The Keeper of Lost Things

by Ruth Hogan

  But in the hall he paused and turned to Laura.

  “I wonder if I might use the loo before I go?”

  CHAPTER 16

  The paper knife was solid silver with a handle in the form of an Egyptian pharaoh. Laura slid the blade between the folds of thick white paper. As the envelope split open she imagined Anthony’s secrets escaping like a cloud of whispers into the air. She had waited until Sunshine had gone home before bringing the letter into the study. The garden room was more comfortable, but it felt more fitting to read it surrounded by the things it concerned. The mild summer evenings had slipstreamed imperceptibly into crisp autumn twilights and Laura was half tempted to light the fire in the grate, but instead she pulled the sleeves of her cardigan down to cover her knuckles and slid the letter out of the envelope. She unfolded the stiff sheets of paper and spread them on the table in front of her.

  “My dear Laura.”

  Anthony’s deep and gentle voice sounded in her ears and the black writing disappeared into a blur, washed away by the tears which filled Laura’s eyes. She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

  “For God’s sake, Laura, get a bloody grip!” she admonished herself, and was surprised by the smile that hijacked her lips.

  My dear Laura,

  By now you will know that Padua and everything in it is yours. I hope that you will be very happy living here and will forgive my foolish sentimentality about the rose garden. You see, I planted it for Therese, who was named after St. Therese of the Roses. When she died, I scattered her ashes among the roses so that I could always be near to her, and if you could possibly bring yourself to do it, I should like mine to be scattered there too. If you find it too gruesome, perhaps you could ask Freddy to do it. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind; he has the constitution of a concrete cockroach, dear boy.

  And now I must tell you about the things in the study. Once again, it starts with the rose garden. On the day I planted it, Therese gave me a gift. It was her first Holy Communion medal. She told me that it was to say thank you for the rose garden, and to remind me that she would love me forever, no matter what. She made me promise to keep it with me always. It was the most precious thing that I have ever owned. And I lost it. On the day that Therese died. I had it in my pocket that morning when I left Padua, but by the time I returned it was gone. It felt as though the last remaining thread that bound us together had been broken. Like a clock, unwound, I stopped. I stopped living and began existing. I breathed, ate, drank, and slept. But only as much as I had to, and that was all.

  It was Robert who eventually brought me to my senses. “What would Therese think?” he said. And he was right. She had been so full of life and it had been stolen from her. I still had life, but was choosing a living death. She would have been furious. “And heartbroken,” said Robert. I began walking; visiting the world again. One day I found a glove; ladies, navy blue leather, right hand. I took it home and labeled it; what it was, and when and where I found it. And so it began; my collection of lost things. Perhaps I thought that if I rescued every lost thing I found, someone would rescue the one thing left in the world that I really cared about and one day I might get it back and so restore my broken promise. It never happened, but I never gave up hope; never stopped gathering in the things that other people lost. And those tiny scraps of other people’s lives gave me inspiration for my stories and helped me to write again.

  I know it is likely that most of the things are worthless, and no one will want them back. But if you can make just one person happy, mend one broken heart by restoring to them what they have lost, then it will have all been worthwhile. You may wonder why I kept all this secret; kept the study door locked for all those years. I hardly know myself except perhaps that I was afraid of being thought foolish or even a little insane. And so this is the task I leave you with, Laura. All I ask is that you try.

  I hope that your new life is everything that you wish for and that you find others to share it with. Remember, Laura, there is a world outside of Padua and it is well worth a visit now and then.

  One final thing—there is a girl who often sits on the bench across the green from the house. She seems to be somewhat of a lost soul. I have often wished that I could do more for her than a few kindly words, but unfortunately it is difficult for an old man to help a young lady nowadays without being sadly misconstrued. Perhaps you could “gather her in” and offer a little friendship? Do what you think is best.

  With fondest love and grateful thanks.

  God bless.

