The old curmudgeon handed me a comb, and what followed turned my whole life upsidedown. It lay on a shelf in the farback corner of Mr. Hargreaves shop on the high street of Whitby, as if waiting for my hand alone. A shaft of light from the flickering fluorescent tube caught it, and it glittered with a cold, silvery sheen. I stopped dead, rooted to the spot. It was only a comb, yet unlike any I had ever seen: a smooth, mattemetal handle, the teeth not merely teeth but tiny prisms that shifted through every colour of the rainbow, as if cut from ice that held the sun inside.
I reached for it, but my fingers froze a centimetre away. Inside me something tightened with conflict. Why? a stern inner voice demanded. You have a perfectly good, ordinary comb at home. This is a waste of money, a foolishness. I sighed, pulled my hand back, yet I could not look away. The object seemed alive, hypnotic. I imagined the bristles gliding through my stubborn auburn locks and a smile tugged at my lips.
Miss! A fine comb, take it! the shop assistant cried, her face brightening. She hurried to the counter. All the others have been snapped up, honestly. Only two left. Not only beautiful but also very practicalwont tangle hair, she assured me.
Im just looking, I muttered shyly, stepping back. I have my own, its fine too. I turned away from the shelf and headed for the door. A small mirror hung by the exit; a quick glance revealed a few unruly strands poking out from beneath my woolen cap. The impulse rose again.
No, I told myself firmly. I must be thrifty. Learn to refuse what isnt needed. I stepped onto the porch, the February wind biting my cheeks, snapping me out of the strange reverie. Down the slippery lane, a familiar figure shuffled slowly: Pip Whitby.
His real name was Edward Whitby, but in the neighbourhood everyone knew him by the grim nickname. An elderly man whose cold aloofness kept children at a distance, he never struck up conversation, and if anyone met his gaze, they were met with a hard, burning stare that sent passersby looking away hurriedly.
He was dressed in his usual ragged rabbit coat, a threadbare overcoat, and worn boots. The only thing that didnt match his dour image was a shoulder bag of grey cloth, its flap embroidered with an exotic motherofpearl flower, clearly sewn with love and skill.
I stared at that otherworldly bag, unable to look away. Our eyes met. In his faded blue eyes flickered a spark of some ancient, lingering irritation. I turned toward the display, pretending to examine something, my heart thudding in my throat.
Hey! You up there! a hoarse, cracked voice called from close by. I pretended not to hear. Hey! Im talking to you! the voice rose louder.
I turned slowly. Pip Whitby, creaking, was climbing the steps of the porch, staring straight at me.
Youre from our house, arent you? he asked, pushing his shaggy, grey eyebrows up with his nose. The scent of mint and old cloth clung to him. I felt my cheeks flush. I um yes, I stammered, feeling foolish.
Whats that yes thenyes or no? he pressed, his eyes flashing with a familiar angry light.
I merely nodded, bracing for a quarrel. He seemed about to lash out, but his breath grew heavy and his expression softened, the anger giving way to a strange, weary fatigue.
Help me pick a gift, then, he croaked. Youre a girl, and Mary is my girl. My granddaughter lives far away; I havent seen her in years. I need something for her. His voice dropped to a nearwhisper, and for a moment I thought I saw the flash not of malice but of animal desperation.
Perhaps you should ask Mary herself what shed like, even by telephone? I suggested cautiously. Im not sure what would please her
I cant ask, he snapped, his face hardening again. Its just as it is. Will you help? Choose something?
Then it struck me that very comb, as strange and beautiful as the embroidered bag. It would be perfect.
Fear still lingered, but something inside trembled. I even dared to brush his sleeve.
Lets go, I said quietly. I think Ive seen what you need. I led him back into the shop, feeling the rough wool of his coat under my fingertips. He walked silently, leaning on a cane I had not noticed before. We arrived again at the same counter.
Here, I pointed at the sparkling object. I think shed like this. Edward Whitby reached out slowly, as if with effort, and took the comb. He turned it in his large, deeply lined hands, looking not at the comb but through it, as if recalling some distant memory. In that instant he was not the curmudgeon but a tired, lonely old man.
There are only two left, the shopwomans voice echoed again. Good combs, they sell fast. Edward lifted his gaze to me, and something flickered in his blue eyes. The corners of his mouth quivered, a faint smile forming, like an old pirate remembering hidden treasure.
Ill take both, he said suddenly, firm. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a worn leather wallet. I wanted to protest that it was too much, but the words stuck in my throat. He counted the pound notes with the meticulous care of a man who knows the value of every penny.
The shop assistant wrapped the combs in two small paper packets. Edward placed one carefully into his exotic bag, handling it as if cradling something fragile and precious. He opened the second packet, took out the comb, and handed it to me.
