by Eleanor Ray
“It’s an aquamarine,” said Arnold. “Emerald cut, framed by two baguette diamonds. Art Deco.” He smiled. “Your sweetheart has lovely taste. Would she like to try it on?”
“No, it’s okay,” said Amy, blushing at the old-fashioned term. “I don’t actually want the ring,” she lied. “I just like to look at it as I walk past. It’s been here for years.”
“It’s waiting for a special home,” said Arnold, and winked at them.
“Very special at that price,” said Tim. “You wouldn’t buy that unless you were going to propose.” The words hung on the air. Amy picked up the closest thing to her, a small vase, feeling strangely awkward. They’d never discussed marriage; as she was not yet twenty, it seemed an abstract and rather taboo subject.
“Do you like that?” asked Tim. He took the vase from her.
“Vintage Bohemian glass,” said Arnold. “Gorgeous iridescence to it, and only a tiny chip.”
Tim glanced at the price tag. “It’s lovely,” he agreed.
“It is,” said Amy, barely noticing it. In her mind she was picturing their wedding, and it made her feel vaguely guilty. She glanced at her watch. “We’d better get going. We’ll be late.”
“I’ll get the vase for your grandma,” said Tim.
“She said not to get her anything.”
“No one ever means that,” replied Tim. “Does she like vases?”
“I suppose,” said Amy.
“Can you wrap it?” he asked Arnold.
“Merry Christmas,” said Arnold, flamboyantly shaking out a bright-red piece of tissue paper and dexterously wrapping it around the vase.
They both returned the greeting. Tim took the package, and Amy shepherded him from the shop.
* * *
“YOU WERE RIGHT,” said Tim, shuffling uncomfortably on the floral sofa before reaching back to remove an unfortunate china doll he’d been sitting on. “Your grandma does have a lot of stuff.”
Amy looked around the room. School photos capturing various awkward stages in her childhood lined the mantelpiece, coupled with Plasticine figurines she’d created at primary school. A teddy bear that had belonged to her father before her sat with them on the sofa, and her A level art projects occupied most of the wall space.
“It’s nice,” said Amy. “My parents didn’t save anything from when I was younger. They gave it all away for the needy.”
“This house is like a shrine to Amy,” said Tim, leaning over and giving her a little kiss.
“I think it might be a shrine to you too soon,” said Amy, gesturing to where the vase sat, pride of place, next to a rather humble attempt at a parrot the young Amy had crafted from macaroni, glue, and a liberal sprinkling of glitter. “She loves that vase.”
“I’m glad I got it for her,” said Tim, “after all the trouble she’s going to.”
Amy’s grandmother had shooed them from the kitchen while she finished with the turkey, insisting they sit and rest. Two of her grandmother’s best china teacups sat in front of them, the sweet tea gradually cooling.
“She loves Christmas,” said Amy. “But my parents never come. They always volunteer for extra shifts at the hospital—plenty of people get sick in the holidays too, they say.” It wasn’t much of a loss: her dad didn’t like turkey, and her mum always asked for a donation to Amnesty International instead of a present. Amy preferred just being with her grandmother. Her parents were good people, ridiculously good people. And yes, they loved her. But they loved everyone else too. She always had the feeling that when they were with her, they would rather be somewhere else. Somewhere they could be helping people on a grander scale than just their daughter.
“Did I tell you Dad invited me to spend Christmas with him and Roberta?” asked Tim all of a sudden.
“Maybe you should meet her?” ventured Amy. “They are getting married.”
“I don’t want to. Dad might think he can replace Mum, but…” He stopped and bit his lip. “I can’t spend Christmas with them,” said Tim finally, “with someone else sitting where Mum should be.”
“Let’s go in the garden,” said Amy, keen to keep Tim cheerful. “We can see if there are any flowers we can pick to go in your vase. And there’s something else I want to show you.”
