The old curmudgeon handed me a comb, and what happened after that turned my whole life upside down.
It sat on a shelf in the farright corner of the little shop on Meadow Street, as if it were waiting just for me. A shaft of light from the fluorescent ceiling caught it, and it flashed with a cold, silvery gleam. I froze. It was only a comb, but unlike any Id ever seen. The handle was a smooth, mattemetal bar, and the teeth werent ordinary at all they shimmered with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice lit by the sun.
I reached out, but my fingers stopped a centimetre away. Inside, a knot of doubt tightened. Why? a harsh inner voice asked. Youve got a perfectly good, ordinary comb at home. Dont waste your money on this nonsense.
I sighed, pulled my hand back, yet I couldnt look away. The thing seemed alive, hypnotic. I imagined it gliding through my unruly auburn locks and a smile tugged at my mouth.
Miss! Lovely comb, take it! the shop assistant called, her face breaking into a grin as she stepped up to the counter.
Weve sold out of most of them, honestly, she said. Only two left. Not only pretty, theyre practical they never tangle.
Just looking, really, I mumbled, taking a step back. Ive got my own comb at home.
I turned away from the shelf and made for the door. A small mirror by the exit caught a glimpse of my head a few wild orange curls poked out from under my cap. The foolish urge flared again.
No, I told myself firmly. I must be sensible. I should learn to say no to unnecessary things.
I stepped out onto the cold February wind, the air snapping me back to reality. Down the slick lane, a familiar silhouette shuffled toward me Albert Grim Thompson.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knew him as the Badger, though his real name was Albert Thompson. He was a frail old man whose icy stare made children scurry away. He never struck up conversation, and when you met his gaze it felt like a furnace that burned you straight through.
Today he wore his usual battered rabbitfur coat, a threadbare overcoat, and worn boots. The only thing that didnt fit his dour image was a sleek grey satchel slung across his shoulder, embroidered with an odd pearly flower on the flap. It was clearly handstitched with great care.
I stared at the bag long enough that I forgot to look away. Our eyes met, and in his blue, faded eyes I saw a flicker of an ancient, lingering irritation. I turned my head toward the display case, pretending to examine something, while my heart thudded in my throat.
A hoarse, rasping voice called from close by. Hey! You up there! I pretended not to hear.
Hey! Im talking to you! the voice grew louder.
I slowly turned. Albert Grim, creaking, climbed the steps of the porch and stared straight at me.
Youre from our block, arent you? he asked, pushing his shaggy, greytinged eyebrows up his nose. He smelled of peppermint and old wool.
Heat rose to my cheeks. I uh yes, I stammered, feeling like a complete fool.
Yes that means yes or no? he pressed, his eyes lighting up with that familiar sharp glint.
I only nodded, bracing for a fight.
He breathed heavily, and suddenly his expression softened. Anger drained away, replaced by a weary, lost fatigue.
Help me then, will you? Pick a present. Youre a girl, and Lucys my girl. My granddaughter lives far away. I havent seen her for ages. Lucys shes my Lucy, he muttered in a hoarse whisper.
A flash of something else crossed his eyes not malice, but raw, animal desperation.
Perhaps you should ask Lucy herself what she wants? Even over the phone? I suggested cautiously. I just dont know what shed like
I cant ask, he snapped, his face hardening for a moment. It just happened. Will you help? Choose something?
And then it hit me the very comb Id just admired. A piece as otherworldly and beautiful as that satchel. It would be perfect.
Even though fear still knotted inside me, something shifted. I reached out and brushed his sleeve.
Come on, I said quietly. I saw something that might be right.
We walked back into the shop, my fingers feeling the rough fabric of his coat. He leaned on a wooden cane I hadnt noticed before. We stopped again at the same counter.
Here, I pointed at the glittering object. I think shed like this.
Albert slowly, with effort, extended his hand and took the comb. He turned it over in his large, knobby fingers, marked with deep wrinkles and age spots. He stared not at the comb, but through it, as if recalling a distant memory. For a heartbeat he was no longer the Badger; he was just an exhausted, lonely old man.
Their stocks down to two, the shopkeeper called out again, her voice echoing. Good combs sell fast.
Albert lifted his gaze to me; something trembled in his blue eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched, like a shy smile, and he looked like an old sailor whod just remembered hidden treasure.
Ill take both, he declared suddenly, and reached into his coat to pull out a battered leather wallet.
