The curmudgeonly old man gave me a haircomb. What happened next turned my whole life upside down.
It sat on a shelf in the farback corner of the little shop on Old Street, as if it were waiting just for me. A strip of fluorescent light caught it, and it flashed a cold, silvery gleam. I froze, rooted to the spot. It was just a comb, but one I had never seen before. The handle was a sleek, mattemetal bar, and the teeth werent ordinary at all they shimmered with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice where the sun was constantly playing.
I reached out, but my fingers stopped a centimetre away. Inside, a knot of doubt tightened. Why bother? a stern inner voice asked. Youve got a perfectly good, ordinary comb at home. Money down the drain. Foolishness.
I sighed and pulled my hand back, yet I couldnt look away. It seemed almost alive, hypnotic. I imagined the bristles gliding through my unruly auburn strands and a smile slipped onto my face.
Miss! Lovely comb, take it! the shop assistant shouted, beaming.
Weve sold out of these, honestly. Only two left. Not just pretty, but practical they wont tangle, she boasted.
Im just looking, I murmured, backing away. I have my own decent comb.
I turned from the shelf, headed for the exit, and caught a glimpse of myself in a small mirror by the door a tumble of ginger curls poking out from under my hat. The silly urge flared again.
No, I told myself firmly. Be frugal. Learn to say no to unnecessary things.
Outside, I stuck my face into the February wind, which cleared the fog of my daydream. Down the slick cobblestones lumbered a familiar figure: Paul Pritchard, known round the neighbourhood as the Grump.
His real name was Paul Timothy Pritchard, but everyone called him by that dour nickname. He was a septuagenarian whose icy aloofness made children steer clear. He never struck up conversation, and his gaze could scorch a passerby into a swift lookaway.
He was dressed in his usual shabby coat, an old halffurred jacket, threadbare boots, and a battered rabbitfur hat. The only thing that didnt fit his sour image was the sleek grey satchel slung across his shoulder, embroidered with an exotic pearllike flower clearly a labour of love and skill.
I stared at that otherworldly bag and didnt pull my eyes away. Our gazes met, and a flash of ancient irritation flickered in his blue, faded eyes. I turned back to the shop window, pretending to examine something else, while my heart hammered in my throat.
A hoarse, crackly voice called out from nearby. Hey! You up there!
I didnt hear you, I pretended.
Hey! Im talking to you! the voice grew louder.
I turned slowly. Paul grumbled as he climbed the steps of the porch, staring straight at me.
Youre from our block, arent you? he asked, pushing his shaggy, silver eyebrows up with a sniff of peppermint and old wool.
I felt my cheeks flush. I um yeah, I squeaked, feeling like a complete nincompoop.
Um, yeah thats a yes or a no? he pressed, his eyes sparking with that familiar mischief.
I just nodded, bracing for a scuffle.
He sighed heavily, and something shifted in his stare. The anger melted into a weary, lost fatigue.
Help me pick a present, will you? Ive got a granddaughter, Marjorie, who lives far away. I havent seen her in ages, he muttered, voice dropping to a whisper.
A tiny spark of desperation, not malice, flickered in his eyes.
Perhaps you should ask Marjorie herself what she wants? Even over the phone? I suggested cautiously. Im not sure what shed like
I cant ask her, he snapped, his face hardening for a heartbeat. Its just the way it is. So, will you help? Choose something?
And then it hit me that very comb! The same impossible, beautiful thing, just like his bag. It would be perfect.
Even though fear still clung, something inside me quivered. I even dared to touch the sleeve of his coat.
Lets go, I said softly. I saw something that might be right.
We walked back into the shop, my fingers brushing the rough fabric of his halffur coat. He shuffled silently, leaning on a wooden cane Id never noticed before. We arrived again at the same counter.
There, I pointed at the glittering object. I think shed like this.
Paul, with deliberate effort, reached out and took the comb. He turned it over in his large, wrinkled hands, staring not at the comb but through it, as if recalling some distant memory. In that moment he wasnt the Grump at all; he was just a tired, lonely old man.
There are only two left, the shop assistant called, like an echo. Good combs go fast.
Pauls gaze met mine, a flicker of something soft in his blue eyes. A corner of his mouth twitched into a faint smile, like a pirate remembering buried treasure.
Ill take both, he declared, and rummaged slowly into his coat, pulling out a battered leather wallet.
He counted the pounds with the meticulousness of a man who knows the value of every penny.
The assistant wrapped the combs in tiny paper bags. Paul placed one carefully into his flowerembroidered satchel, patting it as if cradling something fragile. He handed the other bag to me.
Here, take it.
