The Travels of Fin Part One - A book in Many Parts

A riveting jolt shot through Finbarr’s body bringing to half-life the sodden mess that lay on the bed in the dingy flat bedroom. Slowly Finbarr Geoffrey Denham, known to the world as “Fin”, slowly opened one eye and winced as the eyelid peeled back like rough sandpaper, meanwhile his left hand appeared from under the unwashed duvet and felt round the night table for the faint chance of a cigarette which met with relative success as there were two remaining in the crumpled pack. Slowly whilst trying to cough and inhale the nicotine rush at the same time Fin started to take stock of the situation; with daylight coming through the ill-fitting curtains and the passing of a speeding underpowered motorbike Fin knew it was daytime and a quick glance at his ancient wristwatch confirmed that it was 10.50am.

Despite the name, Fin is not Irish and is the product of two Anglo-Saxon middle class parents who considered that all things Irish were romantic and inspired. Generally this has held him in good stead and whilst he was often to use this affiliation to Ireland to explain his somewhat bohemian lifestyle and drinking benders he had sailed through his early life remarkably unscathed though had rarely pursued any career choice for very long. Now at thirty two living in a dingy rented two bedroomed ground floor flat in Shipston on Stour in south Warwickshire Fin scratches a living in the antiques trade as a “runner” – a dealer with no premises and who purely deals within the trade calling on antique shops to buy and sell.

Fin leant out of the bed to find his trousers in order to check his immediate financial status by rummaging in his pockets and was pleasantly surprised to find nearly twenty pounds therein – at least that ensured cigarettes and a couple of large Cognacs to face the day with . A quick face wash and bladder relief later he felt ready to take on the day and dressed hurriedly in reasonably fresh but un-ironed clothes, picked up a couple of local auction catalogues and started his ancient Volvo in order to propel him to The Black Sheep in town, As he walked in the back of the pub having left his car badly parked Bernie the landlord shouted “Fin you look bloody rough” Fin mumbled back “feel it too” “so I should think with what you drank last night” exclaimed Bernie , Fin climbed his way onto a bar stool , ignored the disapproving looks of various other customers and waited till his customary large Cognac and black coffee arrived as if by magic , two gulps of the brandy and a slurp of coffee later he took the two auction catalogues and perused then both whilst trying to decide which one to attend tomorrow . It was obvious to Fin and indeed Bernie that another “bender day” was on the cards – and so it continued.

Friday May 7^th 1982 in Fin’s flat was heralded by his radio alarm coming to life at 8.15am with some newsreader on radio 4 droning on about the war in the Falkland Islands and some nuclear bomb test in Nevada – Fin was in no mood for these depressing revelations and hit the silence button as he climbed out of bed with yet another tumultuous hangover. Half an hour later found him in his ancient motor travelling in the direction of Hopgood’s auctions in nearby Stratford upon Avon, a quick pitstop later at the service station to buy much needed Lucozade and cigarettes he arrived once again in the converted Victorian chapel , home to his nearest auction rooms – he was back at work .

He immediately started to feel the familiar buzz and excitement of the room wondering if there were any “sleepers” – items that whilst important were unlikely to be spotted by others and therefore offering good profits , the usual motley collection of dealers were mooching about inspecting the lots and trying to look nonchalant as they made notes in their catalogues .  Nothing immediately struck Fin as being particularly outstanding so he rummaged through his brain cells to see if anything on his clients’ “want lists” were present at the sale and suddenly remembered Harry Malkins wanted an armada chest and there at the very end of the room was just such an item, Fin sidled off to a bench in the courtyard of the auction centre , sat down , lit a cigarette and opened his catalogue at the appropriate page – “Lot 297 a heavily constructed armada chest with complex steel lock and much ironwork strapping to the domed lid  , probably German , possibly 18^th century  48ins x 30ins. £100-£150” . He doubted it was 18^th century and was more likely to be a 19^th century copy, however it had the looks and was certainly well made – it would more than likely do for Harry, as Harry’s clients tended to be more interested in show than authenticity so it looked like Fin’s deal for the day . Annoyingly Jonnie Martins, an odious little Birmingham dealer sat down beside him and broke his pensive mood with “What yow after Fin?” “Nothing especially” he said “I’ve got to go for a pee” and with this Fin ambled up the road and sat in his car which was parked on the street a hundred odd yards away.  Fin looked at his watch – 10.50 am, so the chest should come up at about 1.15pm give or take a few minutes leaving him plenty of time to have a greasy spoon breakfast in the café at nearby Shadbourne. As Fin attacked the flabby bacon and low quality sausages on his overfull plate he began to regret his breakfast option but knew it was the sensible option – to have hit the brandy again today in the Coronet pub would probably have finished him off . He thought about the armada chest , contrary to the suggestion of the name, armada chests were not Spanish , neither were they 16^th century – they were more often than not German and often 19^th century affairs with very elaborate locking mechanisms and designed to put all kinds of valuables in. Yes it would do – he reckoned he could get £350 off Harry if he caught him on a good day and delivered it to his shop in Evesham, so his mind was set – go to £180 hammer price leaving him £150 odd profit once the commission was paid.

