A Nightingale in Parkleigh Square

Chapter Fifteen

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W ith trunks secured in moisture bases, the trees emerged from the delivery truck, each one hauled between two deliverymen in jumpsuits. They were seven in total through Billington's service entrance, six smaller ones ranging from five to seven foot tall, all flocked firs with light green needles and snowy flocking added to the branches. The largest one, number seven, was a towering balsam, also flocked.

Molly filmed the progress with her phone. "Big day for Display by Design, our first London Christmas trees," she narrated. "They're all inside now, so let's go in and get these babies placed."

Nina was helping them place each tree in the spots marked out using easy-peel blue tape. "Right over there," she said. "Okay, great, that's perfect," she said, as the largest tree stood upright in the grip of two deliverymen, centered in the room with the mirrors as its backdrop — currently covered with white paint cloths to protect them from scratches while the staff moved heavier display pieces around on the main floor.

Molly took a photo as it fell into place. She lowered her phone and gazed up at the balsam as if standing in the redwood forest, looking at one of its epic trees. "It's spectacular," she said. "I have seriously never seen a tree this big. Like, not outside of Rockefeller Square or some oak in Central Park, I mean."

"It's gorgeous," said Nina. "Now all we have to do is get lights on it?"

"Yeah, burst the bubble, why don't you?" said Molly, sarcastically. "We're going to need to rent some big ladders. Does anybody rent hydraulic buckets rated for indoors?"

"We can't afford that," Nina pointed out. "We'll be doing it old style as soon as the lights arrive."

Lights first — reams of white lights on flocked cording would have to be wound around the branches and tucked out of sight as much as possible. From basic twinkle lights to lights with effect — cycling soft glows in crystal-style pinecones or icicles, if they could find the right novelty lights that would accent the decorations. That was the plan in progress, with Val tracking down the best and fastest delivery of the choices Nina had texted to her.

"Okay, let's put up the drapery," said Nina, opening the box containing rolls of sheer fabric, used for backdrops and for veiling scenery.

Clear rods and hooks had been attached to the lowest part of the ceiling and to fixtures above — trim and lights — for the purpose of eventually hanging banners or fabric panels for the store's displays, but they were taking advantage of it to tent the trees during the decorating process. It would cordon off the zones that weren't being decorated for the store's grand opening, and also facilitate the 'grand unveiling' of the finished Christmas decor for the party.

They attached the panels to clips, and pulled them into place with light nylon rope, which had been looped over the rods. A white gauzy tent surrounded the main tree, almost to its top, leaving a wide berth around its circumference for ornament boxes and ladders. Similar draping surrounded key areas around three of the smaller trees, the ones closest to the main attraction, where Nina and Bradley were both designing winterscapes to bring harmony to the decorating scheme.

"We have to go order a lot of snow," said Molly, clipping the rope's end to the gauze curtain's base. "I have a line on a bulk fabric wholesaler, so I'll pick up the snow for masking the tree bases at the same time I pick up the ornaments."

"Will all of that fit in our hired van?" asked Nina, with a skeptical laugh.

"No, I'll probably upgrade us to a bigger one for the day," said Molly. "It's a lot of crates. Plus, I may pick up some of that natural stuff that one of the gardening assistant guys told me about at the pub. I thought maybe something there would fit the winter woodland theme, so I'll pay it a visit, look for end-of-season bargains."

"Reina has some suggestions for us, so I texted her to talk to Bradley," said Nina, checking her messages before putting away her phone, then putting the last clip in place to secure the focal tree's curtains. "I think I'm going to the arts shop to see if I can find some bulk materials for frosting and patina. We have a lot of decorations to unify, we need something besides snow and crystal glitter in our arsenal."

"We need to finish veiling these. I think the design team comes in to work in a couple of hours," said Molly. "They're in and out of their workshop all the time, and you know how Natalia is — she thinks we're in the way if we so much as breathe in their space."

"Help me get these curtains untangled for the next one," said Nina, unrolling the next panel, and reaching for her shears. "We'll try to vanish before they arrive." Is Vincent one of them? And why am I thinking of him — there's nothing for me to think about except a totally imaginary idea . Nina argued with herself in her head, and what worried her a little was that she had to argue about it more frequently than before.

