The old curmudgeon hands me a hairbrush. What follows turns my whole life upside down.
It sits on a shelf in the farback corner of a small shop on Camden High Street, as if waiting just for me. A shaft of fluorescent light catches it, and it flashes with a cold, silvery glow. I freeze, rooted to the spot. Its only a brush, yet unlike any Ive ever seen. The handle is smooth, matte steel, and the teeth arent ordinary at all. They shimmer with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice that holds the sun.
I reach out, but my fingers stop a centimetre away. Inside, a knot of doubt tightens. Why? a harsh inner voice asks. Youve got a perfectly good, ordinary brush at home. This is a waste of money.
I sigh and pull my hand back, yet I cant look away. It seems alive, hypnotic. I imagine it gliding through my unruly ginger curls and a reluctant smile spreads on my face.
Miss! A lovely brush, take it! the shop assistant says, beaming.
Everyones bought them out, honestly, she adds. Only two left. Its not just pretty its truly handy, never tangles.
Im just looking, I mumble, stepping back. I have my own brush, its fine.
I turn away, avoiding the shelf, and head for the exit. A small mirror hangs by the door. I glance at it a tuft of rebellious red hair peeks out from under my hat. The foolish urge flares again.
No, I tell myself firmly. I must be frugal, learn to refuse the unnecessary.
I step onto the doorstep, pressing my face into the chilly February wind. The air clears the strange trance. Down the slick pavement, a familiar figure shuffles toward me: Harold Whitaker.
Hes known around the neighbourhood simply as the Curmudgeon. In reality his name is Harold Whitaker, but everyone calls him by that grim nickname. Hes an elderly man whose icy aloofness makes children steer clear. He never starts a conversation, and when people meet his gaze, theyre forced to look away quickly.
Now hes dressed in his usual attire: a threadbare rabbit coat, an old woolen overcoat, and scuffed boots. The only thing that doesnt fit his sour image is the bag slung across his shoulder. It isnt a battered backpack but a sleek grey fabric satchel, its flap embroidered with an exotic pearllike flowerclearly made with love and skill.
I stare at that otherworldly beauty, unable to look away. Our eyes meet. In his pale, faded blue eyes a spark of ancient irritation flickers. I turn toward the display case, pretending to examine something, while my heart thuds in my throat.
Hey! You up there! a hoarse, cracked voice calls close by. I pretend not to hear.
Hey! Im talking to you! the voice gets louder.
I slowly turn. Harold Whitaker, creaking, climbs the steps of the porch, looking straight at me.
You live in our block, dont you? he asks, pushing his shaggy, grey eyebrows up with his nose. He smells of mint and old laundry.
I feel my cheeks warm. I um, yes, I squeak, feeling foolish.
Um, yesis that a yes or a no? he presses, his eyes flashing the familiar angry glint.
I merely nod, bracing for a quarrel.
He takes a heavy breath and his expression softens. The anger drains away, replaced by a weary, lost fatigue.
Help me pick a present then, will you? Youre a girl, and Maggie is my girl. My granddaughter lives far away; I havent seen her for years. I need something for her, he says in a low, almost whispering tone.
A flash of that same rainbowtoothed brush flashes in my mindjust as strange and beautiful as his satchel.
Perhaps you should ask Maggie herself what she wants? Even by phone? I suggest cautiously. I just dont know what shed like
I cant ask, he snaps, his face hardening again. Its just how it is. Will you help? Choose something?
The idea of the brush returns, perfect and otherworldly, just like the satchel. Although fear still clings, something inside stirs. I even dare to touch the sleeve of his coat.
Lets go, I say softly. I saw something that might be right.
I lead him back into the shop, feeling the rough fabric of his coat under my fingers. He walks silently, leaning on a cane I hadnt noticed before. We reach the same counter.
Here, I point at the gleaming object. I think shed like this.
Harold slowly, with effort, reaches out and takes the brush. He turns it over in his large, deeply wrinkled hands, eyes not on the brush but through it, as if recalling some distant memory. In that moment he isnt the Curmudgeon; hes just a tired, lonely old man.
There are only two left, the shop assistants voice echoes again. Good brushes, they sell fast.
Harold looks at me, something flickering in his blue eyes. The corners of his mouth twitch into a faint smile, like a weary pirate remembering hidden treasure.
Ill take both, he declares suddenly, and reaches into the inner pocket of his coat for a worn leather wallet.
I start to protest that its too much, but the words stick in my throat. He counts the notes carefully, as if each penny matters.
The assistant wraps the brushes in two small bags. Harold places one gently into his embroidered satchel, tucking it as though handling something fragile and precious. He opens the other bag, pulls out the brush and hands it to me.
