‘I think I must say a word about this Lot and also the next Lot.’ He was speaking quickly, a little nervously. ‘We offer them both as seen, of course, with no guarantee that they are what we all think they probably are. I don’t have to tell you, but I will’ — a ripple of laughter that was more a release of tension ran round the enclosed area — ‘how Perkins Bacon excused their dilatoriness in delivering stamps and moulds to the Crown Agents. There was a thief in their print shop, and as Percy de Worms said, that’s a strange admission for a firm of security printers accustomed to holding banknotes and bonds. They didn’t say what he stole. It was an age when property was sacrosanct, so they probably felt they had said too much already. And now-’ He waved his hand to the assistant who was holding up the two albums, the vital one open at one of the die proof pages. ‘Now, you have this Solomons Seal ship label. You have examined it and taken the same view that I have, that this is the Jeens engraving for the five-cent Newfoundland popped into the 1854 Western Australia Penny Black Frame — otherwise you wouldn’t be here. May I simply add this, the Holland Line, for which that label was printed, is still in existence, and Miss Holland herself is here today. The two albums, originally the property of her great-uncle, Carlos Holland, are now her property, and she is selling them to provide additional finance for the Holland Line, which she now runs with her brother and Mr Slingsby here.’
He looked so distinguished, such a born showman as he asked us both to rise, that I half expected them to applaud. And then he called for Lot 97 to be displayed, adding, ‘And this is the finished label, printed from a plate cast from those borrowed dies — I say borrowed because we can’t be sure the thief stole them. Also, we do not know what happened to the plate, whether it was thrown away or melted down, or even whether it is still in existence somewhere. I can, however, assure you that this is the only surviving sheet, the others having been destroyed in a fire at a house on the island of Madehas in the Solomons. Both Miss Holland and Mr Slingsby witnessed the fire, and it was Mr Slingsby who managed to preserve this — the one and only sheet. And as regards the fire, its cause and what it destroyed, he has made a sworn statement before a judicial enquiry set up by the Papua New Guinea government to probe the cause of an insurrection on the island of Bougainville. So, here you have it, something unique in the history of stamp collecting, something that can never be repeated, with a background story of extraordinary fascination and excitement, and all of it supported by sworn testimony, which is in itself most unusual. I now leave it to you to decide what these two valuable items are really worth. Thank you.’ And he sat down abruptly, the silence suddenly electric.
‘Lot Ninety-six.’ The quiet monotone of the auctioneer’s voice seemed very ordinary and matter-of-fact after Keegan’s flamboyant piece of tub-thumping. ‘The Carlos Holland design collection, including the die proofs, at five thousand pounds I’m bid. Six anybody? Thank you, seven, eight, nine, ten — ten thousand — eleven, twelve.’ The auction area was very still. One of the doves flew over with a noisy clapping of wings. ‘Twelve thousand.’
‘And a hundred.’ It was Berners’s voice, and the bidding started again, going up first by hundreds, then by fifties. At thirteen thousand seven hundred there was a sudden silence in the hall, no movement anywhere. ‘At thirteen seven hundred then …’ The hand holding the knocker was poised for a moment, then fell. Carlos Holland’s albums — the proof of his murder of a whole ship’s company including his one-time partner — had gone to a German dealer.
‘Lot Ninety-seven. The only remaining sheet of the Solomons Seal blue ship label. Starting at five thousand pounds again — six, thank you, seven, eight, nine, ten …’ And it didn’t even pause there; it went straight on up to fifteen thousand in a matter of seconds. It was as though everybody there had been seized with a feverish determination to outbid everyone else for this second item in the Holland collection. ‘And five hundred? Thank you — sixteen, and five, seventeen-’ Suddenly there was a silence, a wary stillness where they all waited, wondering whether it was too much, the bidding too wild.
A card was raised. It was Berners. ‘And two-fifty,’ he said in his sharp, rather acid voice.
‘Seventeen two-fifty, seventeen thousand two-fifty, I’m bid … ’ The knocker was poised. ‘Five hundred, seven-fifty, eighteen thousand — and a hundred? Thank you …’ The bidding crawled upwards, then came to an abrupt halt with Berners jumping several hundreds to nineteen thousand. The auctioneer waited, his eyes searching the room. ‘At nineteen thousand pounds — to Mr Berners.’ The knocker fell, the sound of it sharp in the stillness.
Perenna and I looked at each other, smiling. In less than ten minutes, allowing for commission, everything, we had raised some £30,000. It was fantastic. Keegan was suddenly standing in front of Perenna congratulating her, and she was so excited she leapt to her feet and threw her arms round his neck. We went out then to the little office at the back, where Keegan produced a bottle of champagne. And after that we drove slowly back through the late afternoon sunshine, stopping at an hotel near Cambridge to linger over dinner, discussing all the various possibilities now that we had the capital we needed. It didn’t matter now whether it was the PNG government or a Lloyd’s syndicate that finally established prior claim on the LCT, we could afford to buy it, and with the ship as security we could raise the loan as and when we needed it.
That evening, back at the hall, we walked beside the moat hand-in-hand in the moonlight, still talking it over, dreaming dreams of ships and islands, a world I think we both knew in our hearts would take a deal of sweat and blood to translate into reality. And then Perenna suddenly stopped and turned and faced me, holding my hand tight as she said, ‘That day you left Bougainville — remember what you said as you walked out to the plane?’
‘What?’ I asked, teasingly.
‘You know bloody well.’
I nodded, laughing and lifting her off her feet, carrying her in my arms. ‘For tonight,’ I said, ‘you’ll just have to be content with this.’ I was kissing her as I carried her across the threshold. ‘Tomorrow I’ll think about making an honest woman of you.’ We were both of us laughing as we went up to bed. The moon was very bright that night and there were owls hooting — Bougainville and the Pacific seemed a million miles away, and so did reality. What fun life is! What a glorious everlasting struggle to survive and to build something worthwhile! And as I fell asleep, I was thinking of that indomitable old man, her grandfather, sailing out in his canoe towards the horizon and infinity.