Searching for a Silver Lining

by Miranda Dickinson

  Maybe that was the problem, she thought, as she coaxed Rusty into reluctant action along the winding lanes between darkened houses. There were so few comforting things around her to lull her to sleep. Everything in her house was new, bought in a hurry. She had left so much behind in the house she should have been living in – but all of it ceased to have meaning the moment she found out Grandpa Joe had been right all along. Strange how furniture, pictures and ornaments just became things when life took a turn. She’d grabbed only what she could carry, throwing it into black bin bags as her possessions merged together through her tears. Most of her furniture was still in storage, the little she had managed to take to the house before the split reluctantly returned to the unit by Asher.

  Her skin went cold. Asher. She didn’t want to think of him again.

  The little that had made it into her new home were sparse essentials: her jewellery box, files for work, her laptop and a box of books that had seemed important when she was moving out but she was pretty convinced she’d never read again. She didn’t even have a bookcase yet. Instead, the books formed a makeshift bedside table, the sight of their comfortingly broken spines and thumbed pages strangely reassuring. She would get around to sorting everything, of course. Just – just not yet.

  No matter what else was happening around her, Mattie loved this part of the day. The thrill of opening the door of her own shop was the same today as it had been on her very first day of trading and she never wanted to lose that sense of wonder and pride. Inside, the shop smelled of beeswax polish, chalk paint and roses, old leather and wood – a heady mix unique to Bell Be-Bop. When the day was done and she returned home, this fragrance would always linger on her clothes, a constant reminder of how lucky she was to be doing what she loved, day in, day out.

  Today, the shop was quiet – not unusual for the beginning of the week – but Mattie wished for customers to take away the silence. It was Laurie’s day off and Jack was unlikely to appear. Even Joanna had a prior engagement, so their usual lunch was postponed. Mattie looked around the shop, her to-do list frustratingly complete. Right now, she didn’t need thinking space. Her brain ached enough from going over things she would never solve.

  When the small brass bell over Bell Be-Bop’s door heralded a customer’s arrival just after midday, it was all Mattie could do not to run over and hug the incoming person. When the amused smile of the family vicar appeared, she didn’t hesitate in welcoming him.

  ‘Blimey, slow day, is it?’ he chuckled, almost knocked off his feet by the force of Mattie’s hug.

  ‘Sorry,’ she laughed, stepping back. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’

  ‘If only all my parishioners were so happy to greet me,’ he smiled. ‘Most of them think I’m after something.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘Well, that depends. Has your kettle recently boiled?’

  ‘Milk, one sugar?’

  ‘Perfect. Just don’t tell Vanessa. I’m supposed to be cutting out sugar.’

  ‘Tsk, Phil, I’m not sure I should enable your dishonesty. And you a man of the cloth.’

  ‘I know. Thankfully God knows me better than anyone.’ He glanced heavenwards. ‘And he knows I’m weak.’

  As Mattie made tea she could see Phil inspecting a display of her latest stock.

  ‘I love how you do this,’ he said, accepting a mug from Mattie.

  ‘Thanks, Phil.’

  ‘I mean it. You have such a skill for making a random group of objects evoke a period of time. Vanessa always comes back from your shop raving about your collections. It’s a good job we have a finite supply of money or I reckon she’d buy you out of stock.’

  Mattie offered the minister a seat in a 1940s display by the window. The armchairs she’d found in a flea market three years ago had finally found a home – not in the living room of what would now never be her marital home, but in prime position in her shop. She was glad that at least some of her beloved furniture was out of storage. Her heart sank again as she pictured the rest of her possessions in cardboard boxes languishing in the grey steel confines of a faceless storage unit on the outskirts of Telford. When she’d put them there she’d imagined herself and Asher unpacking them in their newly refurbished home. Now they were just gathering dust. She must make time to fit them into her new house, she resolved. Just as soon as she felt ready . . .