***

B radley rooted around through the plastic bin which was designated as Reina's reclaimed glass heap, volunteered for Display by Design's use by the artist. He selected another small bottle, an ornate one meant for spices, trying to decide. Did it look enough like a crystal bauble — more importantly, would it look more like one after the application of some glass glitter and a screw-on pinecone metal perfume top?

He piled them into a shopping bag next to the rubbish bin, next to a smashed coffee maker. From the nearby flat, the cat had come from the potted plants by the door, inspecting the garbage for anything of interest as his owner, the elderly Asian woman, swept her doorway again.

Ki climbed out from the boarded-over hole to his workshop, carrying a bag of plastic casings for the recycling bin. He paused to look at the broken coffee maker, prying open its casing to look at the electric coil inside, then peered inside Bradley's shopping bag, looking disappointed it contained glass.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"For upcycling into decorations," said Bradley. "We need to make our own stuff sometimes."

"Out of old bottles?"

"Sure," said Bradley. "Anything clear glass, especially if it has a design cast. See the way this one is made?" He showed him the beveled side on the spice bottle he selected from the pile, running his finger along the design. "Anything fancy like this, we can use."

The boy nodded. "You should get bottles from the river," he said.

"From the river?" said Bradley. "You mean, like, the tide trash, right? Tangled up with old plastic rings and fish line and stuff — I think you have to have cleanup permission or they arrest you for littering," he said, laughing.

"People get licenses. There are people who hunt the tide," said Ki. "You should talk to them." He shrugged.

"I don't think anybody around here does," said Bradley. "Nobody in the pub talks about beachcombing or whatever."

"The bloke who makes the wall art does. That's what he uses to make his canvases. He presses soda tins and old plastics and stuff and melts it to make panes. He does that to glass, too, like Reina does."

"Okay," said Bradley. "Maybe I'll go talk to him." He picked up the bag. "Do you want to introduce me, maybe?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

He led the way up the steps inside one of the houses, which had been divided into flats and studios for rent, to an open door where a man was dragging an old sofa into position in the middle of a narrow room covered in paint tarps and empty window frames. Like Ki claimed, some of these had replacement panes made from melted plastic and flattened aluminum mingling and crinkling together in waves and bubbles created by a hot torch.

"Sammy, this bloke wants to know about mudlarking junk," called out Ki, pointing his thumb at Bradley.

"Say what?"

"He wants glass bottles. Stuff like that," said Ki.

The man Sammy pushed back the knit cap covering his shaggy grey hair. "You want mudlarking glass?" he said. "Is that what it is?"

"Um, yeah, I'm sort of looking for castoff glass, anything that looks a little decorative, a little worn — a little vintage," said Bradley. "For a project. I work for a window dressing and scene staging business, I'm creating upcycled artistic pieces for a Christmas tree."

"What sort? Colored — what?"

"Oh. Clear," said Bradley. "You know, transparent. Frost or patina would be okay, too, just not color."

"Oh, yeah. Well, I have some stuff. Over there, in the corner, that's where I toss extra stuff," said Sammy. "You can take some of it."

Bradley moved aside some boxes that contained plastic bottles, flattened lime green ones, and a pile of flattened aluminum ads for Coca-Cola and orange soda. The box of glass underneath contained several more of the spice bottle, which must be a common choice to buy on supermarket shelves. A few round jars with decoration raised around the top rim, probably an ornate jam jar. He added them to his sack.

"What about this one?" Ki held up a jar tinted green.

"It's nice," said Bradley, adjusting his glasses to look. "But too green. I think I'll pass."

Ki put it back.

"If there are more like these, I could use them," he said, showing Ki the globe-shaped one.

"An old marmalade jar?"

"Yeah, just like this," said Bradley. "We can put lights in it, or little pinecones or glitter beads. We're trying to create the look of snow and ice — like nature with lots of glitter and rhinestones on it, basically."

"Sounds daft," said Ki, fishing around in the pile for ones like Bradley found. He held up a tapered perfume bottle, and Bradley nodded.

"You can come along and find some more junk if you want," said Sammy. The artist was done moving the sofa out of the way of a new canvas frame, an old tall window with irregular pane sizes created by cutting away the interior separations.

Bradley twisted his head. "What?" he said.

"I'm going down for a couple of hours this morning. Bit of stuff probably came with the last storm off the coast. You can come." Sammy put on his backpack. "Ki here comes from time to time, looking for mobile phones that have fallen from pockets, or lost transistors and other toy electronics."

