Lawrences of Bletchingley, Auctioneers.

You buy the smell

As well

Old Don Lawrence, sat there, seems on sale

‘Aaaand showing on my right, Lot 57, of

auctioneer interest, armchair not included.

(Laughs. Don, steeple-fingered, cracks a smile)

Natty English gent, mid-century I’d guess,

well-worn, but functional, with recent

minor work, a hip perhaps, a knee,

upholstered in ticket-smart grey twill,

with matching suite of Steiff black-button

eyes and shining shoes.’ He’d fetch a tidy sum.

He saw me as I entered, those

button bright black eyes have taken my

statistics. He’ll value me, assess

my markings, monogrammes, then turn

me upside down to check for damage.

‘Hmm, middle-aged, and down at heel,

the market’s flat, has been a long while.

You could hang on and wait for fashion

to come round. But no, by then you’d miss

the boat.’ He chuckles. Could be Death.

We are sidesmen at the funeral,

witnesses to dissolution, the gas

in the oven, the worm in the casket,

ghouls, fingering, pressing the still warm

corpse, rifling drawers lined with

50 year old news, still much the same.

And Don, the auctioneer, presiding,

hammer ready, poised with one sharp tap

to finish and to begin again. ‘Please

sign here. What? That’s my commission.’

This sofa holds the funk and fart of

fifty years of marriage, has seen

flirting, petting, weeping, dozing.

A wardrobe where she kept her wedding

dress, unused until she died. A toolbox

filled with chisels, planes, all shiny, oiled.

In gilt and flowers, a set of china

(one plate missing). Walls of silent portraits;

played-out toys and chipped mementos,

lives defined in chattels and effects.

Then they arrive, fresh and forgiving,

have settled on a yellow chest

of drawers. She lingers on the handles,

half-aware of other mothers opening,

closing, turning with a smile.

She bids, and as she lifts her hand,

all the bidders ever lived, who

raised their hand on whim, in greed,

or aspiration, drop them as if

to clear the field of competition.

If furniture could speak, or toys

remember stroking hands or games,

if untuned pianos still could play

the umpteenth ‘Fur Elise’ all by heart,

these ceremonies would hold more

meaning. As it is the ritual

counts for nothing, ‘I’ve bought, I’ve sold,

and that’s the end.’ But then, with that

sharp tap, the hammer brings both blest

oblivion, double blest rebirth.