Searching for a Silver Lining

by Miranda Dickinson

  Laurie pulled a comradely grimace and placed a hand on Mattie’s arm. ‘Well, it’s over. The actual goodbye bit. Things’ll get easier, I know they will. And how’s the new place?’

  ‘Still feels like I’m squatting in somebody else’s house.’

  ‘That’ll get better too.’ Laurie’s smile was firm. ‘Besides, nobody said it was a permanent solution.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Mattie remembered the sudden, unexpected move and the surprise on the estate agent’s face when she’d agreed to rent her new home without even wanting to see it. It was impossible to think of that – and the reason she’d abandoned her former home so quickly – without thinking of Grandpa Joe. He’d been right all along, hadn’t he? And she would never get the chance to tell him. Swallowing hard, she busied herself with a new till roll, keen for the well-meaning interrogation to end.

  ‘It will. You couldn’t have known . . .’

  But I should have. Grandpa Joe knew.

  ‘And I see you’re wearing it again.’ Laurie nodded at the gleaming silver tiepin tucked into the collar of Mattie’s vintage dress. ‘I’m glad.’

  Grandpa Joe had given her the tiepin on the day she’d opened the shop. Made from a silver sixpence mounted on a candy-twist silver pin, it had been a twenty-first birthday gift to him from a former school friend who was training as an apprentice jeweller in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter in the 1950s. Mattie had seen Grandpa Joe wear it proudly at every occasion requiring smart dress, and remembered him polishing it religiously with a silver jeweller’s cloth every Sunday morning before church. Since his death it had remained, wrapped in a black velvet pouch, at the bottom of the dancing ballerina jewellery box she’d kept from childhood. Until this morning. Laurie had asked her about it a week ago and challenged her to wear it again, ‘To bring him back to you.’ Why this morning she had felt differently, Mattie couldn’t say; only that today she had run out of excuses not to wear it. Now, it gleamed as brightly as it ever had and brought with it the smallest glint of hope.

  ‘It felt the right thing to do. You were right, Laurie.’ Not wanting to engage further in a conversation that could quickly overwhelm her, Mattie changed tack. ‘You can take your lunch if you like.’

  If Laurie knew she was being dismissed she didn’t let on. ‘I will, if you don’t mind? I have a couple of errands to run in the village.’

  ‘No problem. I’m sure Percy and I will be fine.’

  ‘You know,’ Laurie lowered her voice, ‘our Perce is a bit of a catch, if you fancied an older man for a change. He’s a silver fox.’

  Mattie loved Laurie for even mentioning it – even if Percy wasn’t exactly her type. While her friends still hadn’t broached the subject of Mattie’s love life, Laurie Murdock was not a woman to keep her thoughts to herself. A divorcee in her late forties, she had long since abandoned concern for what others might think of her and was embracing her freedom of expression in more ways than one: most recently becoming a devotee of yoga and meditation. Truth, she always said, was the best gift anyone could give or receive; there was no point holding back if someone needed to hear it.

  ‘I think I’ll pass. But, you know, if you fancy your chances . . .’

  ‘I might, you know. I’ve always been one for the older man. Oh, I almost forgot, a woman came in yesterday when you were at the –’ she avoided saying the word funeral, her blush making Mattie feel a fresh wave of affection for her employee. ‘Anyway, she left a message – somewhere . . .’

  She rifled through the unkempt pile of leaflets, letters and sticky notes across the desk and Mattie made a mental note for the umpteenth time that week to have a clearout.

  With a shout of triumph that made Percy turn in alarm, Laurie handed Mattie a yellow sticky note.

  Gaynor Fairchild, centre manager from Beauvale Sheltered Housing.

  Please call regarding an opportunity that may be of interest – 01562 . . .

  ‘Did she say what the opportunity was?’ Mattie asked, immediately wary.

  ‘Nope. But she was crazily excited about the shop being here,’ Laurie replied, heading towards the door as she struggled into her coat. ‘Give her a call.’

  Mattie glanced over at Percy, who seemed more than content settled on a folding metal chair by the box of records, and picked up the phone. Wasting time wondering what this stranger wanted wouldn’t do her any good. Better to nip whatever it was in the bud right away.