Here, take it.
I recoil, as if offered a hot coal.
What? No, I dont need it for your granddaughter, I could get it myself
Take it, he insists, his gaze steady, almost stern. Its a little giftfrom me, for you and for Maggie. Ill try to send her a parcel, maybe shell accept And you helped me today. Thank you.
His voice carries that same note of hopelessness when he speaks of his granddaughter. I stand speechless, the cool plastic of the brush surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We leave the shop and walk silently toward our building. I clutch the bag tightly, as if afraid it might float away. In my head a question repeats: Why? Why did he do that? No answer comes.
The silence between us starts tense, then slowly eases. His breathing is heavy on the incline, the only sound breaking the quiet street. I steal a glance at his shoulders, usually rigid, now slumped under an invisible weight.
Thank you, I finally manage, unable to stay mute. Its beautiful. Ill use it.
He merely nods, not meeting my eyes.
Maggie will probably be pleased, I add cautiously.
He slows his pace, letting out a long sigh that seems to rise from the depths of his old boots.
I dont know if shell be happy, he croaks. I dont know if shell even get it. My daughter, Eleanor she wont give it to her. She wont want anything from me.
He falls silent, and we walk a few more steps in oppressive quiet.
She blames me, he bursts suddenly, as if a dam has broken. She blames me for not protecting her mother, Oliva
His voice cracks and he coughs, pretending to choke.
She died in my arms. They said it was an appendix, then peritonitis. The young doctor got it wrong Two precious days lost. I should have taken her to the hospital myself!
He wipes his face with his sleeve, and I pretend not to notice his trembling fingers.
My daughter came back only after everything was over. Its been five years. We never spoke. Maggie tried to write, to call, but Eleanor blocked her. She loved her mother. I loved them both. My life ended that day.
We reach our building. He stops at the landing and turns to me. His face is twisted in a mute agony, a knot tightening inside me.
Sweetheart, dont be shy, come in. Ill show you what Oliva used to make. Everythings as it was. Shall we? he asks, his hope and plea so raw that I cant refuse.
I nod silently. Fear drains away, replaced by a bitter understanding of his grief. I follow him up the stairs, the cool glass brush tucked in my pocket, feeling anothers huge sorrow become partly my own.
He opens the heavy iron door, and a strange, still air greets meno musty decay, but the scent of stopped time, dry herbs, old paper, and a faint, faded perfume.
Inside, the flat is not just tidy; its frozen like a photograph. The floors shine, lace napkins lie immaculate on every flat surface. A vintage gramophone with a massive horn stands against the wall, next to a neat stack of records. Geraniums bloom on the windowsills, their leaves glossy as if just polished.
On the back of an armchair hangs a pink, dainty nightdress with tiny flowers, as if the owner just slipped it off. On the dressing table sit a small pile of rings and a short pearl strand, an open powder box, and a dried mascara.
It feels less like a home than a museum, a shrine to a day five years ago.
Harold removes his coat and carefully hangs it beside the nightdress. He moves to the kitchen, his motions smoother, almost ritualistic.
Sit, love, Ill put the tea on. Oliva liked tea with jam. We have our own cherry jam, his voice comes softer, like a library hush.
I lower myself onto the edge of a chair, afraid to disturb the fragile harmony. My eyes fall on a small table by the window, where a bundle of envelopes is tied with twine. I lean in; each envelope bears a firm, aged hand: To Eleanor, my dear daughter. Every one is stamped Return to sender addressee deceased. They never even opened them. The cruelty of that silence hits me hard.
Harold returns with a tray of two floral teacups, a tiny teapot, and a jar of jam.
I sip the tea; it smells of mint and lime. The jam is indeed extraordinary.
Its wonderful, I say sincerely. Ive never tasted anything like it.
He smiles sadly, looking past me.
She could sew, knit, gardeneverything flourished under her hands. She even made bags from leftover cloth. She wore this very satchel, he points to his bag, the one with the pearlflower. She told me not to forget it when I go shopping.
He falls silent, the quiet filling the room with his unspoken sorrow. I finish the jam, and, on a sudden impulse, ask,
Harold, could you teach me how to make it? My mother cant get it right.
His eyes light up as if Id said something crucial.
Ill teach you, of course. It isnt hard.
And then he begins to talknot about grief, but about life. How he and Oliva planted their garden, how she scolded him when he brought too much fabric for her projects, how they walked the woods for mushrooms together. I listen, and the phantom of the Curmudgeon finally dissolves, leaving a lonely man who has guarded love for decades.
Leaving, I glance again at the stack of unopened letters. The idea that sparked in the shop has hardened into a firm decision. I have no right not to act.
