butterfly alighting on a bloom or a deep anchor sinking into unfathomable emotions.
I stayed at the shop for three years. Then I was called up by the Army Reserve to serve in a communications role for eighteen months. One day, I got an important civilian phone call.
“Hello? Is this Ashley?” The voice was male and unfamiliar.
“Yes,” I answered curtly.
“Hello Ashley, my name is Thomas. Thomas Darwin. I am a nephew of Mr Darwin’s”
“How is Mr Darwin?” I murmured, absentmindedly.
“I am afraid my uncle died last week.”
A wave of sorrow washed over me. The image of Mr Darwin smiling flashed before me. He had the sweetest smile I had ever seen. My thoughts poured over the rich memories I associated with my time as his shop assistant, some of happiest I ever experienced. I had grown into a better person under his patient tutelage.
“I want to relay a message,” Thomas continued in a tight voice. “It is in my uncle’s will that the shop can go to you if you want it.”
My attention snapped back to the present.
“Are you serious?” I gasped.
“Yes, Ashely.”
Speed and strength had been drilled into me during my time in the army, but it was half a minute before I found my voice again.
“It will be an honour,’ I whispered, “for me to have shop.”
“Very good.”
Thomas detailed the legal procedure of transferring the ownership of the shop to my name, but my mind still hardly dared to believe my changed fortune. I became aware of the little spot of bother that had bugged me ever since I left the shop almost two years ago. Perhaps now civilian life will not be as empty as I feared it might become.
A year later, and I was released from my military duties.
I gritted my teeth as I lifted the new shop sign and attached it to a veranda beam supporting the newly restored façade of the building left to me in Mr Darwin’s will. It read: Out of The Ashes Antiques.
An old lady pushed a squeaky walker slowly towards me. She craned her head and squinted at the sign, mouthing each of the words. She nodded and turned to look straight at me with piercingly sharp eyes.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Then she began to talk in a hesitant voice.
“Honey. Ash…Ashely…is it?”
“Yes mam,” I bowed my head respectfully.
“Listen,” her voice stronger, “I have here,” she patted an inconspicuous handbag strung from her neck, " a ruby and gold jewellery set, a family heirloom. Now can I please deposit these here for a loan?”
She coughed.
“Mr Darwin usually agrees to help out in these matters. I’m behind with a medical bill. If I don’t pay you back in a month’s time, you call sell the jewellery. Probably better that they go on the neck and ears of a beautiful young woman than sit in a dark cabinet in my apartment gathering dust.”
I knew that there was a large safe with instructions on the combination lock in the back of the shop, but I hadn’t before realised the extent of Mr Darwin’s services and his involvement in the town’s social fabric.
And that was how I become an unofficial goodwill banker, and this gave me an additional sense of fulfilment. I eventually married Thomas. We chose to change the shop name to Stardust when a loyal patron of the shop remarked to me that in the very air, in every lungful we breathed, there must be some elements of the ashes and atoms of famous people like Shakespeare. The Stardust House gradually extended beyond the antique business into an eclectic retail space with a café, an art gallery and an afterhours music venue.
In Mr Darwin’s memory, I always kept the shop door open, metaphorically speaking, to help people in need. My daughter, when I retired, she took over my business and kept up the philanthropic tradition.
And that charming little owl shaped doorbell has continued to tinkle throughout every generation.
