Criminally High Prices at Auction

Picasso once famously described painting as an ‘offensive and defensive weapon against the enemy’. A weapon indeed, but perhaps not the sort one might expect to be found in the hands of a convicted killer. Nevertheless, some might be surprised to hear that infamy and artistry have a long history of collaboration, and the industry even has a name; Murderabilia. Whether it be personal artefacts owned by criminals, or artwork created by them, the market for mobsters, gangsters and serial killers is thriving, with pieces selling for substantial sums at auction. 

One such work by Ronnie Kray, the younger of the now notorious Kray twins, considered by many to be the foremost perpetrators of organised crime in the East End of London by the 1960s, is now up for grabs in our next Fine Art and Antiques auction in March. Entitled ‘Charlie on Tractor’ it depicts Ronnie and Reggie’s older brother in a rural idyl, with Ronnie’s trademark white cottage painted in the distance - his notion of an ideal home. The style is naive, childlike even, a technique adopted by both brothers in their art, something which they embarked upon after their imprisonment for murder in 1969. 

Ronnie Kray acrylic on canvas, dated 1971, Parkhurst Prison
Titled to the reverse 'Charlie on Tractor' beside Ronnie's prison number 

The brothers are not alone in their pursuit, Michael Gordon Peterson, better known as Charles Bronson, and more recently Charles Salvador (in reverence to Salvador Dali) is also a keen artist. His darkly humorous paintings, drawings and poetry being both exhibited and sold during his tenure in prison. Used occasionally as part of psychotherapy, in some instances art can be deployed as a means of self-expression and communication, and as a result may be viewed upon as an insight into the criminal mind; studying what their subconscious prompted them to paint or draw. Although one must be mindful of over-indulging in cod psychology, as tempting as it seems. 

A drawing by Charles Salvador (Bronson) sold in 2014 

The criminal artist is certainly not a new phenomenon, Caravaggio (Michelangelo Merisi) the Italian revolutionary painter was constantly in trouble for his aggressive ways on the mean streets of early 17th Century Rome, where sword fights were common practice. Inevitably he killed a man in a duel on a piazza and fled, and his subsequent works seem haunted by the shadows they populate. Richard Dadd, the 19th Century popular painter of fairy-folk produced many of his masterpieces whilst in hospital, receiving treatment for what the Victorian’s dubbed an ‘unsound mind’, now schizophrenia, following the murder of his own father in 1843. Today graffiti artists create masterpieces, their nature in pure defiance of the law, with Banksy making a career from stencilling places that he shouldn’t. A small part of his allure is driven by his anonymity, and his ability to evade capture and conviction, his real name rumoured to be ‘Robin Banks’ (ahem). He is the cloaked political artist of the day, or hi-viz should we say, given Banksy’s penchant for ‘hiding in plain sight’. 

Caravaggio David with the Head of Goliath, 1607 
Kunsthistorisches Museum Gemäldegalerie, Vienna

E.H Gombrich summed it up in the opening chapter of his seminal book The Story of Art, declaring ‘There is no such thing as art. There are only artists’. This is certainly the case when placing a value on art at auction, where you may hear the term ‘form’ banded about. This simply refers to the artist’s oeuvre, or body of work if you prefer, and the impact the artist has made on the world. That’s why my paint splashes don’t have quite the same gravitas as those produced by Jackson Pollock. 

At the end of the day the market is the ultimate arbiter, and in this case it has well and truly spoken.  Specialist websites for such material have sprang up in recent years, and in 2009 eight paintings by the Kray brothers sold for an astonishing £12,200 at auction. ‘Charlie on Tractor’ carries a more modest pre-sale estimate of £200-400 in our March 14th auction. 

GN

Banksy. Works by the artist can now fetch £20,000-40,000 at auction  

Bargain Hunt at Laidlaw

Closing Date for Entries

Friday 21st November is the closing date for entries to our forthcoming Christmas auction of Antiques, Collectors' Items & Fine Furnishings. 

This sale will take place on Saturday 13th December from 10 am. Viewing is Friday 9-5 with a champagne reception from 5-7pm. 

Keep posted for further updates as they happen. 

Lots of Appeal

In this month more than any other our thoughts are invariably drawn to remembrance, with paper poppies being pinned to all. It is a unique year, one in which we have reflected upon both the Centenary of the Great War, and so too 70 years since the D-Day landings. Last week I travelled like many others to see the ‘Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red’ installation at the Tower of London, created by ceramic artist Paul Cummins. Awe inspiring and sorrowful, the sheer scale of the work was a visual feat, reminding us plainly of the magnitude, cause and effect of War, both on the fallen and those they left behind.

In light of the times it is perhaps not surprising that insurance firms and auction rooms alike are reporting soaring prices for war memorabilia. Because we have all been touched by these events, there exists in nearly every home a personal story, a small collection of medals, or a stash of ephemera at the back of the bureau drawer. Equally, the demand for such is strong, with collectors’ searching for those fresh-to-the market pieces, articles that explore new stories, or simply fill a cavity in the collection. 

