Her Thirties Part 98

I was up early and reading the morning paper but the astrology column was giving me gloomy thoughts.

My cell vibrated noisily on the table causing me to jump. Abe was right—I needed to stop dwelling on Charlie stalking us and keep involved in the routines of daily life—I was wound tighter than a spring.

I picked up and heard Cam Stewart’s soft, sincere voice on the other end. I hadn’t seen him since the Thirties party.

“Hey, you’re actually up early on a holiday,” he chirped, “Will wonders never cease?”

“Hey, Cam—give me a break—unlike you, I actually have to work hard for my money.”

“Yeah, well speaking about money, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

I was about to beg off when he caught my interest.

“Nettie’s been online again and she found a fellow selling off items from the old Palais Royale—I thought you might be interested.”

My stomach gave a flip. “Interested? You bet!”

“The guy’s a carpenter and lives in the Beaches. She made an appointment for us to meet him at his shop at noon, if you can make it.”

“Sure. Why don’t you drop by here and we’ll drive over?”

“Sounds like a plan. See you in about forty minutes.”

I hung up smiling. Good ole Cam—always there to cheer me up at just the right time.

I began to feel guilty for not keeping in touch—I suppose our lifestyles were more than a little out of synch—but going antiquing? That leveled the playing field.

We pulled up in front of a small Queen Street shop with a weathered sign over the front door: Beaches Carpentry: “serving the Beach since 1960”.

A small, white-haired Scottish man greeted us at the door. “Keith Wallace,” he smiled, beckoning us to come in.

I entered and shook his hand. “I’m Scott Lennox, and this is Cam Stewart.”

The man grinned genially.

“I hear you have some memorabilia from the old Palais Royale,” I offered.

“Aye, I do—old ticket stubs, flyers, posters—that sort of thing.”

“Sounds interesting. Can we see them?”

“Sure, sure. Come back to the office—I keep them all in a chest.”

We followed him back to a large, cluttered room filled with several old wooden filing cabinets, a huge oak desk and what looked like a stagecoach chest nestled in the corner.

“This was my Da’s Saratoga Steamer trunk—he guarded it like a treasure chest—and I suppose it was precious to him. I rescued all the personal items, but what’s left, you’re welcome to go through.”

The chest was made of wood and covered with hand-tooled decorative leather. When I opened the lid, it had a well-preserved paper interior, filled with posters, catalogues and flyers, just as the old man described.

Cam sat down cross-legged on the floor and began rooting through the contents, but I stood transfixed—I was staring at an old photo on the wall.

The man noted my expression. “That’s an old picture taken in the dance hall at the Palais in the mid-Thirties—me Da told me many stories about the Swing Bands that used to play there.”

“Would you be interested in selling it?” I asked.

“Sure, but I hardly know what it’s worth,” he scratched his chin slyly, “although I went on line and found some of these old photos sell for upwards of a hundred dollars.”

“I’ll take it,” I said.

The man looked at me narrowly. “Is there something special about this photo? I hear stories of people selling rare items for a fraction of their worth.”

“No, nothing like that,” I said. “I’m just attracted to this photo.”

“I’ll tell you what,” The man said shrewdly, “I’ll sell you the photo, the trunk and all the contents for five hundred dollars.”

“Sold,” I said, and counted out the bills into his hand.

Cam stared up at me open-mouthed. “But Scott, you haven’t even gone through these items.”

“It’s okay—they’re a part of the past I don’t want to slip away.”

Actually, there was something in that photo I didn’t want to slip away and couldn’t wait to share it with Marilyn and Ella that night.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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