  A dour-voiced receptionist put her on hold for a full two minutes of dodgy lift-muzak before the sing-song voice of Gaynor Fairchild answered.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you called! I was hoping you would. Look, we’re in the middle of a crisis here at the mo – any chance you could pop by this evening after you close? I’ll be here till eight o’clock tonight.’

  Mattie barely had a chance to reply before the call was swiftly culled, leaving her staring bemused at the buzzing red Bakelite phone receiver in her hand.

  ‘Interesting call?’ Percy ventured, approaching with an armful of records.

  Mattie wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Beauvale Sheltered Housing was situated on the far west of Kings Sunbury, its white-picket-fenced boundary marking the end of the houses and the beginning of the rolling Staffordshire countryside. Once a large farm, the main house and outbuildings had been converted to warden-assisted retirement dwellings in the late 1990s, the single-storey apartments nestled around a pretty courtyard with beautifully maintained communal gardens beyond. Parking her beloved red VW camper van on the wide gravel sweep of the visitors’ car park, Mattie smiled as she considered what Grandpa Joe would make of her being here. Before their communication ceased it had long been a family joke that Grandpa Joe was the only person in England who didn’t want to retire to Beauvale. The Times had listed it as one of the ‘Top 10 Retirement Villages’ in an article a few years ago; since then, the waiting list for one of its coveted converted stone croft apartments had become the stuff of local legend.

  It turned out that the receptionist on duty was as grumpy in the flesh as her voice had suggested on the call earlier. She peered dismissively over reading glasses teetering on the end of her beak-like nose as Mattie explained she was there for a meeting with the centre manager. It felt a little like being judged by a disgruntled buzzard and Mattie had to bite her lip hard to keep her laughter at bay. She liked this place already and the urge to laugh was welcome after the pain of yesterday.

  ‘Through the double doors,’ Bird Woman snapped. ‘First door on the left.’

  Hurrying away from her avian-like disdain, Mattie ignored the nerves balled up in her chest as she knocked on a door bearing her caller’s name.

  ‘Come!’ a bright voice chirped.

  From a vulture to a blue tit, Mattie thought, opening the door.

  Gaynor Fairchild was a woman entangled in a 1970s fashion love affair and Mattie liked her immediately. While the decade wasn’t her speciality, she appreciated the passion of people who looked to the past for their inspiration. Gaynor had it all: brown and orange crocheted waistcoat over a flowing, gypsy-style blouse, low-slung bell-bottomed jeans, their flares made wider by hand-sewn triangles of darker denim, two rows of long wooden beads at her neck and the kind of perm Mattie had only seen in photographs of her mother at college in her teens. Gaynor’s only concession to the current decade was a pair of bright orange Converse sneakers, which seemed deliciously at odds with the rest of her clothing.

  ‘Miss Bell, I’m delighted you could come. Oh, and I see you’re a lady after my own heart,’ she gushed, practically skipping a circle around her as she took in Mattie’s vintage Fifties rose-print dress. Today Mattie had styled her hair in an Audrey Hepburn-esque side ponytail and was wearing the bright red lipstick Laurie had bought her from a vintage fair last month. ‘You’re so authentic!’

  Mattie smiled her thanks, omitting to tell Gaynor that this was what she wore for work, not her everyday clothing. Outside of shop hours s
he was more comfortable in jeans, but she’d discovered customers responded better when you were dressed in period clothes – it added to the vintage feeling when they stepped over the threshold of Bell Be-Bop.

  ‘My brother calls me Barbara Good – you know, like Felicity Kendal’s character from The Good Life? He thinks I’m stuck in a Seventies time warp. So I tell him, he should thank his lucky stars he doesn’t have a Margot Leadbetter instead!’ Gaynor chuckled at her own joke and seemed so pleased with herself for making it that Mattie wondered if she should have laughed, too. ‘But anyway, where are my manners? I’m sorry, Miss Bell. Please take a seat. Would you like some coffee? Tea? I have a lovely bit of Moroccan mint tea if you fancy it. I know, I know, I’m such a cliché!’