The latter could be said about our most recent dedicated military auction, which took place in September, wherein we sold an important lifetime’s collection of Royal Engineers material, predominantly in the form of badges and insignia, amassing a result of over £25,000 on the day. Aviation enthusiasts were similarity treated to two rare ephemera groups in that same sale. Firstly a Great War Royal Flying Corps photographic archive, assembled by an RFC technician involved in the development of aerial machine gun interrupter mechanisms (a device that stops the destruction of your own propellors as you shoot the enemy) which sold for £520, and secondly (perhaps my favourite lot ever sold) an important document group pertaining to RAF fighter ace Squadron Leader James MacLachlan DFO, DFC and bars. I wrote about this group in a previous blog entry called ‘High Flying Adored’, and I could have written a novel. It comprised flying log books, manuscript diaries and personal items belonging to the fighter ace, while the following lot in the same sale also saw items belonging to his RAF fighter pilot brother Gordon. All in all this complete story captured the audience and stole the show, selling for £7,700. While further on in the same auction an RAF Pathfinder uniform group comprising sheepskin Irvin flying suit, and tunic, sold for £680. It had been consigned by the family of the original recipient after enjoying a second wind; serving as a motorbike jacket to later generations. 

Sq Ldr James MacLachlan

Another blog entry back in September (‘Marked Most Secret: Operation Locksmith’) and another lot in this sale, was a rare SOE gallantry group awarded to Sergeant Thomas Handley. A moving story to say the least, it found a good second home with a collector of such for £10,000. 

While no-one is surprised when a rare gallantry medal sells for thousands of pounds, clients are more commonly taken aback at the value of apparently mundane items such as khaki uniforms and bayonets. More often than not, this is because khaki was used to destruction or disposed of shortly thereafter. Indeed in this same sale a rather moth eaten khaki tunic of a First World War Manchester Regiment sergeant sold for £500. 

Sgt Thomas Handley

While it’s not particularly hard to identify military equipment or clothing, frequently it is a specialist who can single out a rarity of pattern, use or date. Only last week a client walked into our offices with a rusty bayonet and no expectations as to value, while Paul recognised it as an extremely rare example carried by the Cambridge University volunteer infantry during the era of the Napoleonic Wars. Despite its condition, and because of this additional information, it is expected to sell for up to £300. 

Surprisingly perhaps, it is an all too-common occurrence for inherited pieces of reasonable value to remain camouflaged in familiar surroundings. From that bowl grandma uses for potpourri, to the two 18th Century hunting swords consigned to our forthcoming December 13th sale. Downgraded to fire pokers for a number of years, they are now expected to sell in the region of £500. Other such finds have recently included an 18^th Century Scottish Highland Regiment basket-hilted sword, from a shed, which sold for £820, and a group of Second World War Japanese trophy swords brought back by a soldier for the Scottish Borders and passed on through the family which sold for up to £3800 each. 

It is medals however which continue to produce the most moving and inspiring of stories. Already consigned to our forthcoming Christmas sale in December is a Military Medal group to a First World War Royal Army Medical Corps private. The recipient Frank Basnett volunteered in November of 1914, and in the May of the following year he embarked aboard the ship ‘The Royal Edward’ for Gallipoli. Unfortunately en route the vessel was torpedoed and sunk with the loss of over 1100 men, Basnett being one survivor. His diary remains and in it is his own account of the disaster. Later, while serving in France, he was awarded the Military Medal for bravery as ‘he was employed as a runner on the front line, and with total disregard for his own life he carried messages from one post to another for hour after hour under heavy fire. He also volunteered to work as a stretcher bearer with no consideration for his own safety or fatigue.’

Another relative, another story and another poppy to cast a thought upon this month. 

First World War Military Medal Group

Watch out for a windfall

Mobile phones, cameras and watches have one thing in common; we all own a succession of them throughout the course of a lifetime, and yet seldom dispose of the old ones. Furthermore, watches in particular are a very personal possession, and inherited examples often exercise a special sentimental hold on the descendants of their original owners. For this reason large numbers of long neglected watches are to be found in many a bureau drawer or jewellery box, passed down through generations.  

As an auctioneer I am commonly presented with such accumulations of timepieces. Often replaced because of a fault, possibly a cracked crystal or over-wound mainspring. Sometimes simply forsaken because of changes in fashion or technology; how many good mechanical watches were abandoned at the advent of the digital age? While some of these remnants to time long-since past are of but modest value, most are collectable to come extent, and others are valuable in the extreme. 

First things first, let’s get one thing out of the way, and differentiate between gold and silver-cased watches. Regardless of variety or condition, the former will have a value, so for the purposes of this article assume we are discussing silver or non-precious metallic examples. Now let us divide the subject into those worn in the pocket, and those on the wrist. The origins of the former lie in the 15th Century, when they were first known as pocket-clocks, though these are rare, and most of us will only encounter those from the Georgian or Victorian eras. The former most commonly run on a verge type movement, using an escapement ancient in origin, indeed most old church tower clocks are of this type. These watches also commonly have two cases and are thus termed ‘pair-cased’. Not rare as such, the value starts at around £100, although early 18^th century examples can sell for £2,000-3,000. The verge was gradually replaced during the 19th Century by the more accurate lever escapement, a watch of slimmer proportions. 