I recoiled as if hed offered a hot coal.
Really? No, its for your granddaughter I could manage myself
Take it, he insisted, his tone now firm, almost stern. Its a little giftfrom me, for you and for Marjorie. Ill try to send it to her. And thank you for helping me today.
His voice carried that same thin, desperate note of longing for his granddaughter. I, speechless, accepted the comb. The plastic felt surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We left the shop and walked in silence toward our street. I clutched the bag as if it might fly away. My mind kept asking, Why? Why did he do that? No answer came.
The quiet between us was tense at first, then softened. Pauls breath came heavy as we climbed the hill, the only sound breaking the streets stillness. I stole a glance at his shoulders usually rigid, now sagging under an invisible load.
Thank you, I finally managed. Its beautiful. Ill use it.
He merely nodded, eyes elsewhere.
Marjorie will be pleased, I added tentatively.
He slowed, exhaled a weary sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his old boots.
I dont know if shell be happy, he rasped. My daughter, Jane she wont let her have anything from me.
He fell silent, and we walked a few more steps in a heavy hush.
She suddenly blurted out, He blames me for not saving my mother, Olly The words tumbled out, and he coughed, as if choking on his own grief.
My wife died in my arms. They said it was appendicitis, then peritonitis. The young doctor messed up. Two precious days lost. I trusted him, and nothing helped.
He wiped his face with his sleeve, and I pretended not to notice his shaking fingers.
My daughter only turned up after everything was over. We havent spoken in five years. She tried contacting my granddaughter, but Jane forbade it. She loved her mother. And I I loved them both. My life ended that day.
We reached our flat. He stopped at the landing, turned to me, his face twisted in a silent torment that made my stomach knot.
Dont be shy, Milly, come in. Ill show you what Olly made, he pleaded, his eyes shining with a desperate hope.
I nodded without a word. The fear melted away, replaced by a bitter understanding of his loneliness. I followed him into the hallway, clutching the warm, glassy comb in my pocket.
He opened a heavy iron door, and a strange, still air greeted me not musty, but filled with the scent of stale time, dry herbs, old paper and a faint trace of perfume that had long faded.
Inside, the flat was frozen like a photograph. Floors polished to a shine, lace napkins immaculate on every surface. A vintage gramophone with a massive horn stood against the wall, next to a neat stack of records. Geraniums on the sills looked freshly pruned, their leaves glistening.
The most striking sight was a pink, dainty nightdress draped over a chair, as if its owner had just slipped it off. A few pearlstrewn rings and a short strand of beads lay on the vanity, beside an open powder box and a dried mascara tube.
It was a museum of memory, a shrine to a day five years past.
Paul shed his coat and hung it next to the pink dress. He shuffled to the kitchen, moving with a slow, almost ritual grace.
Sit down, Milly, Ill put the kettle on. Olly liked tea with jam. We have cherry jam, he murmured, his voice softer than a library whisper.
I perched on the edge of a chair, afraid to disturb the fragile peace. My eyes fell on a stack of envelopes tied with twine on the windowsill. I leaned in; each bore the same shaky, elderly hand: To Jane, my dear daughter. And a stamp: Return to sender recipient deceased.
He returned with a tray of two dainty teacups, a floral teapot, and a jar of jam.
The tea smelled of mint and nettle. The jam was, surprisingly, divine.
Its lovely, I said genuinely. Ive never had anything like it.
He smiled sadly, looking past me.
My mother was a jackofalltrades. She sewed, knitted, grew the garden. She made bags like this one from odd scraps. She wore it when she went to the shop, telling me not to forget it.
He fell silent, the quiet once more heavy with his unspoken sorrow. I finished the jam and, on a sudden impulse, asked, Will you teach me how to make it? My mum cant get it right.
His eyes lit up as if Id said something vital.
Of course. Its not hard.
And so he began to talk not about grief, but about life: planting potatoes with Olly, arguments over too much fabric, mushroom foraging in the woods. I listened, and the ghost of the curmudgeon faded, replaced by a plain, lonely man who had guarded love for a decade.
Leaving, I glanced again at the unopened letters. The idea that had sparked in the shop solidified into a firm resolve I couldnt leave this undone.
Ill come back for the recipe? I asked at the door.
Come back, Milly, do. Ill tell you about zucchini jam too. Its a clever thing, he replied, his eyes finally warm.
I stepped onto the stairwell, the door closing softly behind me, sealing him once more in his silent museum. I went up to my flat, and in the quiet of my room finally let out a breath.
I took 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 unlocked a door into anothers tragedy.