Ill come back for the recipe? I ask at the doorway.
Come by, love, do, he replies, his eyes finally warm. Ill even tell you about my secret zucchini jam. Its clever.
I step onto the stairwell, the door closing softly behind me, sealing him again in his museum of silence. I descend to my flat, and only in the hush of my own room do I finally exhale.
I pull the brush from my pocket and set it on the table. It still glitters with its rainbow teeth, no longer just a pretty trinket but a keyone that opened a door into anothers tragedy.
I sit at the desk, grab a notebook and pen. I cant write the whole letter at once; emotions overflow. I start with the first lines, the most important:
Dear Eleanor, weve never met. My name is Felicity, your fathers neighbour. I beg you to read this to the end
Outside, night deepens. I write, cross out, rewrite, feeling the heavy weight of responsibility and a strange confidence that Im doing the only thing I can.
Three weeks pass. The letter is sent, and nothing returnsno call, no reply, not even an angry text. Only the same oppressive silence that fills Harolds flat.
I visit him often. We share tea with jam, and he, revived, tells me new details about his recipes. I jot them down, pretending great interest, afraid his eyes might read deception. Each departure feels heavier; I worry Ive ruined something, that my letter only hardened his daughters heart.
One afternoon, returning from the university, I see a familiar scene by the lift. The local gossip ladies, our neighbourhoods unofficial council, chat animatedly, pointing toward the bench where Harold usually sits. Hes not there, but they continue, unbothered.
they called him the Curmudgeon for a reason. He fought with everyone, never got along. Rumour has it even his wife
I stand rooted, blood pounding. All that pain Id glimpsed in him rises like a hot wave. I march toward them.
They fall silent, eyes wide with surprised curiosity.
Youre talking about Harold Whitaker? I ask, my voice louder than the quiet evening.
One of the older women, the most outspoken, retorts, Whats it to you? He wasnt a nice man.
Who did he argue with? You? His grandchildren when his wife was dying? I push. Did you even hear his story?
Their mouths open, then close. Confusion, then a hint of embarrassment flashes across their faces. They mutter about young people meddling, and scatter.
I stand alone, breath shaking, knees trembling, but a calm settles inside. Ive said what needed saying.
A week goes by without incident. Then Saturday arrives. Im asleep when a strange noise wakes mea murmur of adult voices and laughter outside my flat. I pull back the curtain and look.
A dark foreign car is parked by the buildings entrance. A tall, slender woman in an elegant coat stands beside it, speaking softly.
The lift doors open and Harold steps out, no longer in his coat but in a simple waistcoat, his face pale and bewildered. He glances at the woman, and something seems to break inside him. He freezes, unable to move.
The womanEleanortakes a step forward. She says something I cant hear. From the car, a young girl with long blond hair darts out and wraps her arms around the old man.
Granddad! she cries.
He clutches her tightly, as if afraid shell vanish. His shoulders shake. He weeps loudly, not the quiet, bitter tears of the stairwell but a full, ragged sob that releases five years of loneliness. He strokes her hair, whispering, Maggie my girl how youve grown
Eleanor places a hand on his shoulder, then embraces her daughter. The three stand together, a tangled knot of generations, the dam finally collapsing.
I slip away from the window, not wanting to be a spectator. This is their moment, their healing. A bright feeling rises in my chest.
I go to the mirror. My reflection shows a dishevelled face, sleepstrewn, but eyes shining. My ginger hair sticks out in all directions. I pick up the silver brush, its rainbow teeth still glittering in the morning light.
I run it through my wild strands. The plastic is cool, and each stroke spreads a strange, deep warmthnot from the brush but from within, from my own heart, spreading through me. It feels like the happiness of another, now partly mine.
I smile at my reflection.
Days later I watch them from my windowHarold, now steadier, leaning on Eleanors arm; Maggie strolling beside her, chatting animatedly. The scene is so peaceful it seems the fiveyear gap has evaporated.
I rejoice for them, yet a quiet doubt gnaws at me. My interference was secret; I fear their eyes might ask why Im there, what Ive done. So I sneak past the stairs, leaving the building, clutching the brush in my pocket, trying not to be seen.
One evening, returning from a cup of tea, I find at my doorstep an unexpected sight. Eleanor and Maggie stand there, talking quietly before turning to me.
My heart drops.
Eleanor steps forward, her face serious but not angry.
Felicity? she asks softly.
I manage only a nod, words failing me.
We wanted to thank you, she says, voice trembling. For the letter.She handed me a small, handstitched pouch containing the second rainbowtoothed brush and whispered, Now we can all keep each other’s stories untangled.
