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The Tricky Trotters

Derrick Sherwin

From the collection of Short Stories
Baker’s Dozen


    If there’s one thing a good Totter is known for it’s his ability to strike a good bargain. Billy explained to the assembled group of eager listeners of a mixture of locals and tourists one night in the snug – all of you know what a Totter is? His question was met with blank stares of those who were not of the fraternity of Cockney families from thereabouts. A Totter, he explained, or a rag-a-bone man as some of you might know him as is a bloke who makes a living from collecting rubbish that no-one wants any more. Rags, bones, tin, paper and any old junk that he can sell on and sometimes, if it’s valuable junk he might give you a penny or if it’s really valuable a tanner – sixpence he explained for the tourists who were not familiar with his vernacular.
    Our local Totters were one of the oldest families in the Docklands’ area –known locally as the Tricky Totters. They didn’t just collect and sell rubbish they specialized in old furniture – old Daddy Mason called his old junk Antiques and he had a shop front in front of his yard where he stored all the crap his sons used to collect around the streets on their handcarts. He particularly liked Victorian looking furniture because that was the kind of stuff that sold better than the modern rubbish. Daddy Mason’s father, Daddy Daddy Mason as he was confusingly known as had certain woodworking skills which were particularly useful when one of the ‘Antiques’ was showing signs of wear and tear and his workshop was continually full of bits and pieces of furniture that were undergoing his loving care and attention.
    Once a month the Tricky Totters would take their pride and joy, a battered old truck that somehow managed to stay in one piece and tour the countryside in search of ‘Antiques’ for Grandpa to work his magic on. This year, since they had toured most of the small villages within striking distance of London, Daddy Mason decided he and the two boys would combine their Antique search with their annual holiday. Their usual holiday destination was somewhere on the East or perhaps the South Coast, somewhere like Brighton or Southend. But this year Daddy Mason decided they would venture further afield. What the general public didn’t know what that Wales was a veritable treasure trove of valuable old furniture which could be had for a song by someone with the astute bargaining skills like Daddy Mason so he said. You watch your old man, he told his sons, and you won’t go far wrong when it comes to negotiating a profitable deal.
    The journey down to South Wales was longer than they had anticipated and Daddy Mason who was nearing his early sixties had to stop on numerous occasions to water the grass alongside the A40. It took them virtually the whole day with the old vehicle demanding a stop to the journey every time they approached a steep hill and the two younger Masons had to get out and push the reluctant vehicle. Arriving late that night the Mason mob found lodgings in a local village pub and after a palatable dinner of home cured ham and several pints of local cider they climbed the rickety old stairs to bed.
    The next morning following their very delicious breakfast of bacon and eggs they prepared to leave in search of treasure. They enquired from the landlord of the pub of any locals who might have some old furniture they might wish to get rid of - nothing fancy like, just any old junk that would otherwise serve perfectly well as firewood. They were told of an old farm some few miles up the road where the farmer, a measly old man named Jones who went to all the local auctions and bought up piles of junk that nobody else wanted. That sounded like just the right place Daddy Mason told his two sons – the Welsh ain’t like us from the East End, he boasted – we know a good deal when we see one.
    As the Landlord of the pub had said the old farm, Bottom End it was called, was hardly spitting distance from the pub and they were at its broken down entrance in no time at all despite the objections of their old truck. The Landlord hadn’t been wrong, Bottom End was a pile of junk more than a farm, piles of unwanted rubbish that nobody had an interest in bidding for at the Auction Sales that Farmer Jones bought for pennies in the hope that he could sell on for a profit. He was very much of the same mind set as the Totter family – a something for nothing character.
    Farmer Jones was not the kind of man to work his fingers to the bone – in fact he was hardly inclined towards anything that even smelled of work as demonstrated by his current attitude, his overindulged mass of flesh sprawled out in a collapsed easy chair. He showed little inclination to assist or even direct their attention to likely places when the Trotter family enquired if they could ‘nose’ around.
    And ‘nose around’ they did with the expertise of experienced hunters, turning over every dilapidated cardboard box and ferreting amongst the contents for treasures undiscovered or unrecognized by previous scavengers and hunters. The boys found the odd silver teaspoon and bone china teacup but it was Daddy Mason who caught his breath in excitement when he clambered over a pile of woodworm rotting junk to discover the old Welsh Dresser. It looked like nothing, made of cheap wood and not embellished with fine carvings – a simple, practical piece of peasant furniture but old, very old indeed as Daddy Mason realized and worth a pretty penny if carefully restored and embellished with some carefully drilled woodworm holes which were Granddad Mason’s specialty. He had the boys clear a way through the piles of junk in order that the Welsh Dresser could be brought out of the gloom of the cowshed for closer inspection.
    Daddy Mason inspected every nook and cranny of the old piece of woodwork and, finally satisfied that his find was indeed genuine he nodded to his two sons and touched the side of his nose to indicate that they should not display any excitement. He gathered up the few other bits and pieces that they had found that could be traded for a profit and made his way back to confront the somnambulant Farmer Jones who seemed less than interested to bargain the few shillings that Daddy Mason argued for the bits and pieces. Asked why he had had his sons haul the old Welsh Dresser out from the pile of junk Daddy Mason said that he thought it was something else but in fact it was as useless a piece of junk as the rest of the rubbish. Good for nothing except perhaps as firewood he opined. If we don’t find anything else we’ll come back and take it off your hands just to fill up the truck he told the sleepy farmer. He passed him a few pound notes and told him they’d come back for it.
    With that parting shot he and his two sons returned to their truck and drove back to the pub. Lunch was a generous portion of the Landlord Wife’s stew washed down with cider and followed by her home-made plumb duff and custard. Daddy Mason was in high spirits as he explained the finer points of his dealings with Farmer Jones. The Welsh Dresser was without a doubt several hundred years old, in near perfect condition – in fact so perfect that Grand Dad Mason would have to work his ageing miracles on it – and it would undoubtedly sell for several hundreds of pounds.
    Satisfied that they had tricked to old Farmer Jones into believing that the Welsh Dresser was worthless they made one or two more desultory visits to other farms in the vicinity before returning to the Jones farm to pick up the valuable antique Welsh Dresser. Farmer Jones said that they’d given him an idea and maybe he’d keep the old dresses after all and offered them their few Pound notes back but Daddy Mason frightened that they might lose this valuable piece added a few more Pounds for Farmer Mason’s palm. Were they really sure they wanted that old piece of firewood he asked them but Daddy Mason insisted. Father Jones pocketed the Pound notes and almost got up out of his armchair but thought better of it instead and yelled for his worker to put the old dresser into the back of the Tricky Trotter’s truck.
    Offering to give Farmer Jones Worker a hand with loading the dresser the Trotters following him into the farmyard but the farm worker said it wasn’t necessary – he’d already loaded it into the truck and as a gesture of goodwill he’d done as Farmer Jones had instructed. Since he’d said it was good only for firewood he’d done them the favor and chopped it up for them and there in the back of their old truck was the Welsh Dresser neatly chopped up onto net piles of firewood.
    “Greed,” said Farmer Jones in the local pub that night – “it works every time. Don’t know how many of them City folks have fallen for that.” he grinned at his audience as he supped his pint of Cider. “That old dresser been sold a dozen times and my old Mother was right – don’t sell anything until you’re sure to get the right price for it. Well. that old piece of firewood has earned me close on a thousand Pound so far and I ain’t parted with it yet! There’s enough greed in the world to earn me a few more Pounds yet!”



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