Such Victorian examples are the most commonly encountered, and variations include smaller examples worn by women, known as fob watches, and hunters and half-hunters, both with hinged protective covers to their faces for more active pursuits. Unexceptional examples generally sell at between £30 and £80, although again, higher values can be achieved. Find one such with a repeater movement, indicating the time by means of chimes, or having a chronometer movement, or perhaps a Masonic or military example and you could be looking at closer to £1000. 

The First World War changed the way watches were worn, and how indeed the majority of us wear them to this day. It is generally accepted that it was demands from soldiers serving in the trenches for a more practical means of carriage that brought about the wristwatch. Small wristwatches dating to the early 20th Century are today commonly (and erroneously) referred to as trench watches, and regardless of quality or condition the market for such is strong, and prices high. Poor examples start at a few tens of pounds, though examples with prestigious movements such as Longines or with patent guards to protect the crystals can sell for closer to £300. The current vogue for military issue watches of all periods has driven prices of late. Values often appear out of proportion to the utilitarian appearance of these military issue pieces. Find a Second World War army or RAF issue watch by say the International Watch Company and you’ll likely have a timepiece worth £2,000-3,000 at auction. A military issue Rolex Submariner can fetch up to £50,000.

In our modern, brand-driven economy, names such as Rolex, Omega and Breitling are as familiar as Mercedes and Ferrari. More than anything else it is such names that add value to post-War wristwatches. As money in the bank is viewed as a wasting asset, many are choosing to enjoy their wealth and indeed wear it. Demand for elite watches is strong, and prices for such are on the rise. 

Perhaps now is the time to revisit Grandad’s old army wristwatch or Dad’s long-service presentation Rolex.

Going, Going, 'Gong'!

Besides old boxes of play-worn Dinky and other toys (a subject for another day perhaps), one thing to be found in most homes, lurking at the back of a bureau drawer or in the bottom of a jewellery box, is the odd military medal awarded to some distant ancestor. As Great Britain built it’s now long gone empire, or indeed fought for the liberty of its allies in two World Wars, it recognised the sacrifice of its soldiers by awarding medals, and most families won’t have to climb far into their respective family trees in order to find an ancestor who served King and country.

To the untrained eye one ‘gong’, a term coined by soldiers to refer to their medals, looks much like another. For this reason we auctioneers are commonly presented with inherited family medals which turn out to be Royal commemoratives or school attendance awards of relatively little collector value. However, find the right medal in that pile of old papers and it could prove to be rather valuable indeed. Just recently a client did just that, arriving at our saleroom with their late uncle’s Second World War group, or more specifically a SOE gallantry group with Military Medal, later selling for £12,100 at auction. 

So what does one look for to help identify and value those dusty old family medals? Well, the good news is; aside from campaign medals issued for the Second World War, the British generally struck the recipient’s details around the edge of the award. Get a magnifier, take a look and you will most likely identify the rank, name and unit of your ancestor. While the medals themselves are generally self explanatory, their design incorporating the monarch, date and campaign, or reasons for the award. All of these factors contribute to the medal’s value; those for obscure campaigns, or to ‘sought after units’ such as the SAS or Special Forces commanding greater values than those say to the ubiquitous artillery Gunner of the Great War. Take for example a pair of First World War medals, issued let’s say to an artilleryman. At auction they would cost around £20-30 to purchase due to the large number issued, reflecting the tens of thousands of soldiers fighting. 

Medals can further be categorised as either campaign or gallantry awards. The former were issued to all soldiers serving in a given war or campaign, while the latter were issued for specific acts of bravery and generally command the highest prices. The first officially issued campaign medal was done so retrospectively by Queen Victoria, to those still alive who had fought at Waterloo, prices for these start at around £2000. However the aforementioned campaign medals for World War Two, not individually named as an economy measure, and indeed a great source of hurt to those who received them, can be valued at around £10 per medal.

So there you have it. Take a closer look at those old military medals; they’ll tell a tale and also have the potential to be very valuable indeed. 

High Flying Adored

So this past month I have mostly fallen in love with a pilot. Not just any pilot, I would like to add, but rather a Second World War fighter ace of the most extraordinary kind. Which makes me, unfortunately, a lifetime too late. I don’t stand alone in this regard, in fact I think our entire office have lost their hearts to this incredible young man. To whom do I refer? Let me introduce you to James Archibald Findlay MacLachlan DFO DFC and bars, Czech War Cross. Battle of France and Battle of Britain pilot, perhaps more famously known as ‘One-Armed Mac’. Although remember, I saw him first.

It all began when a rather inconspicuous cardboard box landed at our saleroom some weeks back. In it was the most extraordinary cache of ephemera previously belonging to, and about, the man in question. Flying log books, diaries, photograph albums, scrap books and letters predominantly making up the group. Dipping in, I soon became hooked on the author’s witty outlook, dry sense of humour and boundless enthusiasm. In neat handwriting beneath carefully arranged photographs in a black album, MacLachlan annotates snaps taken from 16,000 feet on his Kodak DUO 620, and others a little closer to earth: ‘Sure I can fly says Lennie - but I’m not so hot on landings!’ is inked beneath two pictures, one being of a Tutor MkI flying high in the clouds, its pilot inclined towards the camera grinning, the other of the same plane crumpled in a field, surrounded by ground crew.