"Sometimes I find things," said Ki. "Most of it's ruined by water. Sometimes the mechanical parts are still good, if it's old."

"I found a nineteenth-century shelf clock once. Too tatty for collectors, but Ki probably found a good use for its surviving gears and springs," said Sammy. "If you come, I'll let you have the bottles. I'm on the hunt for shells today."

Bradley checked the time. "Maybe for a bit, but I have to be back by afternoon," he said. "I have to touch base with our assistant, because by then she'll have heard from all our vendors, and her cousin will have checked in from a couple of assignments she's working for us."

"We won't be gone that long," said Sammy. "Come and see the rough side of the Thames. Tourists never appreciate it from the bridges."

"Better put on some old shoes," said Ki.

The banks of the river had looked quaint from the bridge — up close, Bradley could smell the strong, sometimes-rank odor of brackish water, rotting fish, and stagnation collected in shallow pools, mixed with something fresh and earthen from the river breezes. Mud coated with bits of shell, pottery, rock, and pebble squished like modeling clay under the heels of some tennis shoes that Bradley now imagined as fated for the rubbish bin tomorrow. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

Sammy picked up pieces of broken mussel, polishing away some mud to shine the pearly patina in the light. "Not many come up, but I always keep what I can find," he said. "Some of these are dumped from the seafood place down river. People eat the clams and oysters — toss the shells over the pier's rails despite the signs." He popped the broken half in a lidded bucket he carried.

Ki inspected the bottom of a glass jar tangled in some marsh weeds. "What about this?" he called.

Bradley peered. "I don't know about my project, but Reina could probably use it," he said. "Pop it in." He opened the shopping bag he was carrying.

"There are probably lots more," said Ki. "A lot of glass washes up. Sometimes you find whole pieces, sometimes broken."

"If you want something in color, here we are," said Sammy. He held up a piece of orange-colored plastic, fragmented among the remains of a car's lamp.

"Not for me," said Bradley, shaking his head. "It wouldn't go with the decor."

"Good, because I can use it," said Sammy, dropping it in his bucket. "If it's glass, sometimes I give it to Reina, but I keep the plastics to recycle for my own projects."

"The canvases in your studio, right?" said Bradley. "Sort of a view of recycling for the wall, right?"

"You're correct. Although the ones I make with repurposed glass and plastics are more like suncatchers. I make panes for people to hang to refract the light, or turn it into a sort of urban modern stained glass," he said, scraping aside some mud around a piece of debris, trapped in some muddy weeds. "Aluminum and light metals for the walls. I made a spectacular piece with some old copper sheeting and plastic casings melted in a mélange . Like putting crayons into a microwave, it was." He uncovered a piece of scrap metal, turning it over with his fingers.

Ki used a stick to scrape aside mud, digging through little eddies of branch and muddy plants. Bradley emulated his style, looking for anything that would shine in the sunlight — that would be glass, possibly, or clear plastic, either one. He found a piece of pottery, glazed blue. Good for the glass artist with her mosaic project in mind, but not great for him.

He found another half jar in the mud, with a filigree rim around the bottom. A whole bottle in the shape of a teardrop had washed up by the rocks, which would definitely work for the project. What kind was it? Not that he could go to the store and clear off a shelf at an affordable price, could he?

Ki scratched aside some mud, then dug with his hand in between some of the broken shells Sammy talked about, and the remains of a plastic casing fractured into pieces, until he found part of a computer chip's wafer board, circuits still attached. He studied them keenly, then shoved it into his pocket, and looked around for signs of more.

"Will that still work?" Bradley asked.

"You never know," said Ki. "Probably not, but I sometimes try." He dug around in the nearby shoal, but nothing turned up but dirt.

Bradley turned over a piece of green plastic, rescuing it for Sammy, who was picking up some old aluminum cans caught in part of a fishing line. He put the garbage into a bag hanging from one shoulder, and put the materials for his art into the bucket, which had shells and some flattened plastics, and part of a broken piece of pink glass that looked like an old vase.

Ki poked the stick into another pile of weeds. "Here," he called to Bradley, who had found an old pair of sunglasses. He put the plastic frames into Sammy's bucket and strode in Ki's direction. Under the muddy weeds, he could see a glass shard cutting up through mud.