Here, take it. He held it out as if it were a hot coal.
I recoiled. What? No, its for your granddaughter I could get one myself if I wanted
Take it, he pressed, his hand unmoving, his gaze stern yet oddly tender. Its a little presentfrom me, for you and for Mary. Ill try to send her a trinket, perhaps shell accept And you you helped me today. Thank you. His voice carried the same note of hopelessness hed spoken of when he talked of his granddaughter. I stood mute, the comb warm in my hand, almost alive.
We left the shop and walked in silence toward our street. I clutched the packet as if afraid it might fly away. The cold February wind brushed my face, and I wondered, Why? Why did he do this? No answer came.
The silence between us was initially tense, then slowly softened. He breathed heavily up the hill, the sound the only disturbance in the quiet lane. I stole a glance at his shoulders, usually rigid, now drooping under an invisible load.
Thank you, I finally managed, the words spilling out. Its very pretty. Ill use it. He only nodded, not meeting my eyes.
Mary will be pleased, I added cautiously.
He slowed his step, a heavy sigh escaping him, as if it rose from the depths of his old boots.
I dont know if shell be pleased, he rasped. I dont know if shell even receive it. My daughter, Jane she wont let her have 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, for not protecting her mother, Oliva They said she died of appendicitis, then peritonitis. The young doctor made a mistake Two precious days were lost. I trusted him If only I had 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 since we spoke. She tried to write, to call, but Jane forbade it. She loved her mother dearly. And I I loved them too. My life ended that day.
We reached our doorstep. He stopped, turned to me, his face twisted in a silent agony that made my own chest tighten.
Dont be shy, love, come in. Ill show you what Olivia used to sewed. All is as it was. Shall we? He looked at me with such pleading hope that I could not refuse.
I nodded, the fear vanishing, replaced by a bitter understanding of his sorrow. I followed him up the stairs, the warm glass comb still in my pocket, feeling anothers great pain mingle with my own.
He unlocked the heavy iron door, and a strange, still air greeted menot dank, but timestilled, scented with dried herbs, old paper, and a faint trace of perfume that lingered like a memory.
Inside, the flat was not merely tidy; it was frozen, like a photograph. The floors shone, lace doilies lay immaculate on every surface. A vintage gramophone with a large horn stood against one wall, a stack of records beside it. Geraniums bloomed on the windowsills, their leaves glossy as if just polished.
Most striking was a pink, floral nightdress draped over the back of a settee, as if its owner had just slipped it off. On the dressing table lay a small pile of rings and a strand of pearl. An opened powder box and a dried mascara tube completed the scene. It was a museum of memory, a shrine to a day five years past.
Edward slipped off his overcoat and hung it beside the nightdress. He moved toward the kitchen, his motions slower, almost ceremonial.
Sit, love, Ill put the tea on. Olivia loved tea with jam. We have our own cherry jam, he called softly from the kitchen, his voice hushed like in a library.
I lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, fearing to disturb the fragile harmony. My eyes fell on a small stack of envelopes tied with twine on the windowsill. I leaned in; each was addressed in his shaky, elderly hand: To Jane, my dear daughter. A stamp read: Return to sender recipient deceased. He never opened them, never read them. The silence of that cruelty struck my heart.
Here, try it, Edward returned with a tray of two delicate tea cups, a tiny teapot, and a pot of jam. I lifted a cup; the tea smelled of mint and sweet grass. The jam was indeed extraordinary.
Its delicious, I said sincerely. Ive never tasted anything like it. He smiled sadly, looking past me.
She was handy with everythingsewing, knitting, making the garden bloom. She even made bags from leftover cloth. She carried this very bag, the one with the pearl flower, he said, pointing to his shoulder bag. She told me not to forget it when I went to the shop.
He fell silent, and the quiet returned, heavy with his unspoken grief. I finished the jam, then, on a sudden impulse, asked, Edward, could you teach me how to make that jam? My mother cant get it right.
His eyes lit up, as if Id said something vital. Ill teach you, of course. Its not hard. He began to speak, not of sorrow but of life: how he and Olivia planted the garden, how she chided him when he brought too much cloth for her crafts, how they walked together in the woods for mushrooms. He talked, I listened, and the phantom of the curmudgeon dissolved, leaving a solitary, weary man who had hoarded love for decades, now unsure where to place it.
Leaving the flat, I glanced again at the stack of unopened letters. The idea that had sparked in the shop firmed into a resolute decision. I could not let it go undone.
May I come back for the recipe? I called as I reached the doorway.
