The old curmudgeon handed me a comb, and what followed turned my world upsidedown.
It sat on a shelf in the farback corner of MrHargreaves corner shop, as if it had been waiting for me. A strip of fluorescent light caught it, and the metal handle flashed a cold, silvery gleam. I froze, rooted to the spot. It was only a comb, yet unlike any I had ever seen. The grip was a smooth, mattesteel bar, and the teeth werent just teeththey shimmered with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice that the sun was playing upon.
I reached out, but my fingers stopped a breath away. Inside me something clenched with contradiction. Why? a harsh inner voice demanded. You already have a fine, ordinary business comb at home. Money would be wasted. Foolishness.
I sighed and pulled my hand back, though I couldnt look away. The comb seemed alive, hypnotic. I imagined it sliding through my unruly ginger strands, and a smile tugged at my lips.
Miss! A good comb, take it! The shop assistant rushed to the counter, her grin as wide as the shop window.
Everyones bought them out, honestly. Only two left. Not only beautiful, but incredibly practicalwont tangle hair, she assured.
Im just looking, I muttered, stepping back, cheeks flushing. I have my own, its fine too.
I turned away from the shelf and made for the door. A little mirror hung by the exit; a quick glance revealed a tumble of orange curls poking out from under my hat. The foolish urge rose again.
No, I told myself firmly. I must be frugal. Learn to say no to needless things.
I stepped onto the stoop, the February wind biting my face. The cold air cleared the fog of my strange reverie. Down the slick lane trudged a familiar silhouettePeter Grimsby.
His real name was Peter Timothy Thompson, but in our neighbourhood everyone called him by the grim nickname. The old man radiated such icy aloofness that children would steer clear. He never struck up conversation; a glance at him was met with a weighty, scorching stare that sent passersby looking away hurriedly.
Today he wore his usual ragged rabbit coat, a threadbare halfcoat, and battered boots. The only thing that didnt fit his dour image was the soft leather satchel slung across his shoulderno battered rucksack, but a graceful grey cloth bag embroidered with a strange pearlescent flower, clearly sewn with love and skill.
I stared at that otherworldly beauty, unable to look away. Our eyes met. In his faded blue eyes a spark of ancient, lingering irritation flickered. I turned back to the display, pretending to examine something, my heart hammering in my throat.
Hey! You up there! a hoarse, cracked voice called from just behind me. I pretended not to hear.
Hey! Im talking to you! the voice grew louder.
I slowly turned. Peter Grimsby, creaking, was climbing the steps of the stoop, his gaze fixed on me.
Youre from this block, arent you? he asked, pushing his shaggy, grey eyebrows up with his nose. A scent of mint and old cloth wafted from him.
Heat rose to my cheeks. I uh yeah, I squeaked, feeling foolish.
Uhyeahis that a yes or a no? he pressed, his eyes flashing the familiar angry glint.
I nodded silently, bracing for a clash. Could it be that Id annoyed him? Had I looked wrong?
He drew a heavy breath, and suddenly his anger melted into a strange, exhausted weariness.
Help me choose a present then, will you? Youre a girl. And my granddaughter, Molly, is a girl too. My greatgranddaughter lives far away. I havent seen her in years. Mollyshes mine, he muttered, his voice low, almost a whisper.
In the corners of his eyes I thought I saw a flashnot of malice, but of raw, animal desperation.
Perhaps you should ask Molly what she wants? Maybe over the phone? I suggested cautiously. I just dont know what shed like
I cant ask, he snapped, his face hardening again. Its just the way it is. So, will you help? Choose something?
And then it struck methe very comb, the same uncanny, beautiful thing as that bag. It would be perfect.
Though fear still lingered, something trembled inside me. I even dared to brush his sleeve.
Lets go, I said softly. I saw something that might be right.
I led him back into the shop, feeling the rough fabric of his halfcoat under my fingertips. He walked silently, leaning on a wooden stick I hadnt noticed before. We reached the same counter once more.
Here, I pointed at the glittering object. I think this could please the girl.
Peter Thompson reached out with effort, his large, deeply lined fingers grasping the comb. He turned it over, looking not at the comb but through it, as if recalling a distant memory. In that instant he was no longer the Grimsby; he was simply a tired, lonely old man.
There are only two left, the shop assistants voice echoed again. Good combs sell fast.
His gaze softened, the corners of his mouth quivering like a pirate remembering hidden treasure.
Both of them, he declared suddenly, pulling a worn leather wallet from the inner pocket of his coat.
I opened my mouth to protest, but words stuck. He counted the notes with the meticulousness of a man who knows the value of every penny.
The shop assistant wrapped the combs in small paper bags. One she placed gently into Peters exotic satchel, handling it as if cradling something fragile. The other she handed to me.