  ‘So, I have something for you.’ Phil’s smile had become earnest concern, immediately alerting Mattie’s defences. ‘I wasn’t sure when was a good time.’ He paused, waiting for a response. When Mattie said nothing, he stood and picked up a cardboard box he’d left on the shop counter. ‘Here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a box, Mattie.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘Fair point. Okay, here’s the thing. You know I visited Joe in the hospice – at the end?’

  Mattie nodded, the sudden mention of her grandfather stealing the air from her lungs.

  ‘In the last two weeks of his life I visited every day. He had a lot he wanted to talk about and I was only too happy to listen. And I confess, I had an ulterior motive. I wanted to get him to talk to you.’

  ‘Really? I had no idea . . .’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m telling you now. I’m sorry I couldn’t change his mind.’

  ‘Phil, don’t beat yourself up about it. He was never going to back down.’ Saying it aloud took none of the sting from the confession. And neither was I . . . Mattie kept her eyes trained on the box in Phil’s hands, not trusting her tears to stay back if she raised her gaze. ‘But thanks for trying.’

  ‘He loved you, you know. Despite everything that happened.’

  ‘He had a funny way of showing it.’ Mattie stopped herself, horrified by the bitterness her voice held. ‘I’m sorry. I know he did, deep down. He’d just made his stance and I guess any effort to change it would have looked like defeat. He hated admitting he was wrong. We were always too alike in that respect.’

  ‘I told him he was running out of time. It’s the one thing we’re trained not to say, but I think Joe needed to hear it. I told him he would regret not saying goodbye. I think he understood. On the last day I saw him, he told me to give you this.’ He patted the brown cardboard box. ‘I waited until now because – well, I thought maybe you’d had some time after the funeral and you might be ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’ She peered at the box. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he was very specific about where I would find it and that only you were to know he’d given it to you. I had to go to the house while your mum was at the hospice and find it. You see, even right at the end he was still calling the shots.’

  ‘Why did he want me to have this?’

  ‘He said you would find answers in there. About why he acted as he did. And why it mattered.’ He handed the box to Mattie. ‘He said, “This is who I was. Mattie will understand.” I don’t know if that means anything to you?’

  Shaking her head, Mattie pulled back the parcel tape sealing the box lid. It had been in place for a considerable time, judging by the way it shredded into pieces. When it was finally removed, she opened the flaps. Inside, stacked neatly like leather-bound soldiers ready for an inspection, were thirteen A6 diaries, from 1944 to 1956. Each cover was a different shade, creating a muted rainbow of dusty leather. The smell instantly took her back to Grandpa Joe’s study where she’d spent so many Sunday afternoons looking at his collection of books.

  ‘I didn’t know he kept diaries,’ she said, picking one up and feeling the weight of it in her hands. When she opened the pages her heart contracted as she saw the familiar tiny handwriting. The family joke was that Grandpa Joe’s writing was always best viewed under a microscope. In these small diaries each entry was an essay, the words meticulously crammed onto each page. It reminded Mattie of the bookshelves in the farmhouse, with every available inch of space claimed by well-stacked books. She thought of her sister and
mother now having to unpick years of Grandpa Joe’s careful constructions and didn’t envy them the task. ‘What did he tell you about them?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘I didn’t know the box contained diaries. All he said was that the contents of it represented the man he was and that you would find answers there. He wouldn’t be more specific. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t the reconciliation you deserved. But maybe you’ll find some comfort in the diaries. Maybe that will be some consolation.’

  When Phil had gone, Mattie opened the box and spread the diaries out across the Thunderbird countertop. Before her lay thirteen years of Grandpa Joe’s life represented by the faded, cracked leather books. Thirteen years of his life she knew hardly anything about.

  She had heard the stories he’d rolled out at every family lunch and gathering – idyllic, sun-soaked reminiscences of a country childhood, even wartime tales warmed by the rose-hued filter of time. In Kings Sunbury evacuees from the big cities found refuge, billeted at farms in the safe haven of the Shropshire countryside. Grandpa Joe often talked of summer fairs and boxcar races, WI jam drives and surprising plenty on farms where livestock and produce escaped rationing. But the years after the war leading to the twelve months of his apprenticeship in London in 1956 were a noticeable gap. All he had said about his teenage years was that he had been ‘content’, always returning to his childhood tales when pressed for more. Mattie couldn’t remember having asked him much about the missing years and now, as she surveyed his diaries, she wondered what secrets they might contain.