"It's a nest," said Ki. "Sometimes stuff washes up together like this. Old crates or something that float and come part. See how many."

"There's half a dozen," said Bradley, digging around to find bottles, shaped like tapered tubes, which were filled with muddy water, veined with something green and thready, like moss cobwebs. "These are great, they'll be perfect."

He dug them out, putting them into the shopping bag, which was streaked with mud. "If I could find some more like these, I could use them like icicles, almost," he said. "I can get some patina solution, and decorate the tops with chunky frost glitter." He inspected the neck of another bottle, broken in half, unfortunately.

"Found a few over here," called Sammy. "It looks like an old crate, probably dragged from the bottom and washed ashore. Stuff comes up when they drag the river, or when a storm stirs up the water."

"Is it unusual to find this many?" asked Bradley. "Like finding a rubbish gold mine?" He was amazed he'd had this much luck, since he'd been dubious at first. He had expected to find a couple of useless jam jars at most.

"It's not ordinary, but it happens," said Sammy. "I know some glass collectors who find things routinely. If you like, some of them sell off their decent finds in lots, little collections of matching bottles or jars, or pieces of ceramic — I know a few who do."

"Yeah, I'd like to meet them," said Bradley. "Maybe they have more like these. But they probably want a lot of money. This isn't totally easy." Squishy mud and little gnats were among the most annoying features.

"Not unless they found something nice or collectible. Pristine items are hard to come by," said Sammy. "Unless you find one of the Youtubers — then fans are always jostling a bit to be the one who buys it."

"Look," said Ki. He waved a piece of red plastic in the air.

"Good show, lad. Put it in the bucket."

Sammy's friends did have some items for sale, and Bradley returned from the hunt with two buckets of bottles — old ink bottles, perfume bottles, and more of the decorative marmalade jars, with the patina of sea water and river scum decorating them, some with rusty caps welded on by nature. It was cheaper than buying them online, and it was a treasure trove for a crafter — if they could figure out how to go from glass trash to upcycled Christmas treasures, that is.

"Are you really going to use garbage?" asked Ki, who looked skeptical.

"Sure, if I can figure out the right way to restyle them," said Bradley. "Art supplies come in handy, all kinds of things. So long as I can cover the opening with something artistic, either a new tip or a new cap with a hanger."

Ki shook his head, but didn't say anything, as he carried the second shopping bag. "Can I have a tip?" he asked. "If I take this upstairs for you?"

"How about a Snickers bar?" asked Bradley. "I don't have any cash right now." Bargaining for the mudlarker's stash left him without any change.

"Okay. But I'd like an MP3 player better."

"Take what you can get, right?" said Bradley, lugging two sacks past the recycling bin beside the neighbor's planters, spilling with some winter cabbage plants in miniature. The tabby cat was sniffing them, winding around a little bench holding a watering can and a dust pan.

The door opened, and the Asian woman in her work apron stood on the threshold just as Bradley was passing, beckoning to him. He stopped.

"Hi," he said. "Can I help?" He tried not to sound confused.

She motioned. The door was open. Bradley and Ki glanced at each other. "She wants you to go in," said Ki.

"What about you?" Bradley thought this was probably a mix up. He pointed to the boy, and the woman turned, surveyed, and nodded, now gesturing for both of them to follow. After another exchange of glances, they went inside.

Bradley expected to see a heavy box or a half-assembled piece of flat-pack furniture, but the hallway's only obstacle was a pair of garden clogs and a little table with a vase, underneath some pictures of bonsai trees and Oriental temples. Ki shut the door at the woman's direction.

"Um, very nice," commented Bradley. He set down both of the sacks of bottles temporarily on the door mat by the clogs, and pointed to the pictures, which, up close, he could see were made of tiny fragments of shells, like the ones Sammy had been collecting. A tiny little woman in a kimono in the garden scene, a blue and white pearly gown with her orange obi of amber.

The woman bowed. Should he bow back? He wondered if Ki knew, but the boy was busy looking at some little figurines of soapstone arranged around a tiny incense burner, shaded by a tiny tree growing in a peat pot.

The woman motioned. "Okay," said Bradley, following. Maybe what she needed was somewhere else in the flat. Like a stuck window or something. He motioned, and Ki followed, after pausing to look at a big lacquered box with a bamboo birdcage on top.