Compiled in 1937 when he was approximately 18, the above album is a riotous look through the eyes of a teenage boy, on the brink of becoming a hero. In one picture, a casual snap of the exterior of the barracks, an assembly of young men in shirtsleeves lounge on the grass waiting for action. One being half propped up, he is flipping the V sign to our amateur photographer, beneath which MacLachlan later added ‘A strenuous afternoon in S, Cerney’. In another he captures a charming picture of ‘Lough’ a young man dressed in full uniform, posing. The telling footnote reads ‘This photo was taken for the girlfriend’. However, perhaps my favourite of all, is one taken mid- flight, MacLachlan holds the camera aloft, at a short distance from his face, clad in googles and helmet, he takes an early ‘selfie’, proving the point that boys will be boys - no matter the century. 

These are his early years, MacLachlan soon grew-up, and honed his skills in a way almost impossible to imagine today. I use the term ‘grew-up’ lightly too, as paradoxically in a way we also find hard to quantify now, James was at once both a boy, and worldly. Defined by a sort of sophistication in his courage, and stoicism in his approach. A natural leader, and someone to whom many looked up to, by 1941 his active service had included France, Great Britain and Malta, and he had already earned a DFC and bar, before his story took an extraordinary twist, of a type usually reserved for fiction. 

Also in amongst MacLachlan’s effects is the most wonderful scrapbook, compiled by himself, documenting this extraordinary event and the following sensation he caused. To the front cover he has pasted a square of paper to which he has added the title ‘Fantasies of the Press’ in typical wry fashion. In it I discovered numerous newspaper clippings, neatly pasted. One from the News Chronicle published on April 27th 1942 caught my attention, and describes the events that changed MacLachlan’s life as they unfolded. I will summarise and quote where necessary. 

Mac's hand-entitled scrap album 

Flying in Malta in the hot spring of 1941, Flight Lieutenant MacLachlan - or Mac as he was by now fondly known to the crew, was doing battle with Messerschmitt GF 109’s. An advanced German aircraft, it was one of the first truly modern fighters, being of all-metal construction. Flying a Hurricane at approximately 20,000 ft above Luca, Mac’s team formed a defensive circle as devised by our pilot as part of their battle plan, when he spotted six 109’s ‘screaming down upon them from the sun’ in an attempt to break the segment where Mac himself was. Moving swiftly, he dropped height, and the Me.’s overshot him. Quickly looking around about him, he could find nothing to see, before spotting a 109 directly in front of him, at some distance. It was hot pursuit of a Hurricane, and MacLachlan joined the chase. He wanted it so badly ‘his hands shook’, for to shoot it down would not only be a success for the squadron - but also for morale - as it would be the first Me. to be shot down over the island. 

His ‘blood was thumping very heavily’ and he was closing in fast. He felt that ‘nothing could stop him now’. Therefore the moment the crash came in his very own cockpit he knew what an awful fool he had been. He had been much too excited to look in the mirror, and now he had made an ‘utterly foolish and perhaps utterly fatal mistake’. A 109 had slipped in behind Mac, and had outfoxed him at his own game. The cockpit was filled with flying metal and the spray of blood, as shells destroyed his control panel. The kite went at once into a dive. On regaining control, Mac found that his left arm had become utterly useless. He recalled quite clearly opening the hood of his aircraft, removing his oxygen mask and standing up in the cockpit. In the following moments, where he watched his aircraft fall away beneath him, engines roaring, soaring to the ground, he felt nothing of pain or anger or fear. He felt liberated, a man alone in the air, quite free ‘in the enormous peaceful space of the sky’.

‘He knew, quite intelligently, that he was upside down.’ He thought how ridiculous it seemed, his legs blocking his upwards view of the action, still continuing above. His arm was beginning to throb furiously. He forced himself to feel for the cord of his parachute. He could not find it, it was not there, and he wondered if it had been torn from him as the plane fell away. He recalled later how clear it all became, ‘how after all it was a simpler, less painful, less horrible business than you had always imagined dying to be. You would fall a very long way and would hit the deck with a very hard thud, but the impact and the pain by that time would no longer matter. Your mother would cry the real pain, the pain of loss, of emptiness, of sacrifice and despair would not be yours - but theirs, and it would be far away, and you would never know.’ 

Finally he made one last ditch attempt to locate the cord, and this time he was triumphant. Pulling it violently, it suddenly felt like he was being hanged - the upwards force of the parachute opening seemed to wrench the upper part of his body away from the rest. His harness tightened and he could not breathe, the wind blew sprays of blood from his wounded arm into his face and he felt distant, the pain of his restricted breathing bearing down upon him. Far below Malta lay spread out ‘like a misty map in the sun’ and all he wanted to do was ‘be there, inanimate, without movement and without pain.’ 

He must have passed out, for he was roused from his stupor by the sound of a plane. It seemed to be bearing down on him and ‘naturally thought that some bloodthirsty Jerry’ had come to finish him off. ‘This was the killing part. To be hung up like a half-dead pheasant on a string, while an Me. with nothing better to do, comes down and circles round you at leisure, firing until you just run out of jelly’. He looked up to find it was a Hurricane, which he later found out was piloted by close friend Eric Taylor. Taylor had anticipated the danger, and provided escort for MacLachlan’s fall, circling him a few times, although MacLachlan was too tired to acknowledge his presence. Instead he tightly clutched his wounded arm, and closed his eyes, drifting away, swinging, feeling like he might be drunk, and the world spinning about him. 