I opened my mouth to protest that it was too much, but the words got stuck. He counted the notes carefully, as if each penny mattered.
The shop assistant wrapped the combs in two tiny paper bags. Albert placed one in his pearlflower satchel with a gentle hand, as though cradling something fragile. He opened the second bag, took out the comb and handed it to me.
Here, take it.
I recoiled as if hed offered a hot coal.
What? No, you dont need it for your granddaughter I can manage myself.
Take it, he said, his grip unrelenting, his tone firm. Its a little gift, from me, for you and for my Lucy. Ill try to send her a parcel, maybe shell accept it And you helped me today. Thank you.
A note of hopelessness crept into his voice when he spoke of Lucy. I, speechless, took the comb. The plastic was surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We left the shop and walked in silence toward our homes. I clutched the bag tightly, as if afraid it might fly away. In my head a question rang: Why? Why did he do that? No answer came.
The silence between us was tense at first, then slowly eased. He breathed heavily up the hill, his breaths the only sound breaking the quiet street. I stole a glance at his shoulders; usually rigid, they now seemed weighed down by an invisible load.
Thank you, I finally managed, my voice barely more than a whisper. Its beautiful. Ill use it.
He merely nodded, not looking at me.
Lucy will be pleased, I suppose, I added cautiously.
He slowed his steps, letting out a heavy sigh that seemed to rise from the soles of his worn boots.
I dont know if shell be pleased, he rasped. I dont know if shell even get it. My daughter, Emily she wont let her have anything from me.
He fell silent, and we walked a few more steps in a heavy hush.
She blames me, he burst out, as if a dam had broken. Blames me for not saving her mother, Olly
His voice cracked and he coughed, pretending to choke.
She died in my arms. They said it was appendicitis, then peritonitis. The young doctor made a mistake Two precious days lost. He gave her pills for the stomach, not surgery. I trusted him If only Id taken her to the hospital myself!
He wiped his face with his sleeve, and I pretended not to notice his fingers brushing his cheek.
My daughter only came back after everything was over. Its been five years. We never spoke again. Lucy tried to call, but Emily stopped her. She loved her mother. And I I loved them both. My life ended that day.
We reached my front door. He stopped at the landing and turned toward me. His face was twisted in a wordless pain that made my stomach clench.
Emma, dont turn away, come inside. Ill show you what Olly made. Its all still there. Come, will you? He looked at me with such desperate hope that I could not refuse.
I nodded without a word. Fear vanished, replaced by a bitter understanding of his longing. I followed him up the stairs, the comb still warm in my pocket, feeling someone elses sorrow settle inside me.
He unlocked the heavy iron door, and a still, stale air greeted me not musty, but as if time itself were paused, scented with dry herbs, old paper and a faint trace of perfume long gone.
Inside, the flat was frozen like a photograph. The floors shone, the surfaces bore immaculate lace doilies, a battered gramophone with a huge horn stood on a side table, surrounded by neat stacks of records. The windowsills bore flourishing geraniums, their leaves glistening as if just dusted.
Most striking was the armchair, its back draped with a pink, tinyflowered dressing gown as if the lady had just taken it off. On the vanity lay a small pile of rings and a strand of pearls, an open powder box and dried mascara.
It was less a home than a museum of memory, a shrine frozen five years ago.
Albert slipped off his coat and hung it next to the rosepatterned dressing gown. He shuffled to the kitchen, his movements slower, almost ritualistic.
Sit, Emma, Ill get the tea. Olly loved tea with jam. We have our own cherry jam, his voice drifted from the kitchen, softer now, like a library whisper.
I lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, careful not to disturb the fragile harmony. My eyes fell on a small table by the window. A stack of envelopes bound with twine sat there. I leaned in; each was addressed in a shaky, elderly hand: To Emily, my dear daughter. All bore a stamp: Returned to sender. Addressee deceased. They hadnt even been opened.
Here, have a look, Albert returned, carrying a tray with two antique floral teacups, a tiny teapot and a jar of jam.
I lifted a cup. The tea smelled of mint and nettle. The jam was indeed extraordinary.
Delicious, I said sincerely. Ive never tasted anything like it.
He smiled sadly, gazing past me.
She was a jackofalltrades. Sewed, knitted, kept the garden blooming. She even made bags from leftover cloth. She loved that little satchel with the pearl flower, always telling me not to forget it when I went to the shop.