It was cold outside, and the muddy grass felt soft and squidgy under their feet. The garden was scant compared to how Amy knew it from the spring, but still some flowers braved the cold. “Winter honeysuckle!” she exclaimed, and proceeded to cut a couple of stems of the sweetly scented flowers from the bush that grew up around the shed. She hesitated for a moment, her hand on the shed door. “Would you like to see inside?”
“I’m not that into lawn mowers,” said Tim, stamping his feet to keep warm. “Let’s get back inside.”
“It’s not just a shed,” said Amy, suddenly feeling unsure of herself. “My gran cleared it out. It’s where I paint, when I come here. There’s something for you in there.”
“A present?” asked Tim. “What are we waiting for?”
Amy fished a key from her pocket and opened the padlock on the door. “It’s not much.…” she said, switching on the light. She was hit by the smells she loved. Oil paint, turps, and the gorgeous scent of pine that emanated from the wooden walls. “Just a project I was working on last time I was here, but wasn’t ready to share.…”
“Amy!” Tim stood motionless in front of a large canvas. “I knew you were talented, but…”
Amy looked at the painting. She’d always loved colors and had often been inspired by the sky, but in the past she’d always felt compelled to limit the sky to the background, the top of a more figurative scene of houses, trees, people.
But in this painting she’d let herself go. Giant swaths of vibrant oils traveled confidently across the canvas. Purples and oranges and reds, the paint so thick that sometimes it cast a shadow of its own. In the bottom corner, the purple so dark it was almost black, she’d woven in a coiled guitar string—one of Tim’s, which she’d saved when it snapped at a rehearsal. Above it was a piercing blast of yellow, brighter than a field of sunflowers.
Tim’s eyes didn’t leave the painting, but his hand found her own.
“I hear the song when I look at this,” he whispered. “But more beautifully than I’ve ever played it.”
Amy squeezed his hand. “I didn’t know if I’d managed it. I didn’t know if you’d understand.…”
“Of course I do. It’s love and hurt and regret…”
“And hope,” said Amy.
“Yes,” replied Tim. “And hope.”
“Merry Christmas,” said Amy.
“Merry Christmas, Amy Ashton,” replied Tim. He took his eyes from the painting and directed them towards Amy. “And thank you.”
Chapter Four
Great fields of yellow stretched out, bright even through the train’s dirty window. Rapeseed wasn’t as dramatic as the fields of sunflowers that she remembered from her school trip to France, but it had a magic of its own. And it reminded her of home. Amy shuddered. It was a long time since Amy had been home.
She wasn’t actually going home. Now that the weekend had finally arrived, she was going to the old town center. To the shop where the ring was from.
Amy reached for the ring, now dangling from a silver chain around her neck. She kept it under her shirt. She preferred to wear it on her finger only in private.
So now the ring sat with her, a cold circle near her heart.
The train pulled into her station. Amy sat still, unable to move. An elderly woman made her way to the door, pushed the button, and stepped onto the platform. Amy closed her eyes for a moment, unsure what to do. She felt the ring against her chest, and after a moment jumped up and ran for the door. She bumped into a woman carrying heavy shopping, apologized, and then stepped out. The doors slid shut behind her.
She was here.
The platform felt different. The signs were new, the typeface unfamiliar. There were digital posters now, replacing t
he old paper ones. They advertised blackberry gin and elderflower tonic. Outside the station, everything looked more familiar: cobbled streets, a small river. Even the swans looked the same, gliding along gracefully as if fully aware of their beauty. She’d loved this area when she was younger, and had longed to live here instead of the modern little development her parents had chosen.
Amy felt a flutter of excitement as she approached the shop. It was still there. The same white sign with black lettering declaring the shop to be ARNOLD’S. The same jangle of a bell as she pushed the door open. Even the same elk’s head, mounted on the wall. Still waiting for a final resting place.
“Can I help you?” Amy turned. A young man wearing glasses and a nervous smile looked at her.
“I’m just browsing,” she said, casually picking up a china ornament. If the ring had sold recently, this man might remember it. She’d just have a little wander round first. Then she realized what she was holding and gasped.
