Spink

LONDON
"If you ever want to sell them, go to Spink.  They will give you a fair price."  This is the advice that my grandmother, Gran (see previous “Our American Duchess” blog post), gave to her son Harry, my dad.   On Monday he, my mom, Lily, Abby and I are walking together into Spink on South Hampton Street in Bloomsbury, London.  Slung over my shoulder is a pack I have been carrying all day.  It is heavy with a dense, solid weight.  Spink has a substantial metal door with thick glass panels.  It reminds me of a bank. The sign reads: Spink founded 1666.  We enter looking rather like the tired American tourists we are.  

Spink - Established 1666

The elegant black woman at the receptionist desk listens to the beginning of my father's story and waves us into a large room to the left where we gather at a low, semicircular counter. Three well dressed men at the far end are speaking in low tones with a gentleman who is serving them.  My dad and I wait.  My mom and the girls wander through the room looking in the various cases.  Under the glass of the counter where my dad and I stand are a number of gold coins.  They are frayed at the edges and show signs of wear.  They remind us of the Roman coins we saw before lunch at the nearby British Museum. A woman comes through a door behind the counter and approaches us.  She has a European accent: German? My dad tells the story.  "My mother collected coins and stamps when she lived in London for many years.  She told me that if I ever want to sell them Spink would give us a fair price." He smiles.  "What do you have?" she asks unenthusiastically, probably having heard this preamble many times before.  She motions for us to sit down and unrolls a copper colored leather cloth out over the surface of the glass topped counter. We sit in the low chairs at the counter and  I wonder if the seats have been deliberately placed so low!  Our Spink woman looks down at us as I unzip the American daypack and pull out and place on the leather mat, one after the other, plastic baggie of coins tied with a twist-tie, four small leather snap-close cases -- one red and three blue, and the three blue plastic cases.  The leather and plastic cases each contain “sets” of commemorative coins – pounds, farthings, shillings, pennies, half-pennies -- all coins from before “decimalization.”   She takes a cursory look inside the leather cases.  “These are not very interesting to us,” she says. “Many, many of these were produced at the time, so they do not have much value.” “Furthermore, they are not in perfect condition.”  She adds as she points to the oxidation on one of the coins in the plastic case. “Is there a place that might be interested?” my father asks.  “There is a tourist shop across from the British Museum that might be willing to offer you something for them," she sniffs.  We probe and she finally offers, "If they offered 40 pounds for the lot, I'd take it."   “How about stamps?” we ask.  She explains quickly that she is not in Spink’s stamp department but will have a colleague look at what we have.  She disappears back through the door behind the counter.

George VI coin - Front

George VI coin - Back

A few moments later a short, trim, middle aged man walks up to us on our side of the counter and looks down at us in our low chairs.  We offer him a seat.  He chooses to stand.  My father produces several binders and explains the story behind the stamps.  The Spink stamp man opens  the first binder.  He points out that they have been stuck in the book.  This makes them worthless.  He hands back the binder and picks up one of the two Churchill albums.  These contain complete sets of the stamps from England and each of the Commonwealth countries commemorating Churchill's 1965 death.  He slowly turns through each page of each album.  His fingers delicately fold back one of the sullifane sleeves to see that the glue on the stamp is still untouched.  Finally, he breaks the silence: “These are not of interest to Spink.  There were many of these sets and they are not rare.”  My dad asks, “Where might we find interest.”  “Stanley Gibbons on The Strand will not be interested but across the street are several small dealers who sell to tourists and who might be willing to buy them.  You might expect 30 pounds for these Churchills and 10 for the others.”  We thank him.

As we are leaving Spink my mom notices, prominently displayed in the middle of the the room, a red leather case opened showing a set of George VI coins in a prominent case in the middle of the room.  Just then our German coin woman returns from her back room.  We call her over and ask “Aren’t these coins the same as the set we just showed you?”  “Um.” She responds.  “But why are these being shown in your showroom and you are not interested in ours?”  “Oh.  I don’t know why these are in this case.  They are not rare.  This case is filled by our PR department.  They do not know about coins.”  “Oh,” we reply, deflated.  We stuff our rejected treasures into our lowly daypack and troop back out onto South Hampton Street.

We walk into the cramped, one-room coin shop across from the British Museum.  In the middle of the room is a wooden box.  Inside are coins in plastic sleves.  Against three walls are similar boxes filled with coins.  Behind the retail height counter a man and a woman are sitting at their desks.  My father begins, “I have some coins…” whereupon the woman, without saying a word stomps out from behind the counter and deliberately closes the door to the outside.  We had not noticed that we had left it ajar.  She is clearly not pleased by our carelessness.  


The man looks up, “Let me have a look,” he offers.  We open the daypack and pull out the baggy and cases of coins. We lay them directly on the glass counter top.  He examines then and places them in two stacks.  He explains that he needs to call someone.  While he talks briefly on the phone we look around the shop.  The woman is back at her desk writing.  The man steps back up to the counter.  He says, “These,” pointing to the plastic baggy and a stack of Winston Churchill 25p pieces and a square 1066 – 1966 commemorative coin with the Norman Edward I on one side and the young Queen Elizabeth II on the other “are not of any value.  They will not affect the price.  For these others,” pointing to the sets in cases, “I can offer you 280 pounds.”  My father, without missing a beat responds, “how about 300?”  The man smiles.  “Would that make you happy?”  My father responds with a modest smile.


The proprietor offers to pay in cash.  He opens a metal box and pulls out crisp 50 pound notes: the old, oversized ones.  They don't easily fit in my father's wallet.  He reassures my father that they are still good tender.  I pick up the Norman commemorative coin and three of the Winston Churchill coins that he told us would not affect the price.  I hand one of Churchills to Lily and one to Abby.  They are big silver coins with real heft.  The portrait of Churchill on one side is brooding.  Queen Elizabeth on the other side is calm.  As we walk out of the store Lily says, “Wow, that is more than I thought Harry would get!” “Shh," I whisper,  "let's wait until we are outside.”


Lily, Abby, and I are not present for the final chapter of the story, in which Dad is rejected by Stanley Gibbons, the high-end stamp dealer, and, as with Spink, sent to a tourist-trap.  There he again gets friendly treatment and a surprisingly generous price for Gran's prized collection.


Peter