Silence fell again, his loneliness filling the room. I finished the jam, and on a sudden impulse asked, Albert, could you teach me how to make that jam? My mother cant get it right.
His eyes lit up as if Id said something important.
Ill teach you, of course. Its not hard.
And he began to tell stories not of grief but of life. How he and Olly planted vegetables together, how she swore at him when he brought home too much fabric, how theyd go mushroompicking in the woods. I listened, and the spectre of the Badger melted away, leaving an ordinary, lonely man who had guarded love for decades.
Leaving, I glanced once more at the stack of unopened letters. An idea that had sparked in the shop now hardened into a firm resolution. I had no right not to act.
May I come back for the recipe? I asked at the door.
Come back, Emma, do. Ill tell you about zucchini jam too. Its a clever thing, he called after me, his eyes finally warm rather than icy.
I stepped onto the stairwell, the door closing softly behind me, sealing him once more in his museum of silence. I went up to my flat, and only then, in the quiet of my own room, allowed myself to breathe.
I took the comb from my pocket and set it on the table. It still glittered with its rainbow teeth, no longer just a pretty trinket but a key.
I sat down, opened my notebook and pen. I couldnt write the whole letter at once; emotions overflowed. I managed the opening lines, the most important ones:
Dear Emily, we have never met. My name is Pippa, your fathers neighbour. I beg you to read this letter to the end
Outside, night fell completely. I wrote, crossing out words, rewriting, feeling the weight of responsibility and a strange confidence that I was doing the only possible thing.
Three weeks passed. Three weeks of silence. The letter was mailed, and nothing came back no call, no reply, not even a terse text. Only the same oppressive quiet that filled Alberts flat.
I visited him a few times. We drank tea with jam, and he, enlivened, shared new details about his recipes. I pretended to be deeply interested, fearing his gaze might read deceit or the hidden motive behind my interference. Each departure left me with a growing dread: had I ruined something?
One afternoon, returning from university, I saw a familiar scene outside our building. The local ladies club the women we all called the gossips were clustered on the steps, murmuring, glancing toward the bench where Albert usually sat. He was absent, yet they kept talking.
no wonder they called him the Badger. He fought with everyone, never got along. They even say
I stood rooted, my heart thudding. The pain of what Id witnessed rose like a wave. I stepped forward.
The women fell silent, eyes widening at my sudden appearance.
Are you talking about Albert Thompson? I asked, my voice louder than expected in the evening hush.
They stared, bewildered.
Did you know him? I pressed. Or his grandchildren, who used to run around the playground while his wife was dying?
They murmured, then fell quiet, their faces a mix of surprise, embarrassment, and a hint of resentment.
Hes a terrible man, they say, one of them muttered. Always arguing, never with his wife
What did he argue with? I demanded, feeling a surge of anger. With you? Or with your grandchildren, who were shouting on the swing while his wife lay ill? Have you even heard his story?
Their mouths opened, then closed, confusion turning to awkwardness. They whispered about young people meddling in old mens affairs and drifted away.
I stood there, knees shaking, breath shallow, yet an odd calm settled over me. I had said what needed saying.
A week later, Saturday, I slept and was woken by a strange noise in the courtyard not childrens shrieks but adult voices and laughter. I pulled aside the curtains.
A dark foreign car sat by the entrance, unfamiliar to the street. A tall, slim woman in an elegant coat stood beside it, speaking.
Then the door to the entrance opened. Albert emerged, no longer in his coat but in a simple vest, his face pale and bewildered. He looked at the woman, and something seemed to crack inside him. He froze, unable to move.
The woman Emily stepped forward. She said something I couldnt catch. A young girl with long blond hair darted from the car and flung her arms around the old man, hugging him tightly.
Granddad! she shouted.
He clutched her, pressing her to his chest as if fearing she might vanish. His shoulders trembled. He wept loudly, not the quiet, bitter tears of the stairwell, but fullbodied, raw sobs that seemed to release five years of loneliness. He whispered something inaudible, Lucy my girl how youve grown
Emily placed a hand on his shoulder, then turned to me, her eyes soft. He let go of his granddaughter and embraced his daughter. The three of them stood together, a knot of grey hair, delicate skin, and bright eyes, the dam finally breaking.
I slipped away from the window, not wanting to intrAs I watched the trio reunite, a gentle warmth spread through me, affirming that even the smallest gestures can stitch together broken hearts and set the past free.