It was a china sparrow: a plain enough bird, but its feathers were exquisitely rendered. She could almost feel their texture. The shades of brown were rich and deep, like a chocolate cake laced with caramel cream. And its eyes. Alert and inquisitive. Friendly. And fearful.
Amy had to have it.
She handed it to the man without even asking the price. He nodded at her choice as if he approved. Amy felt her excitement mounting as she perused the shelves. They were laden with treasures. She found an owl made from tiny shells, each one in the perfect place to replicate its feathers. There was a beautiful china cup, shaped to look like a bulbous purple tulip. Amy felt her lips tingle at the thought of drinking from it. There was even a glazed ashtray in the shape of a lemon, so perfect that Amy couldn’t help but bite her lip. She presented each item to the man, with strict instructions to guard her would-be purchases at the till. Although she was the only customer in the shop, she couldn’t risk someone else gazumping her. The mere thought of losing one of these treasures made her feel sick.
Adding a silver cigarette lighter, a handheld vanity mirror, and a heavy carriage clock to her haul, she beamed at the shopkeeper. “You have so many beautiful things in your shop,” she said, feeling friendly. “I could buy it all.”
“You’ve got a fair bit of it,” he said.
“I have something else too,” she said. “Something to show you.” Amy put her hand to the ring at her throat, then lifted her arms to fiddle with the clasp of the chain. She removed it and slid the ring off, bringing it to the man’s attention. “This came from your shop. I was hoping that you might remember selling it?”
The man frowned at the ring. Amy felt a small wrench in her heart as he took it from her, and she already longed to be holding it again. “It’s lovely,” he said. Amy nodded. She knew that. “But before my time.”
Amy felt her heart sink. “When is your time?”
“I took the place over four years ago,” he told her.
So Tim hadn’t been to the shop in the last four years. Disappointment welled up inside of her. Amy grabbed a small china vase, the action feeling vaguely familiar. She looked at the vase. It was white with a blue Greek meander pattern winding round the neck. She added it to her pile for purchase and felt a little better. The ring was still more of him than she’d had for a long time. And it could still help her.
“Do you keep sales records from earlier?” she pushed. “Could you find out who bought it?”
“It wasn’t you?”
Amy paused, not wanting to share too much. “It was a gift,” she said. “But it got lost for a long time, so I don’t know who it’s from.”
“Too many admirers?” the man said with a laugh. Amy frowned, unsure if he was making fun of her. “Sorry,” he continued, seeing her expression. “We keep sales records now, but they don’t date back to before my time.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t sold more recently?” Amy held her breath, willing the man to sound uncertain.
“We stopped selling jewelry when I took over,” he said definitively, handing her back the ring. Amy threaded it through the chain and fastened it around her neck as the man began carefully wrapping Amy’s selections in tissue paper. “Never sold much of the stuff anyway,” he continued. “We don’t have a proper security system here, and a few bits went missing. Installing CCTV was too expensive. So I stopped stocking it.” He paused to admire the shell owl. “Arnold picked this for the shop, maybe fifteen years ago. He’ll be pleased it’s found a good home.” He paused and looked at Amy. “I don’t suppose you want a stuffed elk head?”
Amy blinked, thinking of the name over the door and the old man she had met. “Arnold? Could I talk to him?” Perhaps he would remember.
“He’s gone, I’m afraid,” said the man.
“Dead?” asked Amy. “I’m sorry.”
“No chance, tough old beggar.” He chuckled. “He’s ninety-five now. Doesn’t look a day over eighty. He’s retired, handed the business over to me. I’m his grandson.” The man smiled, looking proud of his lineage. “He still likes to keep tabs on what I’m selling though. I think he’s worried I’m going to turn the place into a trendy gift shop. As if.” He looked around his musty empire. Amy could sense a kindred spirit.
“I wonder if I could visit him?” asked Amy.
The man smiled back at her. “He’d always like to see a good customer,” he said. “He’ll probably try to sell you something though. You can take the man out of the shop…” He winked at Amy. She decided that perhaps he wasn’t a kindred spirit after all.