Lot No 296 an English dial mid Victorian fusee wall clock started at £60 and quickly rose to £100 and was eventually bought at £130 by a private bidder, lot 297 a reproduction Staffordshire flow blue jug and bowl set made a paltry £22 to another private and so the chest was next on . Fin looked round the room to try and gauge the interest and his eyes set on a vaguely North African looking type who he had never seen before – interesting thought Fin, his sixth sense alarming him that he was probably after “his” lot The auctioneer , Simon Carrol started at a sensible £80 and he was relieved to find it was slow off the mark there just being two interior decorator types who ran it to £140 – Fin felt a tingle and waded in at £150 fully expecting to win it at this price then to his dismay the Arab type went in at £170 and so battle commenced . Fin felt the hackles rise and a strange sensation he had not felt for many a year overcame him – this was irrational and dangerous but he couldn’t help himself and finally he won the piece at a vastly overpriced £480 after a real ding dong of a battle with the Arab. The Arab finally huffed and stormed out of the room leaving Fin with the chest at £550 odd with commission, the local dealers all turned to look at Fin and decided that he had finally lost the plot, Fin felt utterly drained, rather stupid and considerably poorer but there was something just something about this piece that excited him and had sent his sixth sense into overdrive.

Back at his ground floor flat he heaved the chest into the sitting room with the help of his neighbour, Robbie Tibbet an unemployed labourer of dubious character “what you buy that old thing for Fin?”  “I honestly don’t know” he replied, he paid off Robbie with a couple of quid and sat down heavily in front of the chest. Maybe it was an earlier chest after all, the workmanship and quality were really top flight and the exposed locking mechanism on the inside was particularly fine but it wouldn’t do for Harry Malkin at that price so a serious re-think was needed, As Fin lifted the lid he became aware that the internal height of the chest didn’t seem to marry up with the external dimensions, something was not quite right. The exterior height of the bottom section was 31 inches yet internally it was a mere 26 inches in height leaving a too considerable 5 inches for base therefore Fin believed there must have been a false floor. Try as he might Fin couldn’t work out how the false floor was constructed – the interior of the chest seemed to be lined with period wainscot oak sheets, the four sides and the floor all of the same construction however there just seemed to be no way into the false floor – no trap door and no movement in the floor to reveal an entrance. Fin decided that the lining of the chest must have been put in after the chest was made and that there was no actual way of entering the floor void and short of actually cutting or breaking into the void its possible contents would remain a mystery.

It was Bernie’s night off at The Black Sheep and the delightful young barmaid Polly was beaming from behind the polished beer pulls - “Hi Fin how are you tonight – had a good day?” “Odd sort of a day Poll, has pilot Jack been in yet?” Polly looked up at the clock “not yet – should be in any minute”. Fin ordered a pint of Guinness, picked up the Telegraph and sat by the fire taking care to ignore Charlie Harrison the pub bore. Ten minutes later a well-dressed athletic looking forty something year old came blustering in , ordered a pink gin and took up position on a bar stool – “hello Jack have you got a mo ?”  “Sure Fin” Jack replied “how can I help “. “You know those X-ray machines that you’ve got at Birmingham airport now – what size of object will go through them Jack, I need to X-Ray something about 40 inches tall- what do you reckon?”  “ Mmm not sure Fin but I can have a word with Maurice Wragg the baggage handler manager if you like”  “Great thanks Jack can you let me know it’s a bit urgent”

