The old curmudgeon handed me a comb, and what happened next turned my whole life upside down. It had been sitting on a shelf in the farright corner of the little shop on Baker Street, as if waiting for me. A shaft of light from the fluorescent ceiling caught it, and it flashed with a cold, silvery gleam. I froze, planted like a statue. It was just a comb, but unlike any Id ever seen. The handle was a smooth, mattemetal bar, perfectly cut, and the teeth werent ordinary at all. They shimmered with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice that the sun was playing through.
I reached for it, but my fingers stopped a breath away. Inside me something twisted. Why? a stern inner voice demanded. You already have a fine, ordinary comb at home. This is a waste of money. I sighed and pulled my hand back, yet I couldnt look away. It seemed alive, hypnotic. I imagined the teeth gliding through my unruly auburn locks and a small smile tugged at my lips.
Miss! Good comb, take it! the shop assistant called, her face bright as a June morning. She hurried over to the counter, smiling eartoear.
Everyones snapped them up, honestly. Only two left. Not only beautiful but also practical it wont tangle, she assured me.
I was just looking, I muttered, stepping back. I have my own, its decent enough.
I turned away from the shelf and headed for the exit. A small mirror on the wall gave me a glimpse of the stray reddish tufts poking out from under my hat. The ridiculous desire rose again.
No, I told myself firmly. I must be prudent. Learn to say no to needless things.
I stepped out onto the landing, the February wind biting my face. The cold air snapped me out of the spell. Down the slick lane shuffled a familiar silhouette Jack Grimsley.
Officially he was Paul Timothy, but everyone in the neighbourhood called him by the nickname that suited his dour reputation. He was an elderly man, his presence as chilly as a winters night, and children would scurry away from him. He never chatted, and if anyone stared, his gaze was so heavy it made people look away quickly.
He was dressed in his usual attire: a threadbare rabbitfur coat, a battered halfcoat, and scuffed boots. The only thing that didnt fit his grim visage was the satchel slung across his shoulder. It wasnt a battered rucksack but a fine grey cloth bag, its flap embroidered with an odd pearly flower, clearly sewn with love and skill.
I stared at that otherworldly beauty a moment too long. Our eyes met. In his faded blue eyes flickered a spark of ancient irritation. I snapped my gaze to the display case, pretending to examine something else, while my heart thudded in my throat.
Hey! You up there! a hoarse, cracked voice called close by. I pretended not to hear.
Hey! Im talking to you! the voice rose louder.
I turned slowly. Jack Grimsley, creaking, climbed the steps of the landing and stared straight at me.
You live in our block, dont you? he asked, pushing his shaggy, grey eyebrows up with his nose. He smelled of peppermint and old cloth.
I felt my cheeks flush. I uh yes, I stammered, feeling like a complete fool.
Yes that a yes or a no? he pressed, his eyes flickering with a familiar, mischievous glint.
I merely nodded, bracing for a quarrel. What if Im not to your liking? Did I look the wrong way?
He took a heavy breath, and his expression softened. Anger melted into a weary, lost fatigue.
Help me then, would you? I need a gift. Youre a girl, and Maud is my girl. My granddaughter lives far away. I havent seen her in years. Maudthats my granddaughter, he muttered softly, almost a whisper.
A flash of that same comb sparked in the corners of his eyes not malice, but a raw, animal desperation.
Perhaps you should ask Maud herself what she wants? Even a phone call? I suggested cautiously. I just dont know what would please her
I cant ask her, he snapped, his face hardening again. Its just the way it is. Will you help? Pick something?
And then it hit me the very comb! As strange as it sounded, it was as extraordinary as that satchel. It would be perfect.
Even though fear lingered, something inside me shifted. I dared to touch his sleeve.
Lets go, I said quietly. I saw something that might be right.
I led him back into the shop, feeling the rough fabric of his halfcoat under my fingers. He walked silently, leaning on a wooden stick I hadnt noticed before. We returned to the same counter.
Here, I pointed at the glittering object. I think shed like this.
Paul Timothy reached out slowly, as if with effort, and took the comb. He turned it in his large, heavilylined fingers, eyes not on the comb but through it, as if recalling some distant memory. In that instant he wasnt the curmudgeon; he was simply a very tired, very lonely old man.