Come back, love, you must, he replied, his eyes finally warm, a flicker of hope shining. Ill tell you about the zucchini jam tooit’s a trick. I stepped onto the stairwell, the door closing softly behind me, sealing him once more in his quiet museum.
Back in my own flat, I let out a breath I hadnt known I was holding. From my pocket I withdrew the comb, placing it on the table. It still sparkled with its rainbow teeth, no longer a mere pretty trinket but a key a key that had opened a door into anothers tragedy.
I sat at my desk, fetched a notebook and a pen. I could not write the whole letter at once; emotions overflowed. I began with the first line, the most important:
Dear Jane, we have never met. My name is Milly, your fathers neighbour. I beg you to find the strength to read this to the end
Outside, night fell completely. I wrote, choosing words, erasing, rewriting, feeling the weight of responsibility and, oddly, a surge of confidence that I was doing the only possible thing.
Three weeks passed. The letter was sent, and nothing returnedno call, no reply, not even a harsh text. Only a silence as heavy as Edwards flat.
I visited him often. We drank tea with jam, and he, revived, recounted new details of his recipes. I pretended great interest, fearing his eyes would read deception, fearing the secret Id sparked. Each time I left, his gaze grew less wary and more grateful, and my unease deepened. Had I ruined everything? Had my letter only hardened his daughters heart?
One afternoon, returning from the university, I saw a familiar scene by our buildings landing. The local old ladiesour neighbourhoods gossiping brigadewere chatting, gesturing toward the bench where Edward usually sat. He was absent, but they whispered unabashedly.
they called him the curmudgeon for a reason. He argued with everyone, even his own wife one said.
I froze, my blood pounding. The pain and tragedy of a man they never understood surged within me. I stepped forward.
They fell silent, staring at me with puzzled surprise.
Are you talking about Edward Whitby? I asked, my voice louder than intended in the evening hush.
One of the women, the most outspoken, replied, What of him? He never seemed a nice sort. Always quarrelling
Who did he quarrel with? You? Your grandchildren, while his wife was dying? I pressed, my voice steady. Did you hear what he endured? Do you know why he was so bitter? Their faces shifted from confusion to discomfort, then a flicker of embarrassment. They muttered about young people meddling in others affairs and drifted away.
I stood alone, breath shallow, knees trembling, yet a strange calm settled inside. I had said what needed saying.
A week later, on a Saturday, I slept restlessly. In a dream a strange noise rose from the courtyardnot childrens shouts but adult laughter. I drew back the curtains. A dark foreign car, not of our village, was parked by the entrance. A tall, slender woman in an elegant coat stood beside it, speaking softly, her face turned toward the building.
The door opened. Edward Whitby emerged, coat abandoned, wearing only a waistcoat, his face pale and bewildered. He stared at the woman, and something seemed to break inside him. He stood motionless, unable to move.
The womanJanestepped forward. She said something I could not hear. From the car a young woman with long blond hair leapt out, threw herself around the old man, hugging his neck.
Granddad! she cried. He clutched her as if fearing a mirage, his shoulders shaking. Tears streamed down his face, not the quiet, bitter ones of the courtyard, but loud, raw sobs that unleashed five years of loneliness. He whispered against her hair, his lips forming, Mary my girl how youve grown
Jane placed a hand on his shoulder, and he released his granddaughter, then embraced his daughter. The three of them stood together, a knot of grey, elegance, and youth. The dam of his sorrow burst, and life surged back.
I slipped away from the window, not wishing to be a bystander. This was their moment, their healing. A bright feeling rose in my chest.
I looked into the mirror. My reflection was tousled, sleepstained, but my eyes shone. My auburn hair still stuck out in all directions. I took the silver comb from the table, its rainbow teeth catching the morning light.
I ran it through my hair. The plastic was cool, yet each stroke sent a deep, strange warmth spreading from my scalp outward. The heat did not come from the comb itself but from within, from the heart, warming every fibre of my being. It was the warmth of anothers happiness, now partly my own. The realization that a simple objecta comb, a few words, a lettercould become a fragile bridge spanning a chasm and reuniting broken hearts filled me with quiet joy.
I smiled at my reflection.
Days passed. I watched them from my windowEdward, now steadier, leaning on his daughter’s arm; Mary strolling beside them, chatting animatedly, his eyes alight with a smile. The scene was so peaceful it seemed the five years of separation had simply evaporated.
I was happy for them, yet a lingering doubt gnawed at me. My secret interference hovered like a shadow. I feared a glance from Jane might hold accusation, so I avoided their paths, slipping out ofAnd as I placed the gleaming comb back into its little box, I finally realised that a single, humble offering can stitch together the fragments of a life once thought irreparably broken.