She would never wink.
* * *
“I WAS JUST about to give up on you.” Amy looked in surprise at the man standing in her front garden as she arrived home, clutching her bag of purchases. He’d articulated a thought she’d had so many times. “I thought maybe you didn’t get the letter.”
“The letter?” asked Amy.
“Don’t tell me the letter didn’t come through,” he said. “The office is usually pretty good, but every now and then. Never mind. I’m here. You’re here. Shall we get it done anyway?”
“I’m sorry,” began Amy. “I don’t—”
“Of course not,” said the man. “You didn’t get the letter.” He held out his hand, and after a moment’s confusion Amy took it and found her own hand engulfed in a vigorous handshake. “I’m Bob,” he said. Then he inexplicably laughed. “The kids love it, but I was Bob the builder before there were any cartoons or that catchy little song.” Amy looked at him blankly. “Anyway,” he continued. “I’m from Partners in Weysham. We look after the council’s freehold properties. You own the leasehold, correct?” He glanced down at a clipboard. “Miss Amy Ashton?”
“Yes,” said Amy, feeling overwhelmed.
“Great,” he said. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve come about the chimney. I might not look like Dick Van Dyke, but here I am.”
“The chimney?” enquired Amy.
“You must have noticed the stack is loose. I can see a piece of it in your garden over there.” He gestured, and Amy saw what she now realized was a stray piece of tile. That was good: she’d thought it must have chipped off one of the pots.
“You need to get on the roof?” Amy asked, feeling dread creep up inside her. “My pots, I don’t think it would be safe—”
“No worries,” said Bob cheerfully. “I can look from the inside. If the stacks come loose, I’ll need to check the whole thing. You can’t be too careful with chimneys.”
“Inside?” repeated Amy.
“Yes,” said Bob. “And a nice cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.” He winked at her, and Amy wondered when everyone had starting winking all the time. “I could grow a handle and spout. Love the stuff.” He stood to one side to let Amy pass to the door. She stayed put.
“You can’t come in,” she said.
“Fair enough,” said Bob, looking a little miffed. “Since you didn’t get the letter.” He turned to another page in his clipboard. “When suits?”
“
Never suits,” said Amy. “You can’t come into my house.”
Bob looked at her. “I have the relevant identification,” he said with a sigh, rummaging through his bag.
“It’s not that. You can’t come in.” Amy thought for a moment. What did people say? “The place is a bit of a mess,” she said, finding a phrase she’d heard.
Bob laughed. “No worries, you should see the way the kiddies leave our place. Like a bomb went off. I’ve seen it all before, don’t you worry.”
“Thank you very much for your time,” said Amy. “But I’m happy with my chimney. Just tick it off your list.”
“It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid,” said Bob, his voice hardening a little. “This has been called in by a concerned neighbor. Bits of the stack are falling—it’s a hazard.”
“Which neighbor?” asked Amy. Rachel sticking her nose in again.
“A concerned and anonymous one,” said Bob. “Listen, it won’t take me long to check it out. I won’t look at the mess, I promise. But I need to make sure it’s structurally sound. We’ve got a duty of care.” He sniffed at the official-sounding words, then smiled again. “We can’t have your house falling down now, can we?”
“Falling down?” echoed Amy.
“Worst case,” said Bob with a friendly laugh. “But even best case, you’ve got pieces of chimney loose up there. It’s not safe. If it’s falling here, it will be in the back too. What if one of the kiddies from next door was in your garden and got hit by something?”
“The next-door children are not allowed in my garden,” said Amy.
Bob referred back to the clipboard. “There’s a note on that too,” he said. “Falling pots?”
So that was what all this was about. “No one but me will be in that garden,” said Amy. “And I’ll take my chances.”
“Twenty minutes for me to take a quick look, and I’ll skip the tea.”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” said Amy stiffly. “It is my house and you can’t come in.” She looked at him again. “And I’d like you to leave my garden please. It is private property.”
