There is something quite irresistible about a charity shop early on a Monday morning. The doors have barely opened, the shelves are freshly stocked, and already there are figures quietly moving through the aisles with practised eyes. They are not there by accident. They are antique dealers and book dealers — and they know exactly what they are looking for.
You will find them at the counters, turning over objects that to most of us look ordinary. A pewter vase marked at R75. A stack of dusty books priced at a few rand each. To the untrained eye, these are curiosities. To the dealer, they are opportunity.
I watched one such moment not long ago. An antique dealer stood at the counter with a pewter vase, priced at R75. In his shop, that same vase would likely sell for five times the price — perhaps R500 or R600. And there is nothing inherently wrong with that. That is, after all, the nature of trade.
But it does raise a question.
Because that vase, sitting on the shelf of a charity shop, might just as easily have found its way into the home of an ordinary person who simply liked its shape, its weight, its quiet elegance. Instead, it becomes stock — another item in a curated display, waiting for a buyer with deeper pockets.
And here is the twist. The dealer himself might still be underpricing it. A private collector, someone who has done their homework, may recognise that same vase as something far more valuable — perhaps worth R2,000 or more because of its origin, its craftsmanship, or the period in which it was made.
That is the game. Knowledge is everything.
The problem, if one can call it that, is that charity shops do not have a filtering system. Staff do their best, and often have a feel for things, but they are not specialists. They have not spent years attending auctions, handling rare objects, or studying hallmarks and provenance. They are not constantly checking market values.
And so, valuable items slip through — priced modestly, sometimes absurdly low.
That low level of filtering is precisely what makes charity shops such fertile hunting ground. It allows dealers — and the occasional lucky member of the public — to pick up beautiful, valuable objects for very little.
There are many antique and book dealers who make a habit of visiting charity shops and second-hand bookshops, quietly building their stock. One book dealer from Johannesburg is known to fly down to Cape Town, making the rounds of charity stores and second-hand shops, gathering books in a particular genre to stock his shop in one of the city’s more affluent suburbs.
It is a well-worn network. Estate sales, auctions, private collections, flea markets, charity shops — all part of the supply chain. The seasoned dealer moves easily between them, buying low, researching carefully, and selling on to a more informed or wealthier market.
And then there are the stories.
The dealer who bought an unwanted item at auction for R200 and sold it for R20,000. Perhaps true, perhaps embellished — but always told with a certain relish. These are the stories that circulate at dinner parties, leaving listeners somewhere between admiration and disbelief.
We are drawn to them because they speak to something universal: the thrill of the bargain.
If you look at surveys, you will find that professions such as estate agents and insurance brokers often rank among the least trusted. I might add used car salespeople — though that comes from personal experience. As a youngster, I bought a 1600 Ford Escort in Jules Street, Malvern, Johannesburg. Not long after, the cam belt snapped. For someone earning very little at the time, the repair bill was painful — and memorable.
You learn from these things. Or at least you hope you do.
Because the truth is, every trade has its stories — not all of them flattering. Even in professions such as law, there are cases that shake one’s confidence. I recall one instance where a lawyer misused funds from a trust account, leaving devastation in his wake. In another, money meant to be transferred simply never arrived. These things happen, more often than we would like to believe.
Which brings us back to the charity shop.
I must admit, I am not immune to the thrill of finding a bargain. Though I would say that I am not particularly good at it. Some time ago, I came across two pewter vases. What drew me to them was their simplicity. Often, it is the simplest objects that carry the greatest elegance.
I bought them and gave them as a gift to my partner. She later did some digging and discovered that they were made in Europe — perhaps Holland or Belgium — and dated from a particular period. In other words, they were far more valuable than I had realised.
She never did find out what I paid for them.
And perhaps that is part of the charm. The quiet satisfaction of having spotted something others overlooked.
Still, one cannot help but feel a slight sense of loss when professional dealers sweep through charity shops, lifting the best items before anyone else has a chance. It deprives the ordinary person of that moment — the unexpected discovery, the joy of bringing home something beautiful and meaningful.
But then again, that is the nature of the hunt.
The doors open on a Monday morning. The shelves are full. And somewhere between the chipped mugs and the paperbacks, there may still be something waiting — for whoever happens to see it first.