After a spell he opened his eyes again and found that the Hurricane had gone, and that he could see the town beneath more clearly. He felt sick from the swinging, but could do nothing to prevent it, until finally he began to fall faster. He saw the ‘roofs of the town, hot in the sun, flying upwards’, until he began to drift towards the edge of the settlement, and soon it was only the one flat roof of a little house that came rushing up to meet him. Beside the house was a small patch of wheat ‘which was very green’ and which MacLachlan saw shimmer in the wind and the sun just before he hit the ground at full force. 

He tumbled and rolled a few times until he stopped, laying still, in what he thought was his last moment. He felt the ‘sweetness, the calm, the painlessness and the silence of being able to die. It was enough to shut my eyes against the sun and wait for the moment, and myself, to end.’ His peace was rudely interrupted only minutes later by the sound of people running. Surrounded by a crowd of gesticulating Maltese who ‘tore off his ‘cute and held up his head’, much to MacLachlan’s annoyance. He kicked very hard for a short while, just to ‘demonstrate how very living’ he was, before succumbing. He lay emptily on the earth, too tired to fight, with only enough strength to administer his own morphine and tie a tourniquet from a first aid kit the crowd provided.

He had fleeting memories of being carried through the wheat by the crowd, the sky and the blinking sun. He was taken to a field hospital where he was fixed up with whiskey, and sent on to the Imtarfa hospital ‘as drunk as a lord’, where he asked a few nurses out on dates. Two days later they removed his left arm. It had ‘smelt bad’ he recalled, but he was frightened that it’s loss would also spell the end to his days as a pilot. At the hospital he would frighten the nurse with thoughts that he was dying, just so that she would sit with him during the night, keeping him company. 

He needn't have worried. His resilience if nothing else saw him through. Following the amputation he wasted no time in getting back up in the air - he was flying fourteen days later. ‘It started with a bet, I made a bet with the nurse that I’d be flying again within the fortnight. I just managed to bring it off by going up in a Maggie’ (a Magister, a dual control trainer aircraft). He ‘shot-up’ the hospital, flying past with his wing tip not more than 10 feet from the windows: ‘It shook up the sisters - but not nearly as much as it shook up me!’ By the time his mother was reading that he was on the casualties list, he was already back in the air.

He recuperated in East Africa where he got as much flight time under his belt as possible. Back in England all that was left to do was convince the Air Ministry that he was fit for for duty. He experimented, and found that he could still control Hurricanes singlehandedly, albeit on ordinary flying ops. However MacLachlan was determined to get back in the thick of it, and to do so he would need a ‘fighting hand’ to give him more control in active battle. Gradually with the help of his doctor, they developed a robotic arm with adjustable steel fingers to fit any aircraft column, which Mac described as ‘positively wizard’. He was also most proud of the thumb - which came in useful when playing cards. 

Mac’s wish was granted, when on November 4th 1941 the British medical board gave him the ‘all- clear’ for duty. He was ‘beaming with happiness’ as he informed a reporter of the decision - under the newspaper heading ‘One-Armed Ace Plans Next Party’ pasted neatly into his scrapbook. He was posted temporarily as operational leader to No 1 Squadron at Redhill, a prestigious position indeed. The media frenzy was intense, cartoons of his exploits sprang up, and he quickly became the poster boy of fighter pilots. By now he was 21, and had developed dashing good looks. His fair hair worn parted to one side and slicked in place, with a ‘neatly groomed pencil moustache’, and as one American newspaper took great pains to point out - ‘rosy cheeks’ which ‘blushed furiously’ when he talked about his acts of valour. Dubbed the ‘Knight of the Air’, ‘The German Nemesis’ and ‘One-Armed Mac’ a running score of his exploits were printed religiously in the papers. ‘Two more for One-Arm DFC! This New Gadget is a Piece of Cake!’ 

From October 1942 through to April 1943 Mac was posted to the USA on a lecture tour, designed to teach British pilots stationed over there his tried and tested dog-fight methods. He was selected for this delegation, and his letter setting out his duties remains among his things. Point number four: ‘Mix with the cadets, ensure that their discipline and morale are of a high order’. Also among his effects are two paper placemats from ‘The House of Murphy’ in Los Angeles, on which are printed cartoons of Benito Mussolini, Adolf Hitler, and Hideki Tojo, above the slogan ‘If it weren’t for these three sunzabitches you’d be eating off a linen tablecloth!’. 

Just as in Britain, American interest in the young pilot was fierce. The press ran with pictures of him lecturing, his uniform impeccably pressed, his left sleeve tucked beneath his belt. In January 1943 he made light of his situation in the typical warm-hearted and self-deprecating manor which had come to define him; ‘This really hasn't bothered me at all’ he said wryly, gesturing towards his empty sleeve. ‘It’s rather a good line - sympathy you know, and all that. Of course it is a bit tricky when you want to do a bit of wooing’. 

