The old curmudgeon, Harold Grimsby, gave me a comb. What followed turned my whole life upsidedown.
It had sat on a shelf in the farcorner of the little general store on the high street, as if waiting for me. A strip of light from the fluorescent ceiling caught it, and it flashed with a cold, silvery gleam. I froze, rooted to the spot. It was only a comb, yet unlike any I had ever seen. The handle was a smooth, mattemetal bar, perfectly faceted; the teeth were not mere teeth. They shimmered with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice that the sun were playing upon.
I reached out, but my fingers halted a hairs breadth away. Inside, a knot of contradiction tightened. Why? a stern voice inside warned. You already have a fine, ordinary, workhorse comb at home. Dont waste money on a trifle. Foolishness. I sighed, drew my hand back, yet I could not tear my eyes away. It seemed alive, hypnotic. I imagined it gliding through my stubborn, russet curls and a smile slipped onto my lips.
Miss! A good comb, take it! the shopkeeper cried, beaming. She swept up to the counter, her grin as wide as the Thames. Weve sold out of them, honestly. Only two left. Not only beautiful, but incredibly handywont tangle at all, she assured.
Just looking, I muttered shyly, taking a step back. I have my own, its fine too. I turned from the shelf, hurrying toward the door. A small mirror hung by the exit; a glimpse showed the ragged tufts of orange hair peeking from beneath my bonnet, and the foolish desire surged again. No, I said firmly to myself. I must be prudent. Learn to refuse the superfluous.
I stepped onto the porch, face turned to the cold February wind. The air snapped my reverie into focus. Down the slick lane shuffled a familiar silhouetteHarold Grimsby. He was known in the whole neighbourhood simply as the Grimsby. His name in the parish records was Harold Grimsby, but the children shunned him, fearing the icy aloofness that clung to him like a winter fog. He never spoke unless provoked, and his gaze, when he met yours, burned with a weight that made passersby look away hurriedly.
He was dressed in his usual garb: a threadbare rabbitfur coat, an old halfcloak, worn boots. Yet one oddity broke his dour picturea shoulder bag of grey cloth, not a battered rucksack but a neatly stitched pouch, its flap embroidered with an exotic motherofpearl flower. It was clearly made with love and skill.
I stared at that otherworldly beauty and could not look away. Our eyes met. In his faded blue eyes flickered a spark of ancient, lingering irritation. I turned sharply toward the display case, pretending to examine something, while my heart thudded in my throat.
A hoarse, rasping voice sounded close by. Hey! You up there! I pretended not to hear. Hey! Im talking to you! it shouted louder.
I turned slowly. Harold Grimsby, creaking, climbed the steps of the porch, his gaze fixed on me.
Are you from the house on the lane? he asked, pushing his shaggy, silvered eyebrows up his nose. A scent of peppermint and old wool wafted from him. I felt my cheeks warm. I um yes, I suppose, I stammered, feeling foolish.
Um, yesis that a yes or a no? he pressed, his eyes lighting with the familiar sharp twinkle. I merely nodded, bracing for a scuffle. What had I done to offend him? Had I looked the wrong way?
He drew a heavy breath, and his anger softened, replaced by a strange, weary fatigue.
Help me then, will you? Pick a little present. Youre a girl, and I have a granddaughterMarthawho lives far away. I havent seen her in years. My own Martha, he muttered, voice low, almost a whisper. In the corners of his eyes I thought I saw not malice but a raw, animal desperation.
Perhaps you should ask Martha herself what shed like? Even by telephone? I offered cautiously. I simply dont know what would please her
I cant ask, he snapped, his face hardening again. Its just so. Will you help? Choose something? The thought of the strange comb returned, as alien and beautiful as that grey bag. It would be perfect.
Though fear lingered, something inside me shivered. I even dared to touch the sleeve of his coat.
Come, I said softly. Ive seen something. I think its what you need. I led him back into the shop, feeling the rough fabric of his halfcloak under my fingers. He walked in silence, leaning on a cane I had not noticed before. We stood again before the counter.
Here, I pointed at the glittering object. I think this might please the lady.
Harold Grimsby extended his hand with effort and took the comb. He turned it over in his large, deeply lined fingers, looking not at the comb but through it, as if searching some distant memory. In that moment he was no longer the Grimsby but simply a tired, lonely old man.
The shopkeepers voice echoed, Only two left, good combs sell out fast. The shopkeepers tone rang like a distant bell.
Harold lifted his gaze to me; a tremor passed through his blue eyes. The corners of his mouth quivered, hinting at a smile, and he seemed a weatherworn sailor remembering hidden treasure.
