The Lost and Found Necklace

by Louisa Leaman

  “I know it’s a big deal,” he whispers, “but you’ll struggle going back to your old flat. And it’s pretty claustrophobic at your sister’s. This is the answer, right? Our own place.”

  The thought of the old flat gives Jess a twinge. Her first grown-up purchase, the deposit paid when she was still in full-time teaching, it had been her home up until last year. The third floor of a yellow-brick Victorian terrace in Leytonstone with high ceilings and cast-iron fireplaces, original tiles in the hallway, mottled but charming, so much history in those walls. But Tim is right—there’s no way she’ll be able to negotiate the three flights of steep, narrow stairs. It will never be home again. A rental income will at least cover the mortgage.

  “You’ve…you’ve totally surprised me,” she says.

  “You have your sister to thank for that. I asked her advice, and she told me to keep you on your toes.”

  “Did she now?”

  “She was just trying to help,” says Tim. “All to the good. Personally, I wasn’t sure if you’d go for this, if you were ready. I mean, sometimes you’re, you know…”

  “What?”

  “A bit…faraway. I can’t always tell what’s going on in your head. Your cues confuse me.”

  Jess frowns. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Honestly. It’s fine. I’m in. You’re in. It’s celebration time!”

  Tim goes to the pristine kitchen and starts opening a bottle of champagne. Two flutes rest expectantly on the countertop.

  “I arranged this with the woman at the property office. She suggested the champagne. Sweet, huh?”

  “Very sweet,” says Jess, accepting her glass, still absorbing the shock of it all.

  ***

  They sip their champagne on the balcony and admire the view—the urban patchwork of Stratford, East London’s hub of hipsters and young professionals; the cranes and apartment blocks and, in the distance in miniature, the pulse of the city center, its landmarks gleaming in the evening sun.

  “I’m sure you don’t want to live in a flat forever,” says Tim, taking Jess’s hand in his, “but this is a start. There’s a great little play park down there and shops, cafés, bars…everything we need. It’s ground floor, but if you want to go higher, the lifts are amazing.”

  “Can we afford it? What’s the cost?”

  “Don’t worry about that. My salary will more than cover it. And if I get the deputy headship, we’ll be sweet.”

  “But we’ll go halves, right?”

  “If you really want—”

  Yes, I want, thinks Jess, instinctively urged to keep things equal. She’s never relied on a man before, has no intention to start now. The walking aid, it’s a physical hindrance, but it doesn’t mean she has to be “looked after.” She takes a deep breath, hopes he sees it, the independence in her, the need to be free. If he sees it, and he can accept it, then they’ll be good.

  “No pressure,” he says, topping up her glass. “Take a few days to think it through, but this is me telling you that I’m buying this flat and I want you to live here with me. I love you, Jessica Taylor.”

  He pulls her toward him, kisses the top of her head. She shuts her eyes, safe in his circle, feels the warmth of his mouth, his arms enveloping her.

  “You’re a diamond,” she whispers.

  How lucky has she been? When they first met that summer evening, she was only just starting to emerge from the lowest place she’d ever been. She’d lost her job, her physical freedom, her confidence, and her hope. She’d pretty much sworn herself off men, had no faith in her ability to pick a decent one. She’d never imagined that, in less than a year, she’d be standing on the threshold of a healthy new relationship, with a man who not only said the right things but did them too.

  She looks around and reimagines the apartment filled with her own furniture, her flea market finds and timeworn trinkets. In truth, she’s never considered living in a new building before—housing in its infancy, not a trace of history in it, other than the chemical smell of the plastic film covering the fixtures. But maybe it’s up to her and Tim to embed the history? The first couple to tread its floors and flick its switches, give it life. Every home starts somewhere.

  Suddenly they are disturbed by the pip of Jess’s phone. It’s Aggie.

  “Well? Do you love it?”

  Jess can picture the grin on her sister’s face.

  “So I gather you knew about this?”

  “Obviously. I helped it happen. It’ll be ideal for you guys. You’ll only be down the road. You can come for Sunday lunch every week. That’s if you can bear the arseholes that are my children.”