Fin filtered off the M42 and made his way into Birmingham international airport parking in the “drop off” zone outside departures, Richard Williamson his lifelong friend exited the passenger seat and hunted down a large baggage trolley while Fin manhandled the chest out of the rear of the estate.  Trundling into the departure lounge with the chest perched on the trolley attracted some odd looks from the last few late night travellers and a rather “jobsworth” security guard accosted them with “where do you think you are going with that thing?”  “Got a meeting with Maurice Wragg from baggage” replied Fin “where can I find him please?” “Wait here” said jobsworth whilst he mumbled into his walkie talkie radio. Five minutes later a short balding man of fifty odd with the start of a pot belly ambled towards them – “Mr Denham I presume?” Fin stopped himself from retorting “well I’m not Doctor Livingstone am I” and replied “yup that’s me”  “last flight of the night is just leaving so come with me”. They looked at the machine and wondered whether it would go through but after a struggle it inched its way through on the conveyor whilst Joe, the operator twiddled knobs and “Bingo” there was the chest clearly showing the false bottom and more excitingly what appeared to be some sort of dagger like object within the void. “Bloimey” exclaimed Joe in a deep Birmingham accent “ow about that then”. Fin noticed that there did seem to a very complex spring mechanism that would appear to lift all four sides of the internal lining which was activated by something on the lock.

Back in the flat Fin and Richard sat and puzzled how to lift the side linings and despite much manoeuvring of the huge key in the lock nothing happened. Frustration was building to an almost fever pitch and Fin started to consider cutting a hole in the base when suddenly Richard thumbed an extremely well disguised button on the mechanism and there was a satisfying clunk as all four side linings lifted by half an inch or so . One hundred years or more of idleness and a general build-up of grime had stopped the sides lifting very far but the springs had done their job and it was then possible to lift the sides a further five inches or so and remove the floor lining.  There wrapped loosely in a tarpaulin like cloth was the object and after carefully unwrapping it both Fin and Richard gasped as they exposed the most exquisite gold hilted dagger and scabbard which was set with what appeared to be diamonds and rubies together with an ancient piece of parchment carefully folded and sealed with wax.

Fin carefully removed the wax seal with his ancient pocket knife and carefully unfolded the parchment to reveal a paragraph of writing in a foreign tongue which Fin vaguely recognised,   “Tugadh an miodóg ais ó chósta Barbary ag Padraig O'Neil ar a éalú ó na Sale Rovers i 1672 Cionn tSáile” He suddenly recognised this as probably Irish or some form of Gaelic and that the best person to gain some translation advice was probably Polly , the language scholar in the day and stunning barmaid at The Black Sheep on the odd evening .

Polly was chatting to Mick Malley or , at least trying to sound remotely interested in his moronic drivel as he nurtured his pint of gassy beer that he had probably been sipping for a half hour or more and pleasingly her face lit up when Fin ambled into the bar. “Poll – have you got a mo?”  “sure Fin how can I help?”  “well I need a bit of help with a translation – I think it’s Irish”  annoyingly the ghastly little Mick pricked his ears up and was about to butt into the conversation when Fin exclaimed “ tell you what Poll – how do you fancy a late curry at Dasha after your shift?”  “that would be really nice Fin – I finish at 10pm – Bernie is locking up – shall I meet you there?”

 

Dasha is a typical provincial curry house with flock wallpaper , fake rice paper pictorial scrolls and rather well thumbed menus which proclaimed “Enjoy the real taste of India” – this of course was far from the truth and the offerings were normally low quality meats of dubious origin cooked in a sort of reddish brown gloop together with a varying degree of chilli powder dependant on the strength you required .  No matter - Fin was on his biggest high for years – he really had pulled off the double with the find of his dagger but perhaps an even greater elation was due to the fact that the luscious Polly was having supper with him - it had taken him nine months to ask her for a date and here he was waiting for her entrance .

As Fin was cradling his Campari and soda Polly seemed to just float into the dingy little restaurant and immediately it was as if a ray of sunshine lit up inside Fin , she had changed since her bar shift and came to the table in a delightful rather bohemian dress and with the biggest smile on her face he had ever seen . Fin was so taken aback that he nearly choked on his Campari but recovered and got up and showed her to the table before the swarthy little waiter could ruin the moment. They both ate their two course offerings with far more gusto than the food deserved, perhaps Fin thought because of the excitement and spark that seemed to be tracing between them.

“What’s the translation Fin?” Polly gently asked and Fin opened his tatty old paper file and passed the parchment over as she seemed to pout and smile simultaneously. By now Fin was almost overcome by the seemingly electric atmosphere between them and the matter of the dagger had almost disappeared to the back of his mind when Polly exclaimed “ Wow Fin – this is interesting and looks genuine to me – and yes you are right it is certainly Gaelic or Erse – can I borrow it – I am seeing Prof Wilkes tomorrow and he is pretty clued up in this area”  Polly could have asked for anything and he would have agreed – “Yes of course – thank you”  On the way out of the restaurant Fin kissed her , not a lingering passionate kiss – a gentle and soft quick meeting of the lips.