Only two left, the shop assistants voice echoed again. Good combs sell fast.
He lifted his gaze to me, and something trembled in his blue eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched into a faint smile, and he looked like an old, weary sailor whod just remembered a hidden treasure.
Both of them, then, he said suddenly, his voice firm, and he fumbled inside the lining of his coat for a worn leather wallet.
I wanted to protest that it was too much, but the words caught in my throat. He counted the notes with the carefulness of a man who knows the value of every penny.
The assistant wrapped the two combs in tiny paper bags. One bag Paul placed gently into his peculiar satchel, handling it as if it were something fragile and priceless. 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.
No, no, why? Its for your granddaughter I could get it myself if I wanted
Take it, he persisted, his stare now resolute, almost stern. Its a little present. From me. For you and for Maud. Ill try to send it to her, maybe shell accept And you you helped me today. Thank you.
His voice carried that same hopeless tone he used when speaking of his granddaughter. I stood there, speechless, and took the comb. The plastic was surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We left the shop and walked in silence toward our block. I clutched the bag tightly, as if fearing it might fly away. In my head a question rang: Why? Why did he do that? There was no answer.
The quiet between us was tense at first, then slowly eased. His breathing was heavy on the uphill walk, the only sound breaking the streets hush. I stole a glance at his shoulders usually rigid, now sagging under an invisible weight.
Thank you, I finally managed, unable to stay silent any longer. Its beautiful. Ill use it.
He only nodded, eyes still away.
Maud will be delighted, I added cautiously.
He slowed his steps, exhaling a long, weary sigh that seemed to rise from the depths of his old boots.
I dont know if shell be happy, he rasped. I dont know if shell even get it. My daughter, Jane she wont give it up. She wont want anything from me.
He fell silent, and we walked a few more steps in oppressive quiet.
She blames me, he suddenly burst out, as if a dam had broken. She blames me for not saving her mother, Oliva
His voice cracked, and he coughed, pretending to choke.
She died in my arms. They said it was appendicitis, then peritonitis. The young doctor got it wrong Two precious days lost. She needed surgery, but he gave her pills for the stomach. I trusted that doctor If Id known Id have taken her to the hospital myself!
He wiped his face with his sleeve, and I pretended not to notice his trembling fingers.
My daughter came back only after everything had happened. Its been five years. We never spoke. My granddaughter tried to call, but Jane blocked it. She loved her mother. And I I loved them too. My life ended that day.
We reached my front door. He stopped at the landing, turned to me. His face was twisted in a wordless agony that made my stomach knot.
Darling, dont turn away, come in. Ill show you what Oliva made. Everythings as it was. Shall we go? He looked at me with such hope, such pleading, that I could not refuse.
I nodded silently. Fear vanished, replaced by a bitter understanding of his grief. I followed him up the stairs, the warm glass comb still in my pocket, feeling a strangers great sorrow settle inside me.
He unlocked the heavy iron door, and a strange, still air greeted me. It wasnt stale; it smelled of trapped time, dry herbs, old paper and a faint wisp of perfume that had long faded but lingered.
Inside, the flat was not merely tidy; it was frozen like a photograph. The floors shone, every surface bore immaculate lace napkins. A vintage gramophone with a huge horn stood on the wall, next to a neat stack of records. The windowsills were lined with thriving geraniums, their leaves glistening as if just polished.
The most striking thing was a delicate pink housecoat draped over the back of an armchair, as if the owner had just taken it off. On the dressing table sat a neat pile of rings and a short strand of pearls, an open powder box, and a dried mascara tube.
It was a museum, a shrine to memory, frozen five years ago.
Paul stripped off his halfcoat and hung it beside the pink coat. He moved to the kitchen, his motions now smoother, almost ritualistic.
Sit down, love, Ill fix us a tea. Oliva used to have tea with jam. We have our own cherry jam, he said, his voice softer, 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 tied with twine lay there. I leaned over; each bore Pauls unmistakable, aged handwriting: To Jane, my dear daughter. Each bore a stamp: Return to sender. Addressee deceased.
They hadnt even been opened. The silence of that cruelty sank my heart.
Here, try, Paul returned, carrying a tray with two vintage floral teacups, a tiny teapot and a jar of jam.
I lifted a cup. The tea smelled of mint and lilac. The jam was indeed extraordinary.
