A.J. O’Toole

Listen to A.J read his story

Scheduling a Summer Fete is clearly a far better predictor of rain than the weather report I’d checked before leaving my umbrella at home. Escaping the dark clouds and approaching downpour, the stalls all moved to the sanctuary of the noisy church hall and I wandered in for shelter. Always worth a look, you never know where you will find some treasure.

In the first corner, a middle aged man swayed from foot to foot, squeaking in new Dr Martens, failing to interest anyone in vintage vinyl. Older than me, too young to have seen Joy Division, but definitely too old to be wearing a Joy Division T-shirt. There’s a time to grow up and dress appropriately. I’ll admit it came early for me, inheriting the antiques shop and all its arcane curios when my grandfather died.

At the next stall my magpie eye was caught by a candelabra, a chance of solid silver going cheap. Not this one, though, just plate. Then I saw the real prize: a handwritten tag declared them as ‘Victorian Playing Cards £5’ but they were much older. Italian, 18th century, hand-painted. An original Tarot set that somehow evaded the religious bonfires.

As I leant in to look more closely, the stallholder, five foot and grey haired, barked:

‘Are you a magician?’

Did she understand what the cards really were? A Tarot set here on consecrated ground?

‘The magician for the kids?’ she asked. ‘If you need someone to saw in half you can start with her on the bottle stall. The whisky is still up, doubt she’s put the winning ticket in the tombola. I only got ketchup.’

‘No… I’m not a magician.’

‘Oh… I thought…’  and she gestured at my clothes. Trousers. A waistcoat. The cravat. Standards have slipped so far that they were considered a costume.

‘No,’ I said again. ‘Do you know where the Victorian playing cards came from?’

I didn’t say Tarot, I know not to frighten the horses. ‘Or if you have anything similar?’

‘Don’t know. I was asked to put them on here, it’s all for the church funds.’

Suppressing a sigh, I took a note from my wallet, ‘Never mind. I’ll take them, please.’

‘I don’t have change for that,’ she said. ‘Try at the hatch, get yourself a cake and a cup of tea.’

A dealer’s dilemma. I didn’t want to move away for a second, and you never offer more than they’re asking – arouses suspicion the item is worth a lot more. All I carry is twenty pound notes, as no-one trusts a man with fifties.

I took a moment to also select a hip flask, and a slim cigarette case. Both would fit in my pockets.

‘Fifteen,’ she said.

‘Then this as well,’ I said, and reached across the stall.

Our transaction complete, I picked up the Tarot cards, carefully, using my handkerchief. On impulse, I cut the pack and revealed the Seven of Cups. An omen. I’d try my luck with the blonde on the bottle stall, my new candelabra to light the way.

A.J’s prompts were: in a sanctuary, a collector of the weird, something thought lost

A.J. O’Toole was born and raised in the Black Country. After two decades in London and elsewhere he has recently moved to a village in the North West of England to write all his stories down while he can still remember them.

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