The Bid

Management donated the blue jug to the hall’s roof fund. We took it to the sale in a box, with newspaper twisted round the handle.

It had stood beside our kettle for years. We had given it a careful wash.

The auction began after lunch.

Len held up the jug.

“Two pounds?”

We kept our hands folded.

A woman at the back lifted one finger.

“Three?”

We raised our hand.

She had looked inside it while the tables were being set out. Now she lifted her finger again.

“Four,” said Len.

We offered five.

She offered six.

We offered seven.

The woman shook her head and put her hand in her pocket.

Len waited for another bid. We looked back at the woman. She was examining a tin of buttons.

“Seven, then.”

He put the jug beside our chair.

We stayed through the breadbin and the folding stool. At the end, we counted seven pounds into Len’s cash box.

The woman had bought the buttons. She was pouring them into a bag.

We brought our box out from under the chair. The newspaper still had the shape of the handle in it.

We turned the jug until it fitted.