Lecturing in the USA / Receiving the Czech Cross (with false arm)

However MacLachlan was never happier than when in battle, and in April 1943 he returned to work at the Air Fighting Development Unit (ADU) in Wittering. Here they developed operational tactics and tested captured enemy aircraft, and Mac was in his element - designing his own missions, constantly pushing forwards, driven by a determination to outwit the enemy. He had a lot to drive him, his family home in Southampton had been bombed by this time, and his parents, young brother and two sisters had been forced to stay with relatives. Two younger brothers were also serving, Hugh in the Middle East, and Gordon, a fellow fighter pilot. Gordon and Mac, or ‘Baked’ and ‘Jay’ to each other, were very close, and had flown together, once ‘taking up their spitfires and conducting a mock dog-fight’. 

Mac was ferociously proud of his personal, and combined unit success. The pace was frenetic, but his diaries and log books record his lighthearted approach, when faced with a tricky job. One extraordinary entry in his official logbook in May 1942 reads, totally matter-of-factly, ‘Hurricane II C, solo, Abingdon to Tangmere (pissed as a coot).’ That same year he spoke out about his approach to a newspaper; ‘All together we’ve accounted for 234 Huns since the war began, and that’s more than any other squadron. You can’t imagine how keen the competition is between the squadrons’. In turn he had been shot down four times all in all, but figured that he had done a bit of damage to the enemy in retribution. Although he never thought about the man in the enemy plane. ‘They’re all just planes to me - just Messerschmidts or Dorniers, or something. It’s always a bit of a surprise when I see a man bale out, because I never think of him.’ While in Malta he had frequently visited an Italian pilot he shot down. ‘He was a really good chap, I liked him.’ 

In April 1943 MacLachlan was hit by tragedy, when brother Gordon went missing in action. His Spitfire was lost over Brest while escorting USAF bombers over the French coast. MacLachlan’s desire to win now took on a new intensity. In retribution Mac camouflaged his Mustang and worked tirelessly planning a ‘Ranger’ operation wherein he would penetrate the fighter defence belt and get into areas Allied fighters had not been seen at low altitude. Joining forces with Flt Lt Geoffrey Page, who was shot down in flames during the Battle of Britain, and who had suffered severe burns, they determined on a mission of vengeance. Page had his own scores to settle, one enemy aircraft for every skin graft he had endured. It was a success. MacLachlan took 3 1/2 enemy aircraft, Page 2 1/2. In a letter home he wrote; ‘Baked [Gordon] is more or less avenged - though he was worth more than the ten German’s I killed yesterday.’

With Flt Lt Page (left) at BBC studios, beaming with success following the 'Ranger' operation 

It was inevitable that they would try once again. On July 15th Mac and Page flew down to Tangmere, their base of operations, from where they set off for France with a Typhoon escort. Crossing over the French coast near Dieppe, MacLachlan’s kite began emit black smoke, and he climbed steeply from their treetop height, up to 1000 feet where his canopy opened. Apparently changing his mind about bailing, he brought the aircraft back down in a glide towards a small field, but his approach was too fast and he overshot entering a wooded area; both wings and tail being torn off as he did so. Page orbited several times at low height, but Maclachlan did not emerge from the wreckage. ‘Heartbroken’, Page returned home. 

As it happens, James did survive the landing, reputedly suffering critical head injuries, and was taken as a prisoner of war to Pont-l’Évêque hospital where he is said to have died a few days later. He was 24 years old. 

Perhaps the most poignant piece of paper amongst this collection, is an official typed list of his personal effects. ‘1 bible, 3 diaries, 1 scrapbook (Title ‘Fantasies of the Press’), 1 service dress greatcoat (worn and dirty), 1 tie, 1 rugby shirt, 2 blue pullovers...’ etc etc. His existence reduced to the contents of his room, a box. That is why it is so important to open up these unassuming cardboard caskets, and to breathe anew such a vibrant and extraordinary life. ‘You can see the delight of flying in his face’. Reported one newspaper shortly before his death. ‘It is one of the faces of those who fight wars they do not make, and for whom flying, and life, are one.’ Who could fail to be smitten by such a brave young boy. 

MacLachlan’s collection of ephemera and log books sold on Saturday 6th September for £6,800.

He still rests in France, buried in the village where he fell, and where his epitaph simply reads: ‘In proud and loving memory of our dear Jay. Death is swallowed up in Victory’.

Georgina 

Last winter sun. In the USA some six months before his final mission

Is Brown (Furniture) the New Black?

I’m not sure who coined the term ‘brown furniture’ but there should be a special place in hell reserved for them. While in fairness the expression does encapsulate the least desirable of vintage furniture, I suspect it should also take a little of the blame for the falling from grace of period furnishings. It conjures up images of dreary 1940s interiors populated with low grade ‘Utility’ furniture, its brown hues matching the nicotine stained drabness of the rest of the room. However, to tar (pun intended) all period furnishings with this brush is to do great injustice to the variety of aesthetic styles and periods available. The opportunities open to those willing to dip into this field are boundless and make sense on a number of levels.

Reject the generic uniformity of contemporary furniture warehouses and instead visit your local auction room. Therein you will find brown furniture, though not of the type pejoratively referred to above. Open your mind to the huge range on offer and I defy anyone not to be seduced by the range of styles and quality, from Georgian oak and country pieces for those wishing to create a cosy cottage environment, to the clean modern lines of the Art Deco. 