  It was strange to think of Grandpa Joe as anything other than an older man, but something Rev. Phil’s wife Vanessa had said after the funeral had stayed with Mattie: ‘Just think, your grandfather lived almost an entire lifetime before you and Joanna were born. His life was like an iceberg: two-thirds of it were lived before you came to be.’

  Mattie ran her hand across the diaries. ‘So who were you really, Joe Bell? And why do you want me to read these?’

  The first two – 1944 and 1945 – were not completed every day, the large handwriting often spilling over onto two or three pages, with childlike drawings sometimes taking the place of words. Finding stories she’d heard Grandpa Joe tell, she skipped through the entries in just over an hour, thankful that Bell Be-Bop remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

  Not long before closing time, she picked up the 1946 diary – a dusky red leather cover with the ghost of gold marking the year. Opening at a page halfway through, she began to read.

  The handwriting was noticeably older than in the previous two books, but concentration was marked in every stroke. Eleven-year-old Joseph Nathaniel Bell seemed mostly interested in beating his best friend Clive Adams at tiddlywinks and conkers. Reading on, there were tales of village gatherings for Bonfire Night, Advent and Christmas; Joe’s pride-and-joy present from Father Christmas being a handmade wooden Spitfire he was certain the man in the red suit had bought from his own father; and protracted disputes with his younger brother Eric, eleven months his junior and seemingly hell-bent on getting Joe into trouble.

  December 1946

  Mother is angry. Eric bent her best pie tin when he used it as a sledge on Primrose Bank. She sent him to bed with no supper but when he went up he said it had been my idea. Now I am hungry in my bed, too. Eric looks like the cat that got the cream. Mother is banging pots on the stove in the kitchen and I am planning my revenge. Eric should watch his back. I won’t forget this!

  Mattie found the thought of Joe Bell smarting at such injustice oddly comforting. At least he knew how it felt once. Suddenly, she wanted to share the revelation. The arrival of the diaries was too significant to keep to herself. Grandpa Joe might have insisted they remain secret, but he wasn’t here now and this was the first good thing to happen to Mattie in a long time. So, her decision was easy. As soon as she’d closed the shop, she called her sister.

  ‘Mattie! I can’t tell you how good it is to hear you! How’s everything?’

  ‘I have something I think you’d like to see, J-J. When are you free this week?’

  ‘Come for dinner this evening? Fred’s at a conference in Manchester and won’t be back till tomorrow. The kids would be over the moon to see you.’

  Mattie was only too happy to forgo another dinner-for-one to visit her sister’s picture-perfect cottage in nearby Ironbridge. She had missed seeing her nephew and niece, who clearly felt the same, as she was almost wrestled to the doorstep by two delighted bundles of laughter.

  ‘Ethan! Ava! Let your auntie breathe,’ Joanna called down the Minton-tiled hallway, drying her hands on a tea towel as she strode to Mattie’s aid. ‘Sorry, darling, Fred’s mother gave them Haribo when she popped over this morning. Anything other than Percy Pigs sends them doolally. Help Auntie Mattie up, please, kids!’

  Finally released from the children’s hugs, Mattie followed the family into the large kitchen. Ethan and Ava hurried off to gather armfuls of their latest toy acquisitions to show their aunt as Joanna made tea in a kettle that looked like it had cost more than most of Mattie’s belongings combined.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Joanna smiled. ‘We’ve missed your visits. The kids have been like shaken-up pop bottles since they heard you were coming. How are you?’

  ‘Good. Better than I’ve been for a while, actually.’

  ‘So, tell me about this famous old lady you’re going to visit?’ She grinned as she filled an Emma Bridgewater teapot printed with pink and red hearts. ‘I bet she’s formidable.’

