Excerpts from The Twisting Vine
A feather duster flicked across the small squares of glass in the bay window.
Lord Farnley stood for a moment looking up at the swinging sign: Terry’s Toys for the Discerning Child. And beneath it in small gilt letters: Proprietor – J. G. Terry Esq. It was the first time he had visited the shop.
The bell above the door tinkled but the diminutive lady wielding the duster didn’t turn. ‘Mr Terry’ll be with you in a minute,’ she piped.
Lord Farnley gazed around. In his opinion the shop was a veritable Aladdin’s cave for any boy or girl, discerning or not. Packed with all manner of playthings, there was barely an inch of spare space for the dust to settle on. Even the floor was cluttered. Behind a solid wooden cart, the battlements of a castle rose two feet from the ground, its drawbridge suspended on two lengths of bronze chain, its mesh portcullis raised. A doll’s pram large enough to accommodate an infant stood against the wall. A hobby horse with plaited mane leaned precariously against it. Taking pride of place on the glass fronted counter was a doll’s house, its front wall hinged open to reveal a stately interior. All four floors, from basement to attic, were filled with fine furnishing, each piece, standing no more than an inch in height, perfectly crafted. At the other end of the counter a regiment of toy soldiers was assembled in formation, in front, a row of archers kneeling, behind them two lines of infantrymen and, at the rear, mounted cavalry, swords drawn, poised for the charge.
After a few moments, the shopkeeper emerged from the back of the shop blowing his nose loudly. On seeing his customer he stuffed the red handkerchief into his pocket. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
Lord Farnley stumbled over his words. ‘A doll,’ he said. ‘For my daughter.’
‘What sort of doll, sir? Terry’s Toys stocks quite a selection.’
The proprietor was not wrong. Dolls were the predominant items on the shelves. There were dolls of every description. Rag. Wooden. Felt. Fashion dolls with heads of bisque, composition, Parian. Some with cork pates. Japanese dolls. Leather bodies. Fixed eyes. Feathered eyebrows. Sleeping dolls. Talking dolls. Teddy bears. Golliwogs. Even a doll with a string pull arm capable of throwing kisses.
Being little more than five feet tall, Mr Terry regarded the world and his customer from over the top of his gold rimmed spectacles. ‘Might I enquire how old the child is?’
‘She will be eight on her next birthday.’
‘Ah,’ the man said, his face broadening in a smile. ‘Then this will be a birthday present.’
Lord Farnley ignored the comment. ‘I want your very best.’
‘The best?’
‘The best doll you have.’
‘Sir, I can boast a small selection of dolls from the finest workshops in France. Bru, Jumeau, Thuillier and Steiner. But I do not display those particular items on the shelves. Too valuable. If you would give me a moment.’ Without waiting for an answer, he shuffled towards the door. After a whispered word with his wife, the pair scurried into the back room.
Lord Farnley admired the metal soldiers while he waited.
Mrs Terry returned first. After hurriedly clearing the counter she flicked over it with the feathers. Her husband followed carrying a long box.
‘What I have here,’ he said, as he laid it carefully on the counter, ‘is probably one of the finest fashion dolls in the world. A truly exquisite Bru, from the atelier of Paul Girard. It only arrived last week.’
‘Then I would like to see it.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The shopkeeper stroked the lid affectionately before lifting it. Inside, the printed label confirmed the toy’s French origins. Mr Terry appeared nervous as he peeled back the layers of paper.
Lying on its back, the doll’s eyes were tightly closed. The upper lids, framed beneath feathered eyebrows, were shadowed with a hint of blue. Thick dark lashes rested on delicately blushed cheeks. The round bisque face was full, the mouth, as if to smile or speak, slightly open. The rose coloured lips turned upwards softly at the corners. Beneath the hat trimmed with feathers, dark locks fell in soft waves. The doll’s expression was wistful and gentle.
‘Real human hair,’ the woman said. ‘And pearls,’ she added, pointing to the tiny earrings hanging from the pierced lobes. ‘Perhaps you would like Mr Terry to take it out so you can see it properly.’
‘Thank you, I have seen enough. I would like it delivered to Heaton Hall.’ Lord Farnley hesitated. ‘On second thoughts I will take it with me.’
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