Furniture
There’s something to be said, she thought, for spending money on old-fashioned furniture. Most of this modern stuff’s rubbish. Just look at the joints. Dovetailing’s a forgotten art. All wire staples and hardboard. And the price! She’d had her table since she and Mo got married. Just like her mum’s. That oak’s hard as iron. Vi Corren smiled.
She’d be dead now if it wasn’t for good furniture. When this bomb went off, her table had somehow been lifted across her chair, protecting her from the collapsing walls. It was pitch dark, so she knew there’d be a lot on top of her. But she didn’t think she was in any immediate danger. And her chair was solid as a rock.
The suite was in perfect condition when she bought it at MacMurtry’s. Hardly used. It cost a fraction of that spindly modern stuff. Okay for a coffee bar, but you wouldn’t want it in your home.
MacMurtry’s furniture was better than new. Made by real craftsman, like her dad. Sound as a bell. Good prices. Of course, she had everything thoroughly cleaned.
Give me what you want to spend, she’d tell Mo. And then let me go and find what I want. He’d been glad of her savings when his back went out that time.
Over the years most of her furniture came from MacMurtry’s. That lovely sideboard, her cabinets. Mick MacMurtry had a big shop on the corner of Old Sweden Street. When his lease ran out they knocked the whole block down and erected some sort of insurance building. She couldn’t get on with all these new featureless skyscrapers.
Her dad had been a joiner and worked for Heals. Mo’s dad had been a Princelet Street tailor. “You tell me about three piece suits,” she’d say, “and I’ll tell you about three piece suites.”
He’d always liked her humour. He was a couple of years younger. The only kid she had, she told people affectionately. He’d be retiring soon and she’d be glad of it. He wanted a clean break from Brookgate. He’d set his heart on Tudor Hamlets. There wouldn’t be any argument from her now. She’d love a little garden.
The big armchair moved under her like a living monster.
Oh!
Huge stones groaning in the darkness overhead.
Then a terrible stillness.
Dust fell. Something squeaked and scraped and juddered, but the table held.
“No time for panic, Vi.”
She breathed slowly and easily, the way she did at the dentist. She refused to think of all the rubble that had to be on top of her.
Another noise. Not a shot. Guns made a simultaneous crack, thud, bang. This was like something snapping.
“Calm down, Vi.”
Most of her childhood Brookgate was already gone. Buried under glassy concrete. Streets you didn’t recognise. People you didn’t know. No proper shops. Really it would be a relief to move. Their insurance would easily cover them, though finding the furniture would be a problem. Everything decent was an antique, these days. Those old parlour drawleafs, still with their wartime utility marks, were selling to Americans for hundreds.