  “I can always bear them,” Jess says, laughing.

  “Well, congratulations from all of us. Can’t wait for the housewarming. I’ll make mojitos.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Jess says goodbye, Tim puts his arm around her, clinks his flute against hers.

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers indeed.”

  “Jess,” he says with utter sincerity. “You make me so happy. I can see it all ahead of us, the loveliest life. Kids…maybe two, three? A dog?”

  “And cats?”

  “I can do cats. And bikes. We’ll all get bikes. A tandem for you and me, and a trailer for the juniors—”

  “Sounds perfect,” says Jess, pressing her head to Tim’s chest, drinking in the serene scent of his body.

  Then her eyes spring wide.

  “Tim,” she says, peculiarly alert, gripped by impulse. “Before all of this comes together, you need to meet my grandmother—”

  “Your grandmother…Nancy? The one with the necklace?”

  “Yes. Come with me this week. It would mean a lot to me.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday, a bright, clear day, Jess and Tim take the train to Sydenham. Tim has cleared the afternoon for interview prep, but dutifully agrees to squeeze in the requested grandmother visit. And although his attention is meshed to the conundrum of possible interview questions, the tightness with which he grips Jess’s hand makes him feel very much present.

  Nancy’s care home is a 1960s monolith on a hill. It’s the nicest they could find in the area—and Nancy was particular about the area, despite it being the other side of London. She’d insisted on being in the shadow of the Crystal Palace, even though there is little of the palace left, save for the overgrown garden colonnades and a few tired stone sphinxes.

  “Brace yourself,” says Jess, as they push through the double doors. “Her lucid moments are rare now and she’s prone to the odd sweary outburst, so don’t expect instant approval.”

  Tim grins.

  “I need her approval?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not a deal breaker. To be honest, you could be the Lord Jesus and still not get her approval. Anyhow, Aggie has most definitely given you the thumbs-up, so—”

  “I’m going in the right direction.”

  “You totally are.”

  They catch each other’s gaze, then holding hands, they smile and walk down the corridor together. After signing in at reception, they proceed to Nancy’s room. The sterility of the beige walls and rubber floor saddens Jess. It is hardly the realm of a woman who, in her sixties, moved to a plot of woodland in the wilds of Snowdonia, where she built her own log cabin, with only a little help from a local tree surgeon and some slow-witted donkeys. Now she has a list of ailments and medications and requires round-the-clock care, but…she is Nancy still. Every now and then that twinkle in her eyes resurfaces. As soon as she sees Jess, she sits up.

  “Jessy!” she croaks.

  Her skin is yellowing, showing signs of a tired liver. One by one, those hard-worked body parts are slowing down.

  “Hello, Grandma,” says Jess tenderly, kissing her cheek. “Look, I’ve
brought someone to meet you. This is Tim—”

  Nancy takes her time, scanning Tim’s features with her small, sharp eyes.

  “Hi,” says Tim, offering his hand.

  When the effort is ignored, he grins, not sure where to put himself.

  “Good news,” says Jess in an attempt to bolster the introductions. “We’re moving in together.”

  Nancy tips her head back.

  “Why do that?” she sneers.

  “Grandma—”

  “You used to be a true Taylor, Jessy. Doing your own thing, always going off to new places with your backpack. What’s happened? Lost your spirit?”

  Jess winces.

  “I’m fine. Sure, I’ve had to slow down a bit”—she waves her cane—“but I’m still me. And I haven’t lost my spirit. I’ve just…matured.”

  Jess glances at Tim, gives him an eye roll of solidarity.

  “It’s not maturing,” Nancy mutters. “It’s shrinking. Did you see those foxes have been tearing up my lawn again?”

  Always the foxes. Except Nancy hasn’t been near her lawn in a year.

  “Okay, Grandma,” says Jess, resigned. “Let’s get you comfy.”

  She fluffs Nancy’s cushions, then turns back to Tim.

