Read Online A Pack of Lies by Geraldine McCaughrean - Free Book Online

end of a day’s cricket. There was little to show for it in the till, for as soon as he made a sale, MCC was off shopping for books and yet more books. Still, MCC insisted they went today to the Auction Rooms.
    ‘But I don’t have any money to spend at an auction!’ protested Mrs Povey, as Berkshire held out her coat to her.
    ‘Speculate to accumulate. You’ve got to invest to survive. You’ve got to spend if you want to earn!’
    ‘You’ve been reading the economics books again, MCC,’ said Ailsa, and wondered why her mother had given in. They had no money to spend on new stock: they couldn’t even afford to pay the telephone bill.
    ‘Who’ll start me off at five pounds for this genuine reproduction samovar?’ asked the auctioneer.
    The central heating was not on in the Auction Rooms, and a huddle of shivering, grumbling dealers sat hunched over typed lists of the things for sale. MCC said, ‘Why doesn’t anyone bid? It’s a nice samovar. It reminds me of my Great-Uncle Alexei who once got histroika stuck in a snowdrift and lived on tea for three days.’ Coinstantaneously, Mrs Povey and Ailsa (who were sitting on either side of him) took hold of MCC’s hands to stop him bidding. He looked down in astonishment, squeezed their hands, and said, ‘How nice. Thank you.’
    There was a ship’s wheel, a garden hose, a wardrobe, a half-made rug kit, assorted china, a broken scooter, a wheelchair, two dead aspidistras in pots, a sideboard, a fireguard, a fridge and a stuffed ferret. The dealers liked the sideboard and the china, but would not bid at all for the rest, though MCC’s hands twitched hungrily. ‘I knew a man once who owned a laundrette and trained a ferret to fetch out all the socks and handkerchiefs that got stuck in the machines.’
    ‘Did it work?’ asked Ailsa, tightening her grip.
    ‘Almost. It fetched them out every time. But it ate them.’
    The auctioneer scowled at MCC and said, ‘Did I hear a bid, sir?’
    ‘No!’ squeaked Mrs Povey.
    It was nearing lunchtime. The dealers got out their sandwiches, with a rustle of cellophane and paper bags. As they did so, a huge table was brought up on to the dais: a vast, polished mahogany oval as shiny and reflective as a village pond and almost as big. The dealers stirred in their seats and their frosty breath sprang up in a dozen plumes of admiration. Even Mrs Povey said, ‘Now
there
’s a lovely piece,’ and absent-mindedly let go of MCC’s left hand. She was dizzy at the sound of the spiralling bids — three hundred, four hundred, five hundred, five-fifty . . .
    ‘Seven hundred pounds!’ declared MCC, lifting his right hand as if Ailsa were no more than a handkerchief tucked in his cuff. Suddenly there were no more bids.
    Mrs Povey burst into tears. ‘No bid! No bid!’ she tried to call, but it became all tangled with the tears and the shivering and the scraping of chairs as the dealers turned in their seats to identify the bidder.
    ‘Now are you happy?’ said Ailsa.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ MCC asked, hurriedly passing Mrs Povey his silk handkerchief.
    ‘Going once at seven hundred,’ said the auctioneer.
    ‘We don’t have it!’ hissed Ailsa.
    ‘But it’s worth much more than seven hundred,’ argued MCC, looking crestfallen. ‘You could make a nice profit.’
    ‘But we don’t
have
it!’
    ‘Going for a second time at seven hundred,’ said the auctioneer.
    ‘Don’t you worry your head about that,’ said MCC.
    ‘Sold to Povey’s Antiquary!’
    ‘
Oh!
’ howled Mrs Povey. ‘Go and tell him we haven’t got the money! Tell him it’s a mistake! He’ll have to auction the table again. I’ll never be able to show my face here after this.’
    ‘Now, now,’ said MCC. ‘Leave this to me,’ and he jumped and squeezed his way round and over the chairs to the front of the hall, grinning to left and right at the munching, smoke-breathing dealers. He approached the table as if he were about to plunge into the