Through the next door was the kitchen, heavy with the smell of garlic and herbs. The woman moved delicately to a cupboard and took down two more plates, setting them at the table, next to some forks. She motioned to the chairs.

Bradley felt more confused. "I'm sorry — I don't understand," he said. Maybe she didn't speak English? Looking at Ki for clues wasn't helping him, either.

"Does she not speak English?" he asked the boy, who shrugged.

"I've never talked. I just nod." Ki was sniffing a mint plant on a table filled with tiny little herbs in pots.

"Do you speak English?" Bradley asked her. She stared, then shook her head. She pointed to the fridge.

On its doors, coupons and notices were pinned, and from among them she selected a sheet of paper, unpinned it from its magnet, and handed it to him. It was the 'Friendsgiving' flier they had slipped under their neighbors' doors.

She pointed to it, then gestured towards the table. He understood now — hospitality returned.

He turned to Ki. "I think she wants us to stay to lunch," he said.

Ki shrugged. "Cool," he said.

Yeah, you're a kid skipping school to comb rivers and having a free lunch, plus a candy bar , thought Bradley, as he sat down across from the boy. In the middle of the table, beside the salt and pepper shakers that looked like spotted toadstools, the woman set a tray with cabbage and rice, topped with purple-rimmed meaty-looking slices of eggplant. Then a bowl containing broccoli and mushrooms covered in broth which smelled beefy — sliced bits of beef meat and spring onions in it — then a basket with his favorite, crispy spring rolls.

She brought a ceramic pot to the table and filled three little cups before she sat down, motioning for them to try it. Bradley sipped the cup, tasting tea of some kind, light and bitter.

"Good," he said. She pointed to the sugar dish — Bradley hesitated, but Ki reached for it and spooned several lumps into his cup. "It's better with sugar," he said.

She served them each from the trays and the bowls. Bradley could smell the garlic intensely, and ginger and five-spice. It smelled like the Asian takeout near his apartment, where crispy egg rolls were the specialty on Sunday nights.

His mouth watered. Funnily enough, so did his eyes, misting a little, as if a wave of homesickness struck him. He'd been in a strange city halfway around the world for weeks, and the only reminder of home was his textbook on Elizabethan fabrics in formal decor.

She motioned, making a noise that was the universal sound of a host or hostess urging you to try something, the only word she'd said so far. Ki dug in, nodding after taking a bite of the beef from the broccoli mix. "Not bad," he said. "Better than the takeaway my mum buys sometimes."

"This is the best way to eat vegetables," said Bradley. "She's probably a really great cook."

He took a bite from one of the crispy little rolls, the egg dough wrapper flaking away. He tasted carrots, parsnip, and mushrooms. It was ten times better than the ones at home, but it tasted so familiar, those same spices at the heart of it.

"Wow," he said. "Wow. Amazing." He looked at her. She smiled and nodded.

"Thank you," he said. "Really, it's amazing." He took another bite, this time from the rice and cabbage, which had the sweet charred taste of the gourmet salads.

After she watched them try it, she unwrapped a set of chopsticks beside her own plate and began eating. They clipped around the little egg roll, lifting it up so she could nibble, then bite a piece.

She looked at Bradley, nodded, then smiled at last, to his surprise. Was it seeing them eating her food that did the trick? That's how it was for good cooks, and for people who love to cook for others, and he was guessing that no one else lived here, so maybe they were her first dinner guests in awhile.

So what if they couldn't chat as a group? You didn't need conversation to make a great lunch.

He sipped his tea, then tackled more of the rice, which was fragrant and slightly sweet. He laughed as Ki mounded his rice like a snowball and made a face with some of the spring onion slivers, and tried to understand how chopsticks worked as he watched their hostess — whose name was Ms. Fong, according to the telephone notice on the fridge — use hers to pick up a floret of broccoli.

The tabby cat wound around Bradley's ankles, and he scratched its head as it came within reach of his hand, sneaking it a little taste of the beef, which Ms. Fong pretended not to see.

Momentarily, he wasn't worried about the time crunch awaiting him, as if time had temporarily halted in the quiet kitchen around him. Maybe his hostess would like a beautiful glass jar from the river to grow one of her herbs as thanks? A meal this superb deserved thanks.