“Oh, it’sgotto be haunted,” I agree, as we pass a particularly creepy painting of one of the previous owners, who looks like he probably sleeps in a coffin and comes out at night to stalk his innocent victims. “I’d be thoroughly disappointed if it wasn’t.”
“Same,” replies Elliot. “I’d be asking for my money back if there wasn’t a mysterious lady in white, at the very least; or a creepy little girl, say. Twins, ideally.”
I laugh, remembering the night we watchedThe Shiningtogether on the tiny screen of his laptop, and I dropped the entire box of popcorn on the floor when the twin girls appeared.
Elliot smiles down at me as if he’s thinking of the same thing, and my laughter abruptly turns into a wave of sadness for the life we could have lived if things had been different. The movies we could’ve watched together. The books we would’ve read, and then completely re-written in our heads when we compared notes on them later. The trips we would’ve taken, and the completely uneventful evenings we’d have spent at home, doing nothing more exciting than simply being together.
“Um, I think it’s this way,” I say, breaking eye contact before Elliot can figure out what I’m thinking, in that uncanny way he always had of knowing what was on my mind almost before I knew myself. “Either that or this is where all the ghosts are, judging by the noise.”
The low murmur of voices guides us to the hall, where rows of chairs have been set up, all facing a makeshift stage, which a man in a tweedy kind of suit — the auctioneer, presumably — is standing on.
“What is it you’re hoping to find here, anyway?” I ask as we take our seats near the back of the room, me very aware that this is nothing like the jumble sale I’ve been imagining ever since Elliot told me about it. “You said you thought there might be some things that belonged to Evie?”
“One thing in particular,” Elliot replies, flicking through the brochure. “Let me try to find it…”
I can’t begin to imagine what kind of thing Evie Snow might have left behind that would hold any clues at all to what happened between her and Elliot’s great-grandfather, Luke, but the auctioneer is clearing his throat loudly, then banging his gavel on the desk to signal the start of the auction, so I leaveElliot to his brochure, and turn my attention to the front of the room instead.
It’s the first time I’ve ever attended an auction, and I’m pleased to find that it’s almost exactly the way it always looks on TV, with the auctioneer talking very fast, and a smattering of people standing at the back of the room with phones clamped to their ears and serious expressions on their face.
The goods on offer, meanwhile, range from the eye-wateringly expensive (A tall and rather ugly vase, which sells for £30,000), to the comparatively affordable (A portrait of a sad-looking dog that only reaches £90, although that’s only because I sit on my hands to stop myself putting in a sympathy bid, just to make it feel better), and I look on, fascinated, as all of these little fragments of the past find their way to new owners.
“You really wanted that vintage teddy bear, didn’t you?” whispers Elliot during a short gap in the proceedings while a gigantic tapestry with a picture of a frog on it is hauled up to the front of the room. “I saw the look on your face.”
“Don’t,” I groan, holding my hands over my face. “It was the saddest thing ever. Imagine some child having that, and cherishing it, and then it ends up at some auction, unloved. It makes me want to cry. And, well,buyit.”
Most other people would laugh at this, but Elliot just nods, as if it makes perfect sense to feel sad over the fate of some long-ago child’s much-loved toy being auctioned off to the highest bidder — whose bid was actually disappointingly low, as it happens. But the auctioneer is starting up again, so I sit firmly on my hands once more, terrified to move in case I inadvertently buy something, as the frog tapestry sells for more than I paid for my car, and the next lot is carried up onto the stage.
“Lot 32,” calls the auctioneer. “Antique snow globe making kit, dating back to the early twentieth century.” He continues speaking, but now my attention is focused on Elliot, who sits upa little straighter in his seat, his eyes fixed on the front of the room.
I’m confused. Elliot said the item he was interested in buying belonged to Evie Snow. He didn’t mention anything about snow globes.
What does Evie Snow have to do with snow globes?
Surely it can’t be…?
“… which would be ideal for collectors of holiday memorabilia,” finishes the auctioneer, whose speech I’ve completely missed. “Can I start the bidding at £100?”
Elliot’s hand instantly rises. So does someone else’s at the back of the room. There are only two bidders, though, and if I was hoping for a dramatic, to-the-death style bidding war — which I secretly was — I’m doomed to be disappointed, because the other bidder drops out quickly, leaving Elliot the proud owner of the kit, for just £185.
“I’d have paid much more than that,” he says, his eyes shining as we gather our things, and get ready to leave, a few minutes later. “Come on, let’s go and pick it up.”
I pull on my coat and follow him wordlessly to the collection point, which is in a smaller room next to the hall.
“Elliot,” I say, watching him hand over his credit card, before carefully taking possession of a sturdy looking polished wooden box with the initials E and S embossed on the lid. “How did you know Evie made snow globes? I’m assuming that’s what you’re thinking here?”
“I didn’t know,” he replies, turning to me and looking at the object in his hands as if he can’t believe his luck. “I had absolutely no idea until Katie told me some of her things were being sold off, and I looked at the auction listing. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. And I don’t suppose it’s got any connection to … well, to our snow globe. But, look, let’s go out here and take a look, shall we?”
He nods in the direction of a set of double doors which have been propped open to allow visitors to exit via the back of the house, where there’s a wide flight of steps leading down to an ornamental garden, with a little tearoom in a conservatory off to one side. There’s even a pond off in the distance, with a pair of swans appearing to float effortlessly on its glass-like surface.
It’s really too cold to be sitting outside, but now that the snow’s finally stopped, the sky has turned a clear, bright blue, which makes the snow on the ground sparkle in the sun, and there are a few hardy souls sitting at the picnic tables dotted around the terrace, their hands cupped around steaming mugs of something that smells nauseatingly spicy. Elliot and I choose a table close to the garden and sit down, the wooden box in front of us.
“Ready?” asks Elliot, looking exactly like the little boy he must once have been, opening a gift on Christmas morning.
I nod, smiling at his enthusiasm. I know from the auctioneer’s description that the kit inside the box is only a partial one, with just enough to make one or two snow globes. It was sold, according to the brochure, as a collector’s piece, rather than as something actually usable — I guess most people just buy snow globes in shops, or from market stalls, like we did, rather than making them themselves — so I’m not really expecting much. The fact that the mystery woman in Elliot’s photos apparently had a hobby that even tangentially links her to us is a big enough coincidence for me to get my head around, without the contents of the box being actually interesting. But then Elliot reaches out and carefully opens the lid of the box, with the air of a man about to unleash all of Pandora’s secrets into the world, and we both lean forward, our heads almost touching as we peer into the velvet-lined interior.
Inside the box is a jumble of items, including tiny houses and other buildings presumably designed to go inside a snow globe, plus a single glass dome.
“It smells funny,” I comment, registering the musty scent of the interior. “It reminds me of churches.”