  “At least she hasn’t sworn at you,” she whispers. “That’s good. Have a seat. And…sorry.”

  Tim squeaks into a plastic-coated armchair, while Jess arranges her gift of bananas and puzzle magazines, but she can see Nancy twitching, her pupils flitting from one side to another, looking…looking for the necklace.

  “Where is it, Jessy?”

  Jess sighs, shakes her head.

  “I’m sorry, Grandma. It went to someone else. I tried. I tried so hard, but there was this guy—called Guy, as it goes—and he swooped in at the end of the bidding and cinched it. I did everything I could. I even chased him down Kensington High Street, hijacked his cab, sat and pleaded with him for an hour while we waited in traffic—”

  She sees Tim flinch.

  “He must have thought I was bonkers, but, well, I kind of hoped I could win him around. I told him how much the necklace meant to you, thinking he might then have the heart to sell it on to me, but”—she pauses, sighs—“unfortunately, Grandma, he wouldn’t play ball.”

  “Bastard!”

  “He really was—”

  “Find the bastard, get it back off him.”

  Jess laughs.

  “Oh, Grandma. The moment’s passed. I was wasting my time. He was one of those…cocksure…full of himself…despite the fact that he was—”

  Jess stalls, catches a dreamlike vision of Guy’s sparkly eyes, the thrill of their chat, the verve and vitality that sizzled between them. She takes a breath, chases the memory out.

  “Anyway,” she blusters, “I won’t go there again.”

  But suddenly Nancy grips Jess’s hand, digs in her nails, and speaks with utter authority, as though it’s the clearest thought she’s had in weeks.

  “Find him,” she insists. “Get the necklace.”

  And then she is silent.

  Jess and Tim exchange glances. The wall clock ticks. Tim picks up a puzzle book, pretends to read it.

  “You didn’t tell me you got in a cab with that Guy person,” he says, a crease in his brow.

  Jess squeezes her fingertips together. How to explain? After all, it was hardly the situation she imagined she’d be in at the end of the auction.

  “I–I didn’t think it was relevant.” She shrugs. “I mean, the man nicked my bid, wasted my time, then refused to sell. That’s that. Effing annoying, but what can I do?”

  “You should be more careful, Jess, especially with your—”

  He gestures at her walking cane. Immediately she bristles.

  “Just…be more careful is all I’m saying. Getting into cabs with random strangers is foolish by anyone’s standards.”

  “Then I’m a fool,” she mutters, wishing she’d never mentioned it.

  She pulls out the latest copy of TV Weekly, tries to distract Nancy—and herself—from the sour air. TV Weekly is snubbed, so Jess then offers a sip of water, pressing the tip of the straw to Nancy’s lips. Nancy just shuts her eyes, spits it away.

  “What about a walk then, Grandma? It’s beautiful out. We could go to your favorite place, like always.”

  “Not today,” says Nancy.

  The clock ticks on. Jess sighs, twiddles her thumbs. She knew the news of the necklace’s loss would cause upset, but the intensity of Nancy’s despondence is bruising. That this art nouveau treasure should be so emotionally resonant to an eighty-two-year-old woman with a soul of steel makes it even harder. She’s always been pragmatic, never sentimental about anything, so to see her so sullen makes Jess ache with remorse. She straightens the bedsheets, then adjusts the curtains, remembering the day her grandmother left for Snowdonia. She and Aggie were still teenagers. One autumn afternoon, among packed boxes and shimmering blue IKEA bags, Nancy waved goodbye to the brick and plaster of her urban street, gave each of her granddaughters a brisk hug, then took off in her tatty red car. The decision to leave happened suddenly—that Taylor tendency to act on impulse—and was the trigger for a large quota of domestic chaos.

  “But the girls need you here,” Jess’s father, Richard, had complained, having been unhappily reliant on Nancy since their mother’s death.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Nancy had countered. “They’re all grown up now. What they need is life, not some old sack like me getting in the way.”