Younger buyers seeking out-of-the-ordinary interior furnishings are already embracing auction rooms, and as a consequence original Ercol and good period Scandinavian teak are selling at all-time high prices, and yet still at levels below those of retail furniture outlets. 

Without a large budget, and taking full advantage of the free advice available from auction staff, you could introduce to your home items with real individuality and quality which will enrich your existence and certainly impress guests more than the latest contemporary fad furnishings. Furthermore your purchases will have lasting value; decide to re-furnish a few years down the line and your contemporary material will be worthless, however period furnishings, in what appears to be a rising market, may have retained their value. Who knows, with a good eye and a little homework, you may reap a reward on your investment in ‘brown furniture’.

Medals, Arms & Militaria Auction: Final Entries Invited

Free valuation for First and Second World War medals, arms and militaria 

Contact us by email or by telephone on 01228 904905 for further details 

Finding Fred & Nance

Arriving at our saleroom this week was a wooden writing box containing long-forgotten secrets.

Unassuming, and Edwardian in date it had been found at the back of an airing cupboard where it had slumbered, undisturbed for some sixty years. Having a faux-marquetry exterior, it opens to reveal a purple velvet heart, with ink jar and pen slide. A perfectly preserved portal to the past, containing a cluttered confetti of clues.

Comprising a 1930s broken brooch, a premature souvenir-pencil marking the coronation of Edward VIII in May 1937, a wax seal with the letter ‘M’ or ‘W’ depending upon which way you hold it, an ink pen and birthday candles. Together with an early 20th Century needlework sampler worked by ‘A. Wyles’ dedicated to the month of May (‘With sun and dew / And gentle showers / Welcome Welcome / Month of Flowers’), a Victorian velvet choker, and a small wedding bouquet of white paper flowers. In this context, and nestled beneath a secret stationary compartment, was a bundle of love letters between wartime sweethearts Lawrence Frederick Heald, and his beloved ‘Nance’.

“I hope you got my telegram O.K darling, it was funny we drew for leave out of the hat. How I prayed my name would come out and my prayers were answered. Darling, how happy I am just to think that in a few days time I shall be in your arms. I hope sweetheart, that you will be able to make the arrangements so we can get married as soon as possible.” Written in blue ink on official Catterick Garrison notepaper, dated Monday 5th August 1940, the above line is taken from a series of pages that span a four year period.

Each sheet in the cache is saturated with a full spectrum of distilled human emotion. From affection, in its most tentative and confident forms, to anguish, courage, desire and despair, mixed together in equal measure with hope and hysteria. And yet it is, perhaps, the generous dose of innocence, combined with a heady-mix of fear and absolute, immediate danger, that are the most unknown elements to a modern heart. In a world where information is omnipresent, and safety a relative given, it is the lost quality of guileless love, combined with ever-present peril that make these letters so potent, and indeed important.

The letters were saved, smoothed out and placed in an alternating fashion, like layers of an onion or faded wallpaper. Within the fold are a number of newspaper cuttings featuring a swimmer called Annie Wilson, pointing to the identity of our mysterious ‘Nance’. In a teasing fragment of a letter, Fred writes; “I will not put TWO TON ANNIE on your envelope, but do not think I am afraid of a little mouse like you.” Fred however, we can identify fully, as in a charming letter confirming his wish for the pair to marry - at the beginning of his week-long leave, he adds a ‘P.S’ which includes ‘particulars’ that she may need to know in order to get a licence, informing her of his date and place of birth “23-5-1909, Stockton-on-Tees” and giving his profession as a “soldier”. Drawing to a close with one final; “P.P.S. I love you my own with all my heart”.

The pair met after a chance encounter at a county dance in Carlisle. Fred describes it beautifully; “Remember sweetheart, it must have been fate that got me to go to the county dance the night I met you. How I have thanked God for that meeting darling, and I shall always remember it because I met and fell madly in love with the finest girl in the world.” In the same letter Fred touches upon more current fears, he writes: ’You ask me if I would cry if you were killed. Although I am sure you will not be I would go mad if you were. You are the whole world to me and always will be. I could not live without you and your love. Never be afraid darling, even if the Raiders do come over remember you belong to a soldier.’

The knife-edge on which the pair’s love played out is all too apparent for the reader, and must have been excruciating to experience. Writing to each other every day, something as simple as a late post, or lost letter can stir up fraught emotions. Even Fred’s sudden telegram delivering good news about his unexpected leave, causes Nance distress when at first she receives it. She writes “… then came the telegram boy. I rushed round to open it, the only thought was were you both alright, had anything happened. Then darling I read it.” By both she also refers to her brother, who it seems has not been heard from in a long time. She also chastises Fred for failing to tell her how to arrange a wedding or indeed who his family or friends are. She complains “Freddie you didn’t say much in your letter. You didn’t say how many of your friends were coming, and you didn’t send me the addresses.” She is unaware that Fred’s friends are all also in the army and are therefore unable to attend. On the question of a best man he even writes “… could you get one for me darling?”