I sat, opened my notebook, and began to write. I couldnt pour everything into a single letter, but I started with the essentials:
Dear Jane, weve never met. My name is Milly, your neighbour. Please find the strength to read this to the end
Outside, darkness fell completely. I wrote, crossing out words, rewriting, feeling the weight of responsibility and, oddly, a quiet confidence that I was doing the only thing I could.
Three weeks passed. The letter was sent, and the silence that followed was as oppressive as Pauls flat. No call, no reply, just the same heavy hush.
I visited Paul a few more times. We shared tea and jam, and he animatedly recounted new details about his cooking. I pretended to be fascinated, afraid his eyes might see the doubt lurking in me. Each farewell left me more anxious had I ruined everything?
One afternoon, returning from university, I saw a familiar scene outside our block. The local ladies club our neighbourhoods unofficial gossip troupe were gathered, pointing at the bench where Paul usually sat. He wasnt there, but they kept chatting, oblivious to my shock.
no wonder they called him the Grump. He fought with everyone, even his own wife
I froze, my blood pounding.
Are you talking about Paul Pritchard? I asked, voice louder than I intended.
They fell silent, eyes wide with surprise.
You mean the old man? What about him? I pressed. Did you see him with his grandchildren when his wife died?
They stared, bewildered, then muttered about young people meddling in other peoples business.
I felt a strange calm settle over me, a resolve to set the record straight.
A week later, Saturday morning, I was halfasleep when a strange noise drifted up from the courtyard. Not childrens shrieks, but adult laughter. I drew the curtains.
A dark foreign car was parked by the entrance, and a tall, elegant woman in a sleek coat was speaking to someone. The building door swung open and Paul emerged, this time in just a vest, his face pale and bewildered. He stared at the woman, then at a young lady with long blonde hair who rushed to him and wrapped him in a tight hug.
Granddad! she cried.
He clutched her as if fearing shed vanish. Tears streamed down his cheeks a loud, raw sobbing unlike the muted whimpers of the stairwell. He whispered something that I could only read on his lips: Marjorie my girl look at you now
Jane stepped forward, laid a hand on his shoulder, and he released the granddaughter to embrace his daughter. The three of them stood together, a tangled knot of old pain finally loosening.
I slipped away from the window, not wanting to be seen. My heart swelled with both sorrow and joy.
I stared into the mirror. My reflection was a mess of sleepdishevelled hair, but my eyes sparkled. My ginger curls stuck out in every direction. I picked up the silver comb, its rainbow teeth still catching the morning light.
I ran it through my hair. The plastic was cool, yet each stroke sent a deep warmth spreading from my scalp, not from the comb itself but from somewhere inside, a warmth of shared happiness. It felt like the joy of someone else, now partly my own.
I smiled at my reflection.
A few days later, I watched from my window as they left the flat together Paul, looking younger, leaning on his daughters arm, and Marjorie chatting animatedly on the other side. The scene was so peaceful it seemed the fiveyear gap had simply evaporated.
I was happy for them, yet a quiet uncertainty gnawed at me. My secret meddling lingered in the back of my mind. I tried not to be seen, slipping out of the stairwell and hurrying back.
One evening, returning from a cup of tea, I found Jane and Marjorie standing at our landing, talking quietly. They turned as I entered, surprise flashing across their faces.
Mil? Jane asked softly.
I only managed a nod.
We wanted to thank you, Jane said, voice trembling. For the letter. And for everything.
Marjorie beamed, sunshinebright. If it werent for you, we might never have come back.
Jane dabbed at the corner of her eye, sighing. I was so angry, I couldnt think straight. I blamed him for everything. Then I realised wed both lost something dear.
She produced a small parcel wrapped in that same pearlflower cloth.
Its from Paul, from us, she said, handing it to me.
I opened it, and inside lay a second comb, identical to the first, with a note in Pauls firm hand: Thank you for helping us find each other. All the best, Paul, Jane and Marjorie.
I clenched the cool plastic, two identical keys that had opened one door.
That night, I sat by the window, watching the streetlights flicker on. I thought how odd it all was a chance encounter, a seemingly useless trinket, a single timely word could shift everything, break down walls of misunderstanding, and let light back in.
I tucked one comb into a little wooden box for safekeeping, a reminder that miracles often sit quietly on shelves, unnoticed but real.
I lifted the other to my hair once more. The same internal warmth spread, now a steady glow of hope hope that warmed a lonely old man, melted the ice in his familys hearts, and now warmed me too.
I looked into the dark glass, at my own reflection, and smiled. Everything felt rightAnd as I walked away, the silver comb slipped harmlessly into my pocket, a tiny promise that even the most ordinary objects can hold the power to stitch together shattered lives.