Both, then, he declared suddenly, reaching into the inner pocket of his halfcloak and pulling out a battered leather wallet. I opened my mouth to protest that it was too much, but the words stuck. He counted the pounds with the meticulousness of a man who knows the worth of every penny.
The shopkeeper wrapped the combs in two small paper bags. One she handed to Harold, who placed it gently into his exotic flowerembroidered bag, cradling it as though it were something fragile and priceless. The second she unfolded, handed the comb to me.
Here, take it. He offered it as if it were a coal in a furnace. I recoiled, as though hed handed me a hot iron.
What? No, you its for your granddaughter I could get one myself if I wanted I stammered.
Take it, he insisted, his stare now steady, almost stern. A little present, from me. For you and for my Martha. Ill try to send her a parcel; perhaps shell accept And you you helped me today. Thank you. His voice carried the same hopeless notes that had accompanied his talk of a granddaughter. I, speechless, took the comb. The plastic was surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We left the shop and walked in silence toward our houses. I clutched the packet tightly, as though fearing it might vanish. In my mind rang the question, Why? Why did he do this? No answer came.
The quiet between us was taut at first, then softened. His breathing, heavy on the uphill walk, was the only sound breaking the streets hush. I stole a glance at his shoulders, usually rigid, now slumped under an invisible weight.
Thank you, I finally said, unable to keep silent any longer. Its very pretty. Ill use it.
He nodded without looking at me.
Martha will be glad, I added cautiously.
He slowed, sighed heavily, a sound seeming to rise from the depths of his old boots.
Im not sure shell be glad, he rasped. I dont know if shell even get it. My daughter, Jan 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 burst out suddenly, as if a dam had broken. She blames me for not protecting her mother Olia
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. If only Id taken her to the proper surgeon I trusted that doctor
He wiped his face with his sleeve, and I pretended not to notice the trembling fingers.
My daughter only came back after everything had happened. Its been five years. We never spoke again. The granddaughter tried to write, to call, but Jan forbade it. She loved her mother very much. And I I loved them. My life ended that day.
We reached my door. He stopped, turned to me. His face was twisted with a wordless anguish that knotted my stomach.
Miss, dont be shy, come inside. Ill show you what Olia used to make. Everything is as it was. Shall we go? His eyes held such pleading, such hope for a human touch that I could not refuse.
I nodded silently. Fear melted away, replaced by a bitter understanding of his grief. I followed him up the stairs, the warm glass comb humming in my pocket, feeling anothers sorrow become a part of me.
He opened the heavy iron door, and a strange, still air greeted meno staleness, but the scent of time itself: dry herbs, old paper, a faint trace of perfume long since evaporated.
Inside, the flat was not merely tidy; it was frozen like a photograph. Floors polished to a shine, lace doilies immaculate on every surface. A battered gramophone with a large horn perched on the wall, next to a neat stack of records. Geraniums bloomed in the windowsill, their leaves polished as if just dusted.
Most striking was a pink, small floral nightdress draped on the back of an armchair, as if the lady had just taken it off. On the vanity lay a neat pile of rings, a short strand of pearls, an open powder box, and a dried mascara wand.
It was a museum, a shrine of memory, where time had halted five years ago.
Harold slipped off his halfcloak and hung it beside the pink dress. He moved toward the kitchen, his motions slower, almost ritualistic.
Sit, dear, Ill make tea. Olia liked her tea with jam. We have our own cherry jam, his voice softened, like a whisper in a library.
I lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, afraid to disturb the fragile harmony. My eyes fell on a small table by the window, where a stack of envelopes tied with twine rested. I leaned in; each bore his shaky, aged hand: To Jan, my daughter. A stamp read: Return to sender. Recipient deceased. They had never been opened. The silence of those letters struck a chord deep within.
Here, try, Harold returned, bearing a tray with two antique tea cups, a dainty teapot, and a pot of jam.
I lifted a cup; the tea smelled of mint and linden. The jam was truly remarkable.
Its wonderful, I said earnestly. Ive never tasted anything like it. He gave a sad smile, looking past me.
She was handy with everythingsewing, knitting, gardening. She made bags from leftover cloth. She wore this very bag, he nodded to his flowerembroidered satchel. She told me not to forget it when I went to the shop.
He fell silent, and his silence filled the room with his unspoken longing. I finished the jam, and, on a sudden impulse, asked, Harold, could you teach me how to make it? My mother cant get it right.