  Mattie sank into a low, linen-covered armchair, already feeling exhausted by Gaynor’s whirlwind welcome. ‘Regular tea would be great, thanks. I can’t stay long . . .’

  ‘Of course, absolutely. You must be dead on your feet after working in your shop all day. I tell you, I thank heaven every day that most of my job entails me sitting down.’ She picked up the receiver of her desk phone. ‘Eileen, would you be a dear and bring us a regular tea and one of my Moroccan mints, please? Yes, the one that smells funny . . .’ She pulled a face at Mattie as she ended the call. ‘Our receptionist thinks I’m on some strange waccy baccy or something. She doesn’t trust me. You know, I swear she goes through my desk drawers when I’m away from the office.’

  Mattie suppressed a grin. Despite only just having met Bird Woman, she could already picture her prowling Gaynor’s office after dark, her suspicions of the middle-aged hippy running riot. ‘So, how can I help you?’

  ‘As part of my remit here at Beauvale I bring in visitors to assist our residents in many ways – befriending, practical services like hairdressing, massage and chiropody, entertainment for our Wednesday afternoon social club, and so on. But I went on a training retreat at the start of the year and learned about an initiative some of my colleagues across the country are developing. It’s called a “Memory Day”. Have you heard of that?’

  Mattie shook her head. ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘It’s quite a new thing, by all accounts. But I’m very keen to try it. Many of our residents, as you are probably aware, are coping with the onset of dementia, Alzheimer’s, or post-traumatic stress following the loss of their partner. We do a lot of physical activities here at Beauvale but I also want to develop a programme that will help keep their minds active.’ She paused as if expecting Mattie to comment.

  Mattie smiled back, hoping it would encourage Gaynor to continue. An awkward stretch of silence followed. Keen to end it, Mattie spoke. ‘Sounds – interesting . . .’

  ‘Oh it is! Fascinating, I’d say. Memory Days bring residents back in touch with items from their lives, which can then help them to reconnect with the present. My colleagues at other retirement villages have used photographs, old cine film, music and clothing before, with some impressive results . . .’

  She was interrupted by a thundering knock on the door and Eileen bustled into the office with tea, her disdain now an outright snarl. Mattie thanked Bird Woman when a steaming, Beauvale-branded mug was thrust a little too forcefully at her, but Eileen didn’t smile back.

  When she had gone, Gaynor grinned at Mattie. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a lovely idea. But what would you want from me?’

  ‘Well you, for a start. I was thinking you might bring some items from your shop – on loan, of course, and Beauvale will cover any breakages – and perhaps do a small talk for the residents? Maybe twenty minutes or so, with a chance for them to touch and discuss the objects you bring afterwards? We would pay for your time and I daresay you might gain a wave of new customers from the event.’

  While sharing vintage items from her shop was no problem, the thought of standing up in front of a room of pensioners to speak petrified Mattie. She had never been one to aim for the limelight, unlike her cousin Jack, who could command a room wherever he went. ‘I’m happy to bring things, but I really don’t think I could talk . . .’

  ‘Nonsense, you’d be wonderful, Miss Bell!’

  ‘Mattie, please.’

  Gaynor reached across and grasped Mattie’s hand, a motherly gesture more touching than inappropriate. ‘Just tell them about your shop. And why you love the period so much. Remember that for many of the residents the 1950s were their teenage years. A special time. They won’t be listening to you, not really. The moment they see your beautiful outfit and realise you run a vintage shop, their memories will come flooding back. So. What do you say?’

  ‘So, what did you say?’ Laurie asked between mouthfuls of what Mattie suspected was Friday-night Chinese takeaway, given her assistant’s love of routine. ‘Rufus! Down! Forgive me, Mattie, I’m just wrestling a chocolate lab for the last of my spring rolls.’

  Mattie smiled against her mobile phone in the darkness of the country lane where she had parked after her visit to Beauvale. She’d bought fish and chips from Captain Nemo’s, Kings Sunbury’s imaginatively named chip shop, and was watching the heat from her meal slowly steam up the camper van windows. After she’d finished, she would reluctantly return to the bland rented semi on the far side of the village that still didn’t feel like home. But not yet. For now, a takeaway meal in the familiar surroundings of Rusty the van was far preferable.