Delicious, I said sincerely. Ive never tasted anything like it.
He gave a sad smile, looking past me.
She was a jackofalltrades. Sewed, knitted, kept the garden blooming. She made bags from leftover cloth. This oneher favouritehangs there, he nodded toward his flowerembroidered satchel on the chair. She told me not to forget it when I went to the shop.
He fell silent, the quiet once more filled with his unspoken sorrow. I finished the jam and, on a sudden impulse, asked, Paul, could you teach me how to make it? My mother cant get it right.
He looked at me as if Id asked something crucial. His eyes brightened.
Ill show you, of course. It isnt hard.
And he began to speak, not of grief but of life: how he and Oliva planted the garden, how she scolded him when he hoarded too much cloth, how they went mushroompicking together. I listened, and the phantom of the curmudgeon faded, replaced by an ordinary lonely man who had guarded his love for decades.
Leaving, I glanced again at the stack of unopened letters. The idea that had sparked in the shop turned into a firm, unshakable decision. I had no right not to act.
Ill come back for the recipe? I asked at the door.
Come on, love, do, do, he called, his eyes finally warm, not icy. Ill even tell you about zucchini jam. Its a trick.
I stepped onto the stairwell, the door closing softly behind me, sealing him again in his quiet museum. I went down to my flat, and only then, in the hush of my own room, allowed myself to breathe.
I pulled the comb from my pocket and set it on the table. It still glittered with rainbow teeth, no longer just a pretty trinket but a key. A key that had opened a door into someone elses tragedy.
I sat at the desk, grabbed a notebook and pen. I could not write the whole letter at oncetoo many emotions surged. I managed the opening lines, the most important ones:
Dear Jane, we have never met. My name is Mick, Im your neighbours father. I beg you to find the strength to read this till the end
Outside, night fell completely. I wrote, choosing words, erasing them, trying again, feeling the heavy 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 sent, and no reply cameno call, no note, no angry text. Only the same oppressive hush that filled Pauls flat.
I visited him often. We drank tea with jam, and he, revived, told me new details about his recipes. I pretended great interest, fearing his eyes would read deceit, fearing Id uncovered too much. Each time I left, his gaze softened, his gratitude grew, and the weight on my conscience grew heavier. Had I ruined anything? Had my letter only hardened his daughters heart?
One afternoon, returning from university, I saw a familiar scene by the buildings entrance. The local ladies club gathered, chattering, pointing toward the bench where Paul usually sat. He wasnt there, yet they whispered.
no wonder they called him Grimsley. Always at odds, never got along they even say his wife
I froze, blood hitting my head. All that pain Id glimpsed, all the tragedy of this man they never understood, rose in me like a wave. I didnt think about consequences; I just walked up to them.
They fell silent, eyes widening at my sudden appearance.
You mean Paul Timothy? I asked, my voice louder than the quiet evening.
One of the women, the most outspoken, replied, What? He was a nightmare to everyone. Always arguing, never with anyone. Even his own wife!
Who did he argue with? I pressed. With you? With your grandchildren who were screaming while his wife was dying? Did you hear that?
They stared, mouths open, then shut, embarrassment and a pinch of shame flashing across their faces. They muttered about young people meddling in our affairs and scattered.
I stood there, knees shaking, breath shallow, but oddly calm. I had said what needed to be said.
A week passed without incident. Then Saturday came. I was asleep when a strange noise drifted up from the courtyard not childrens shrieks but adult voices, laughter. I pulled back the curtains.
In the yard, by our building, a dark foreign car sat. Beside it stood a tall, elegant woman in a sleek coat, speaking to someone. The buildings door swung open. Paul stepped out, no halfcoat, just a vest, his face pale and bewildered. He stared at the woman, and something seemed to crack inside him. He stood frozen, unable to move.
The womanJanetook a step forward. She said something I couldnt hear. From the car a young woman with long blond hair sprang out and wrapped her arms around the old man, shouting, Grandpa!
He clutched her, pressing her to his chest as if fearing a mirage. His shoulders shook. He weptloud, raw, not the silent bitter tears of the landing, but a fullblown sob that seemed to release fiveHe lifted his trembling granddaughter into his arms, whispered a longoverdue apology, and felt, at last, the weight of years finally lift from his heart.