Here, take it.
I recoiled as if hed offered a hot coal.
No, you its for your granddaughter I could get one myself if I wanted
Take it, he insisted, his stare now firm, almost stern. A little gift, from me, for you and for Molly. Ill try to send it off, see if shell accept And thank you, youve helped me today. Thank you.
His voice carried that same note of hopelessness when he spoke of Molly. I stood, speechless, taking the comb. The plastic was surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We left the shop and walked in silence toward our houses. I clutched the bag tightly, as if fearing it would slip away. In my head rang the question: Why? Why did he do it? No answer came.
The quiet between us began tense, then gradually eased. His breath came heavy on the slope, the only sound breaking the streets silence. I stole a glance at his shoulders, usually stiff and ragged, now hunched under an invisible burden.
Thank you, I finally managed, my voice thin. Its beautiful. Ill use it.
He merely nodded, not meeting my eyes.
Molly will be glad, I added cautiously.
He slowed, a sigh escaping his chest like it was rising from the depths of his old boots.
I dont know if shell be glad, he rasped. My daughter, Jane she wont give it to her. She wont want anything from me.
He fell silent, and we walked a few more steps in oppressive stillness.
She blames me, he suddenly burst out, as if a dam had cracked. For not protecting her mother, Olia She died in my arms. They said it was appendicitis, then peritonitis. The young doctor messed up. Two precious days lost. 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 trembling fingers.
My daughter only came back after everything was over. Five years have passed, no contact. Molly tried to write, to call, but Jane forbade it. She loved her mum dearly. I loved them both. My life ended that day.
We reached our front steps. He stopped, turned to me, his face twisted in a wordless ache that made my own chest clench.
Darling, dont turn away. Come inside. Ill show you where Olia kept her things. Everythings as it was. Come, will you? He looked at me with a pleading that was impossible to refuse.
I nodded, fear melting away, replaced by a bitter understanding of his longing. I followed him up the stairs, the silver comb still warm in my pocket, feeling someone elses grief settle inside me.
He opened the heavy iron door, and a stale, timeless air greeted usdry herbs, aged paper, a faint whiff of perfume that had long since faded.
The flat was frozen in time, as if a photograph. Polished floors, immaculate lace napkins on every surface, a vintage gramophone with a massive horn, rows of records beside it. Geraniums in the windowsills shone like freshly polished leaves.
On a chairs back hung a delicate pink nightdress with tiny flowers, as if its owner had just slipped it on. On a vanity sat a small pile of rings, a strand of pearls, an open powder box, and a dried mascara wand.
It was more a museum than a homea shrine to a day five years past.
Peter removed his coat and hung it beside the nightdress. He shuffled to the kitchen, his movements slower, almost ceremonial.
Sit, love, Ill put the kettle on. Olia loved tea with jam. We have our own cherry preserve, he said, his voice softening like a library hush.
I lowered myself onto a chair, wary of breaking the fragile peace. My eyes fell on a small pile of envelopes tied with twine on the windowsill. I leaned in; every envelope bore a stiff, elderly handwritten address: To Jane, my dear daughter. Each was stamped Return to sender addressee deceased. They hadnt even been opened. My heart clenched at such silent cruelty.
Peter returned with a tray of two antique tea cups, a tiny teapot, and a jar of jam.
I lifted a cup; the tea smelled of mint and wild thyme. The jam was astonishingly good.
Its exquisite, I said sincerely. Ive never tasted anything like it.
He smiled sadly, his eyes drifting. She was handy with everythingsewing, knitting, making the garden bloom. She even crafted bags from leftover cloth. This one, he nodded at his embroidered satchel, she begged me not to forget it when I went to the shop.
Silence fell again, heavy with his unspoken sorrow. I finished the jam, then, on a sudden impulse, asked,
Peter, could you teach me how to make it? My mother cant get it right.
His gaze lit up, as if Id said something vital.
Ill teach you, of course. It isnt hard.
And so he began to talknot of grief, but of life. Of planting potatoes with Olia, of her scolding him when he hoarded too much fabric for his projects, of wandering the woods for mushrooms. He spoke, I listened, and the specter of the curmudgeon dissolved, leaving a lonely old man who had guarded love for decades.
Leaving, I glanced once more at the pile of unopened letters. The impulse that had sparked in the shop hardened into a firm resolve. I had no right not to act.
May I come back for the recipe? I asked at the door.
Come back, love, you must, he replied, his eyes finally warm, not icy. Ill even tell you about the trick with zucchini jam.
I stepped onto the stairwell; the door closed behind me, sealing him once more in his silent museum. I returned to my flat, and in the quiet of my room finally exhaled.