  ‘She is. You’ll have to meet her, J-J. I think her stories are going to be amazing.’

  ‘Grandpa would be over the moon.’

  ‘He would. That’s another reason I want to visit,’ Mattie admitted, blushing a little.

  ‘Because it might bring you closer to him?’

  ‘Something like that. Do you think that’s selfish?’

  ‘Not at all. It sounds like you and this lady might be good for each other. I expect she’ll love sharing her memories with you. Besides, it’s good to see you smiling,’ Joanna said, reaching out to touch her sister’s shoulder. ‘Heaven knows we both could do with more of that.’

  ‘Mu-uuum! Ava won’t give Glitter Sunset Barbie back!’ Ethan’s plaintive cry reverberated into the kitchen.

  Joanna gave a wry smile. ‘My son’s decided he loves Barbie dolls,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s like London Fashion Week in our lounge at the moment. I swear he’s going to be the next Marc Jacobs. Ava! Give your brother back his Barbie, please.’

  Ava appeared in the doorway, the garishly dressed doll clutched possessively in one hand. ‘But Mum, I need her to play Killer Pirate Queen and Ethan only wants to do stupid “Milan Catwalk”.’

  ‘Ava Bell-Jones, you have plenty of other strange creatures in your toy box that will make perfectly good Killer Pirate Queens. Give Barbie back to Ethan and play nicely.’

  With a loud tut and a bottom lip pushed so far out it practically touched the tip of her nose, the little girl stomped back into the lounge. One thing was certain, in this household Joanna most definitely ruled the roost. Mattie often marvelled at the way her sister breezed through every challenge her life presented. It was such a different life from what she’d always talked of having: travelling the world, moving to the States, not really bothered if she became a mother at all. And yet, from the moment Ethan was born, it had been as if Joanna had been made for motherhood. Fred didn’t like the idea of her working, so she’d stayed at home instead, starting a lifestyle blogging business in the evenings that was beginning to bring in money. She was an awesome mum, the kind Mattie hoped to emulate if she ever had children. Always calm, taking everything in her stride, yet never seeming to lose her identity in the endless demands of family life.

  ‘Who knew I would end up with poster kids for the Let Toys Be Toys campaign, eh?’ Joanna smiled. ‘I’ve made a lamb tagine for tea – hope that’s okay?’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. I seem to have had a lot of beef cassero
les lately.’

  ‘Neighbours still bearing gifts?’

  ‘Yep. It’s a lovely thought to bring food but I’m starting to hide when the doorbell rings.’

  ‘That’s the village for you. Generous to the point of distraction. Help me set the table, would you? We’d better act fast to prevent Barbie-geddon from escalating.’

  When the children had been bathed, read a bedtime story and tucked into bed, the Bell sisters retreated to the calm sanctuary of Joanna’s front room.

  ‘How do you do this every day?’ Mattie asked, her head beginning to throb at the temples. ‘They’re wonderful but they’re exhausting.’

  ‘You get used to it. I’m just glad they have each other – regardless of the feuds, they’re close. That’s important to me.’

  Mattie studied her sister. It seemed an odd thing for her to say. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Of course. So, what did you want to show me?’

  ‘Phil gave me a box from Grandpa Joe. These were inside.’ She pulled the stack of small diaries from her bag and spread them out across the coffee table.

  ‘His diaries?’

  ‘I didn’t know he kept them. I certainly wasn’t expecting to ever read them.’

  ‘And he left them for you?’

  Mattie nodded, watching Joanna’s expression closely. The last thing she wanted was to alienate her sister. ‘He said they would help me to understand him better.’

  ‘Do Mum and Dad know?’

  ‘Not yet. I wasn’t sure how they’d cope with that at the moment.’

  ‘I think that’s wise. Oh M . . .’

  ‘Are you all right? About this?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a shock – to see his handwriting . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t ever begrudge you these. I had him to speak to in the last months. I asked him everything I wanted to know; I had time to say goodbye. You weren’t given that. I think this is – lovely. A real chance to get back something that stupid row stole from both of you. Have you read any of them yet?’