His eyes brightened, as if Id said something vital. Ill teach you, of course. Its not hard.
He began to speak of life, not sorrowhow he and Olia planted the garden, how she chided him for bringing too much cloth for her crafts, how they walked together into the woods for mushrooms. I listened, and the ghost of the dreaded Grimsby faded, giving way to a solitary man who had guarded love for decades, now unsure where it should go.
Leaving, I glanced again at the stack of unopened letters. The idea that had sparked in the shop hardened into a firm resolve. I had no right to ignore it.
Ill come back for the recipe? I asked as I stepped into the doorway.
Come back, dear, you must, he replied, and for the first time that night, his eyes showed warmth, not ice. Ill even tell you about zucchini jamit’s a clever thing.
I descended the stairwell, the door closing softly behind me, sealing him once more in his museum of silence. In my own flat, I finally allowed myself to exhale.
From my pocket I drew the comb, laying it on the table. It still glittered with its rainbow teeth, no longer just a pretty trinket but a keya key that had opened a door into anothers tragedy.
I sat at the desk, opened a notebook, and began to write. I could not pour the whole letter at once; emotion overflowed. Yet I managed the first lines, the most essential:
Dear Jan, we have never met. My name is Ethel Brown, your neighbour. I beg you to find it in yourself to read this letter to the end.
Outside, night fell completely. I wrote, choosing words, erasing, rewriting, feeling the heavy weight of responsibility but also a strange certainty that I was doing the only thing I could.
Three weeks slipped by in silence. The letter was sent, and no reply arrivedno call, no note, no angry text. Only a hush as oppressive as Harolds flat.
I visited him often. We shared tea with jam, and he, revived, recounted new details of his recipes. I pretended great interest, fearing his gaze would see deceit, fearing I had merely provoked his daughters wrath. Each departure left his stare softer, his gratitude growing, and the dread that perhaps I had ruined something gnawed at me.
One afternoon, returning from university, I passed the courtyard where the local ladiesour oldgirlsgathered on a bench, gossiping as usual. They pointed toward the spot where Harold usually sat. Ah, that Grimsby fellow, no wonder they called him that. He quarrelled with everyone, even his own wife they chuckled.
I stopped, rooted. My heart pounded. The pain I had glimpsed in him rose like a tide. I didnt think of consequences; I simply stepped forward.
They fell silent, eyes widening at my intrusion.
You speak of Harold Grimsby? I asked, my voice louder than I intended in the evening hush.
One of the women, the boldest, answered, What about him? He wasnt a nice man. Ever since his wife they say he
What did he quarrel with? With you? With your grandchildren, who were screaming while his wife lay dying? Did you hear that? I pressed, my words spilling out raw.
Their mouths opened in shock. Their faces shifted from bewilderment to embarrassment, then a hint of hurt. They muttered about young people meddling and drifted away.
I stood alone, breath shallow, knees trembling. Yet inside a strange calm settled. I had said what needed saying.
The next week passed uneventfully, then Saturday arrived. I slept soundly until a strange noise roused meadults laughing, voices bright. I drew aside the curtain and looked out.
In the courtyard, a dark foreign car was parked by the entrance. Beside it stood a tall, slender woman in an elegant coat, speaking softly. The door of the flat opened. Harold emerged, no longer in his halfcloak but in a single vest, his face pale, bewildered. He stared at the woman, and something seemed to crack inside him. He stood frozen, unable to move.
The womanJanstepped forward. She said something I could not hear. From the car a young girl with long blond hair sprang out, ran to the old man, and embraced him tightly.
Granddad! she cried. He clutched her as though fearing she was a mirage, his shoulders shaking. He wept, not the quiet, bitter tears of the porch, but loud, raw sobs that shattered five years of loneliness. He stroked her hair, whispered something inaudible, and I could read on his lips, Martha my girl how youve grown.
Jan placed a hand on his shoulder, and he released his granddaughter, then hugged his daughter. The three of them stood together, a greyhaired man, a refined woman, and a bright young lady, the dam of his sorrow finally breaking. Life flooded back.
I slipped away from the window, not wishing to be seen. This was their moment, their healing. A bright feeling rose in my chest.
I went to the mirror. My reflection stared backdisheveled, sleepstained, but eyes sparkling. My russet hair stuck out in all directions. I lifted the silver comb, its rainbow teeth still catching the morning light.
I drew it through my untamed strands. The plastic was cool, but each strokeWith the comb’s gentle glide, I felt the lingering warmth of strangers’ hope settle into my own heart, sealing the memory of that longforgotten winter forever.