I pulled the comb from my pocket and set it on the desk. It still glittered with rainbow teeth, no longer a mere trinket but a keyone that had opened the door to anothers tragedy.
I sat, opened a notebook, and began to write. I couldnt pour the whole letter in one go; emotions overflowed. Yet I managed the first lines:
Dear Jane, weve never met. My name is Milly, your neighbour. I beg you to read this to the end
Outside, night fell completely. I wrote, erasing and rewriting, feeling the weight of responsibility and an odd certainty that I was doing the only possible thing.
Three weeks passed. The letter was sent, and no reply cameno call, no message, just the same oppressive silence that filled Peters flat.
I visited him often. We shared tea and jam, and he animatedly recounted new details about the recipe. I pretended great interest, fearing his eyes would see deceit, fearing Id ruined his daughters trust. Each farewell left me more uneasyhad I damaged them?
One afternoon, returning from university, I saw a familiar scene in our buildings foyer. A group of nosy neighboursour local gossipswere huddled, pointing toward the bench where Peter usually sat. He was absent, but they chattered freely.
no wonder they called him Grimsby. He fought with everyone, never got along. They even say he his wife
I stood frozen, my pulse thudding. The blood surged to my head. All the pain Id glimpsed in him rose like a wave. I didnt think of consequences; I just stepped forward.
They fell silent, eyes wide in startled surprise.
You mean Peter Thompson? I asked, my voice louder than I intended in the hallways hush.
One of the older women, the most outspoken, replied, What of him? He was a nightmare, wasnt he? Always arguing, never liked anyone. Even his own wife
Who did he argue with? I pressed. You heard about his wife dying? About his granddaughter?
Their mouths opened, then closed, unsure. They muttered about young folk meddling in things they dont understand and scattered.
I stood alone, breathing hard, knees trembling. Yet inside a strange calm settled. I had said what needed to be said.
The next week passed uneventfully, until Saturday. I slept, and a strange clamor woke meadults laughing, voices rising. I pulled the curtains.
In the courtyard, next to the block, a dark foreign car was parked. Beside it stood a tall, slender woman in an elegant coat, speaking softly.
The building door opened, and Peter emergedno coat, just a vest, his face pale and bewildered. He stared at the woman, and something seemed to break inside him. He froze, unable to move.
The womanJanestepped forward, said something I couldnt hear. A young blonde girl darted from the car, wrapped her arms around the old mans neck.
Granddad! she cried.
He clutched her tightly, as if fearing she might vanish. Tears streamed down his cheeks, loud and raw, unlike the quiet sobs of the stairwell. He whispered, Molly my girl look at you
Jane placed a hand on his shoulder, and he let go of his granddaughter, then embraced his daughter. The three stood together, a knot of grey, elegance, and youth, the dam finally broken.
I slipped away from the window, not wanting to watch any longer. Their moment was theirs, their healing. A bright light seemed to rise in my chest.
In the mirror I saw myselfdisheveled, sleepstained, but eyes shining. My ginger hair stuck out in all directions. I lifted the silver comb, its rainbow teeth still catching the morning light.
I ran it through my own tangled locks. The plastic was cool, yet each stroke sent a deep, strange warmth spreading from within, not from the comb but from my heart. It was the warmth of anothers happiness, now a part of me.
I smiled at my reflection.
Days later, I watched them from my windowPeter, now steadier, leaning on his daughters arm; Molly chatting animatedly on the other side, the old man listening with a genuine grin. Five years of separation seemed to evaporate.
I rejoiced for them, though a quiet doubt gnawed at me. My meddling had been secret. I feared meeting their eyes, fearing Jane might ask why, or scold. So I slipped away, avoiding the stairs, hurrying back home.
One evening, returning from a coffee, I found Jane and Molly standing at my flats landing, whispering. They turned as I approached, surprise flashing across their faces.
My heart, Jane began, voice trembling, we wanted to thank youfor the letter, for everything.
Molly beamed, If it werent for you, we might never have come back. Mum read your letter all the way here.
Jane dabbed at a corner of her eye, sighing. I was blinded by grief. I blamed him for everything. The simplest thing was to blame him. Hed lost the most precious thing, and he was left alone.
She paused, choosing words carefully. Dad told us everything. How you helped him. How you gave him a hand when we turned away.
I felt a flush of embarrassment. I didnt do anything special, I muttered.
You did the most important thing, Jane interjected gently. You reminded me I still have a father. That his pain is no less than mine.
She produced a small parcel, wrapped in the same grey cloth with the pearlescent flower.
Its from Dad, from all of us, she said, handing it to me.Holding the second silver comb in my hand, I felt the quiet promise of new beginnings settle like a gentle breath in my heart.