  ‘I said I’d do it. You can come too, if you like.’

  ‘But what about the shop?’

  ‘It’s on a Sunday, so it won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Hmm, I’m not sure I – Rufus! Ooh, I swear this dog’ll be the death of me . . . Oh Mattie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, I know.’

  Would people ever stop tiptoeing around the subject? Since Mattie had lost Grandpa Joe she had found the hesitancy and embarrassment of other people trying to avoid the ‘D’ word almost worse than the grief framing the edges of each day. People meant well – of course they did. But their carefulness only served to make her feel even more isolated than losing Grandpa Joe and the upheaval of recent weeks had done. She could almost hear the whispered conversations behind her back as she carried on with her life as best she could: Did you hear she lost her grandfather? And after what happened with that lad, too. I hear Joe Bell wasn’t even talking to her before he died . . .

  More than anything, Mattie longed for a return to normality. To be able to laugh at jokes with her friends in the pub, Kings Sunbury’s coffee shops, or in the street; to talk about the weather, whatever was on TV last night or gossip about the latest news in the village – without this awful, ever-present seriousness hanging over everyone she met. They didn’t know what to say. And Mattie couldn’t blame them. If the roles were reversed, maybe she would be tongue-tied and overly respectful, too.

  People in Kings Sunbury were kind and thoughtful, only too ready to offer words of comfort and ‘I-baked-too-many’ cakes and bread. In the first week following news of her loss, Mattie lost count of the number of casseroles brought to her temporary home – more than her small freezer could cope with and certainly more than she’d ever eat. She’d taken to keeping a pack of parcel labels and a Sharpie next to the door so she could make sure each newly delivered dish was returned to its rightful owner. But their gifts and platitudes, while kindly meant, reminded Mattie over and over again of what she had lost.

  ‘When are you doing the Memory Day?’

  Mattie rubbed a rogue tear from her cheek. ‘A week on Sunday. We’ll put together a selection of things from the shop and I’ll take the British rock ’n’ roll songs CD to play while the old people look at the stuff. Bit of Tommy Steele, Michael Holliday, Adam Faith and Alma Cogan will make a lovely atmosphere. I think it could be fun.’

  ‘I love that CD. It’s a wonder we haven’t worn it out playing it so much at the shop. Do you have to make a speech?’

  ‘I’m going to try my hardest to get out of it.’

&n
bsp; ‘Why? I think this could be good for you,’ Laurie blurted out, the sudden note of seriousness causing Mattie’s heart to sink. ‘Get out there. Talk about Grandpa Joe – his influence, I mean, not . . . you know.’

  She was right, of course. It would be impossible to talk about Bell Be-Bop without mentioning the reason she’d fallen in love with the Fifties in the first place. Everything in the shop related to stories Grandpa Joe had told his granddaughter, long before the rift that tore them apart for good. One of Mattie’s biggest regrets was that her grandfather couldn’t see how well the business was doing now. At the time they’d stopped speaking, Mattie had been seriously considering giving up the premises and moving the business entirely online. But the fact was, everything about the little shop overlooking the village green in Kings Sunbury reminded her of Grandpa Joe. The first records she’d sold there had been from the huge box he’d given her when she was sixteen; the book titles she remembered from the dusty shelves in his study; the radios, telephones and crockery mirroring the ones he’d point out to her in the bric-a-brac shops of Bridgnorth, Ironbridge and Ludlow. I had one of those in my first house . . . Oh, I remember that like it was yesterday . . .

  It wouldn’t just be the residents entertaining dearly held memories when they touched Bell Be-Bop stock at the Beauvale Memory Day. It would be a chance for Mattie to be close to Grandpa Joe again – one step closer to fulfilling her graveside promise to him.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Getting to Know You’– Bing Crosby & Victor Young and His Orchestra

  Rusty groaned to a halt in the retirement village’s car park on the day of the Memory Day and Mattie took a breath to steady her nerves.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Laurie asked, ducking down to tidy the victory roll in her hair using the reflection in the wing mirror.

  ‘Okay, I think.’

  ‘Well you’re doing better than me. My heart’s going ten to the dozen and I don’t even have to make a speech.’