  In packing she’d been ruthless, throwing or giving away anything she didn’t need. She’d confided to Jess, after two pints of stout, that she had no regrets about going “minimal,” because she’d already lost two of the things most precious to her. One of those was her daughter. She never said what the other one was.

  After five minutes of silence, Tim is restless.

  “Perhaps we should let her sleep,” he suggests. “Get a coffee or something? Come back later?”

  Just then, as though a switch has been flicked, Nancy opens her eyes, sits up, pushes off her blanket, and brightens.

  “Oh yes,” she exclaims. “Could you take me out? I would dearly like a turn around the Great Shalimar—”

  “The what?” says Tim.

  “The Palace,” Jess explains, amused by her grandma’s timely change of heart. “It’s her name for the Crystal Palace. Every time I visit, that’s where she asks to go. We wheel around the concrete, read the graffiti, check out the stone sphinxes, and then she asks for a cup of tea and we come back. It’s sweet, if a little repetitive.”

  “You know the glass is really something,” says Nancy—another of her stuck-record remarks.

  “Was,” says Jess, kindly but firmly. “The palace isn’t there anymore, Grandma. It burned down in 1936. It’s just a ruin now, but we can go and take a look, can’t we?”

  She smiles and squeezes Nancy’s hand, relieved that if she can’t deliver the necklace, or an acceptable life plan, she can at least do this for her grandma, take her for a walk. Tim helps Jess fetch a wheelchair from the nurses’ station. She signs the relevant release forms, then ushers Nancy into a wool coat and sheepskin boots. Nancy giggles, her spirits no doubt buoyed by the prospect of exiting this small, plain room.

  ***

  The sun shines, dispersing the few clouds that dare to intrude on the June afternoon. Up on the hill, however, there is a breeze. Tim strides into it, while Jess follows behind, pushing Nancy’s chair. The chair helps her balance. What a pair we are, Jess thinks. Walking canes and wheels. Ten months ago, she was in a wheelchair herself, completely reliant on Aggie and Ed. The thought of this throbs, but she quashes it with a dose of gratitude. At least now she can put one foot in front of the other, albeit with some discomfort.

  And she has Tim. She sees him
ahead and feels at ease, warmed by the prospect of their Stratford home, the idea that they will soon be nesting together, cooking breakfast on Sundays, snuggling on the sofa with takeout and Netflix. Tim is glued to his phone, searching for facts about the Crystal Palace. She loves how he relishes encyclopedic detail—an inquiring mind, always interested in understanding how the world really is rather than accepting it at face value.

  But still, Nancy’s scolding critique pesters her conscience: Lost your spirit?

  A year ago she’d had plenty, and look where it got her. There were days when it seemed like she’d never walk again, never be independent. There were also days—many—when she feared she’d never be able to trust another human. So whatever Nancy’s judgment may be, Jess has conviction: it’s time to embrace the grounded life, to be a mature, cohabiting person who no longer needs rescuing from remote parts of Mexico.

  And as for the “You’re a Taylor!” assertion, what does that even mean? To be a Taylor? Like it’s a badge of honor. Jess sighs, thinks back. As a child she was constantly restless. Aggie was always looking straight ahead, while Restless Jess wanted to know what was off to the side or around the corner or just beyond, where the eye couldn’t reach. Always looking for the next adventure. Is that down to Taylor genes?

  They approach the first of the stone sphinxes, which flank a tattered staircase and a vista of nettle-filled scrubland. Such grandiose entrance guards with nothing to announce. They are, thinks Jess, like an unfinished breath, inhaling, pausing, forever waiting for their palace to return.

  “Built for the Great Exhibition of 1851,” says Nancy, mechanically recounting as she always does. “First in Hyde Park, then moved here. I never saw this happening, of course.”

  “No.” Jess laughs gently. “You weren’t born.”

  “Nor was your mother, Carmen. Nor was my mother, Anna. And nor was Minnie.”

  “Oh yes, tell me about Minnie—”

  “Minnie Philomene Taylor, born in 1881. She was your great-great-grandmother. She made a necklace.”

  Jess winces. “Yes, the necklace.”