The build up to the wedding day is a torment, and as a reader you find yourself feeding off the fear falling from the pages. A few days beforehand Nance sums it up by writing “Just think that if nothing unforeseen happens in the next three days you will be my own.” While Fred worries about being seen as cowardly by turning down work in the run up. “I know you would agree with me for not putting in for that special job. I was a bit worried because I was thinking a lot of the fellows would think those who did not put in for it were cowards. Darling, although we are not yet married I consider it my duty to remain as near to you as possible.” He also reflects on Nance’s brother and their predicament “I am sorry to hear you do not know where Bobbie is. I wish he could have come. I think it will be best to have a quiet wedding darling. After all, it is the Wartime, and quiet weddings are fashionable.” He signs off with “Take care of yourself until I can take care of you.”

Thankfully a gap of one week here falls, and in this spot the happy couple were also rewarded with a telegram from the illusive Bobby. Confirming our girls name, being addressed to a Miss A Wilson, he writes “Sorry cant get home wishing you all the best for your future happiness = Bob” [sic].

If the letters before the wedding can be summed up in a desire to belong to one another, to be joined before the worst happens, then the letters following can be defined as a desire to begin again, the promise of a future together, living together, sharing a home and a family. All these things seem such a fantasy in their words. The prospect that they may not meet again, looming, ever present. First to break the wedding silence, Nance writes “I am here doing the same old things but this time it’s different, we belong to each other now, and will belong to each other forever. You took every bit of me and my love as I lay there, close beside you in your arms. The happiness those thoughts gave to me as I walked home alone from the station. As we stood there by the train how I wanted to tell you to take care of yourself but I just couldn't speak. Rather sweetly, and innocently she further alludes to their time spent together, writing “I thought I’d come back looking a wreck, as Jean said I would, but on the contrary I’ve never felt better in my life.” Jean’s experience must have been a little different!

The fear of the war is now met with a new strength, brought about by their joined force. Nance writes “you needn't worry my own, if the Jerries do come over I shouldn't even be afraid of anything so long as you are beside me Freddie. I don’t care if a dozen bombers come over. We’ll just stay in bed together, in each others arms.” Although she does have a plan of action for when his is not around; “they are over almost every night now, but its not often I hear them, I always sleep too well.  […] I told our Helen that from now on she’ll have to sleep in decent jarmas, and you know what she said, she said ‘I sleep in my undies nearly every night ready to run’. What a laugh for anyone who might see our skinny Helen in her undies, she’s about as fat as a match’.

However the real and ever present danger of wartime is never far from the surface, with Fred being scrambled suddenly, and prepped for a departure abroad. He writes to Nance in the December of 1941 to give her the bad news, and her reply three days later is a testament to the strain. She writes “I got your letter on Friday night and my stomach dropped through me and my world nearly crashed down. […] I prayed as never before, all night long I prayed and the night seemed endless. And I held your letter so tight to me as I prayed. And when the morning came for me to go to work I was still on my knees.” Finally Fred manages to reach her by telephone to say the skirmish has been called off, it was a false alarm. Nance reflects on this, writing “Then oh my darling when I heard your voice I nearly cried with relief, did you hear me? Darling pray and pray hard that all is going to be well, I am Freddie.”

The letters between the pair, end as abruptly as they began, with a note from Nance dated Sunday 16th April 1944. Relaxed in its style, she informs him of her Easter weekend, what she has been eating and how a grouse claw that Bobbie sent her looks fine in her Harris suit. She also talks of a photograph Fred is having taken; “I am looking forward to having your photo with me. Now Freddie, get yourself planted in the middle and don’t let yourself look serious darling will you. Just relax. I do hope it comes out lovely, I’m looking forward to getting it Freddie, so keep smiling.” She signs off with “Oh I don’t half wish this war was over Freddie, and you were back with me again darling. […] Take great care of yourself for me, and heres all my love and kisses to you until we meet again. Goodnight and God Bless you, keep you safe now and always, yours forever and ever, your own loving wife Nance.”

There is no more. We do not know what happened to our pair. Did Nance ever get that photograph, and did Fred suppress his frown? The biggest question is did he ever return? Did they finally get their own home, start their own family and see out their years together? Did they enjoy the 50s, the swinging 60s, right through to the 1980s, and beyond? Did Nance forget their letters in her old writing box, being too busy making happy memories? Or did she choose to close the lid on that chapter in her life, and tuck it away, hidden from view. Their whole lifetime is now behind us, gone in the blink of an eye. A mystery, from which all remains is the memory. Brought back from the brink by a chance encounter with an old writing box.

I would love to hear from anyone who could help us close the final chapter on the story of Fred and Nance.

Georgina 

Dumfries Valuation Day

for entries to our forthcoming auction of

Antiques, Collectors' Items and Fine Furnishings 

including

Silver & Jewellery, Clocks & Watches, Toys, Paintings, 

Medals Arms & Militaria, Fishing Tackle, 

Scientific & Musical Instruments, Books & Postcards, 

Ceramics & Glass, Ethnographica, Costume & Textiles 

Wednesday 12th March 

Station Hotel 

Dumfries

11-3

Lots to talk about

Paul has lots to talk about in our latest video blog.

Watch to find out more about auctions in the internet age, and plug bayonets. 



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Next Antiques Auction

Our next specialist catalogued auction of 

Antiques, Collectors' Items & Fine Furnishings 

will take place on 

Sunday April 6th

at our new saleroom 

Catalogue coming soon