  Anthony

  By the time Laura stirred from her chair in the study, her limbs were stiffened by cold. Outside, in a black sky, hung a perfect pearlescent moon. Laura sought warmth in the kitchen, and set the kettle to boil as she pondered Anthony’s requests. The scattering of his ashes she would do gladly. Returning the lost things was not so simple. Once again she felt those stones in her pocket, reminding her of who she really was. Laura’s parents had been dead for some years now, but she had never been able to shake the feeling that she had let them down. They had never said as much, but in all honesty what had she ever done to repay their unfailing love and loyalty and make them proud? She had dodged university, her marriage had been a disaster, and she had failed to give them a single grandchild. And she had been eating fish and chips in Cornwall when her mother died. The fact that it had been her first holiday since she had left Vince wasn’t any kind of excuse. When her father had died just six months later, Anthony filled some of the void that had remained, and perhaps now the task that he had left her would be her chance to make some sort of amends? Perhaps this was her opportunity to finally succeed at something.

  And then there was Sunshine. In this, at least, she was ahead of Anthony, but she couldn’t take any credit for being so. It was Sunshine who had offered her friendship first and even then Laura had been—was still—reluctant to reciprocate. She thought about all the times that she had seen Sunshine before Anthony had died, and done nothing. Said nothing. Not even hello. But Anthony had done what little he could even after his death. Laura was disappointed in herself, but she was determined to try to change. She took her tea upstairs to the rose-scented bedroom she had claimed for her own. Or rather that she had chosen to share with Therese. Because she was still there. Her things were still there. Not her clothes, of course, but her dressing table set, the photograph of her with Anthony, which was inexplicably facedown once more, and the little blue enamel clock: 11:55. Stopped again. Laura put down her cup and wound the clock until its gentle ticking resumed. She went to bed leaving the curtains wide open, and outside the perfect moon veiled the rose garden in a ghostly damask of light and shade.

  CHAPTER 17

  1984

  “At Christmas time we da, di, da and we vanish shade . . .”

  Mrs. Doyle was in fine voice as she served the man in front of Eunice with two sausage plaits and a couple of squares of Tottenham cake. She paused for breath to greet Eunice.

  “He’s a great bloke, that Bob Gelding, getting all those pop singers to make a record for those poor blighters in Ethio . . .”—the rest of the word slipped away from Mrs. Doyle’s lexical grasp—“in the desert.”

  Eunice smiled in agreement.

  “He’s almost a saint.”

  Mrs. Doyle began putting donuts in a bag.

  “Mind you,” she continued, “it’s not as though that Boy George and Midget Ure and the like can’t afford to do a bit of charity. And those Bananas—lovely girls, but not a hairbrush between them, by the looks of things.”

  Douglas was undisturbed by Eunice’s returning footsteps up the stairs. His gray and grizzled muzzle twitched and his front paws flicked gently as he dreamed of who knows what. But it must have been a happy dream, Eunice thought, because the corners of his mouth were turned up in a smile. Bomber was watching him from his desk like an anxious child from a window watching his snowman begin inevitably to melt. She wanted to reassure him, but there was nothing she could say
. Douglas was getting old. His days were growing shorter in length and in number. He would die and hearts would break. But for now he was warm and content, and when he eventually woke, a cream donut would be waiting for him. The switch from jam to cream (which was actually jam and cream) was an effort to keep Douglas’s old bones padded with a little of the flesh that seemed to mysteriously dissolve with each passing year.

  Bomber, however, was experiencing the exact opposite. In the ten years or so that Eunice had known him, he had eventually managed to grow a very modest tummy to add a little softness to his still-rangy frame. He patted it affectionately as he said for the umpteenth time:

  “We must stop eating so many donuts.” A comment completely unaccompanied by any purpose or intent, and duly ignored by Eunice.

  “Are your parents coming into town this week?”

  Eunice had grown very fond of Grace and Godfrey and looked forward to their visits, which were unfortunately becoming less and less frequent. It was all too apparent that old age was an unforgiving wingman. Godfrey in particular was becoming less solid in both body and mind; his reason and robustness inexorably stealing away.

  “No, not this week. They’re feeling a bit out of sorts. Stoked up the AGA, stocked up on the single malt, and secured the portcullis, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Bomber was frowning at a manuscript that was open on his desk.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  Eunice was concerned.

  “Well, one of their good chums was caught up in that bomb in Brighton, and then there was the fire in the tube station a couple of weeks ago, and that’s on their normal route. I just think that they feel, in the words of that classic song favored by teddy bears, it’s safer to stay at home.”

  Bomber slapped the manuscript shut.

  “Probably just as well. I think that Ma might have felt duty bound to inquire about this.”

  He waggled the manuscript at Eunice as though it were a rotting fish. Douglas finally stirred in his corner. He took in his surroundings through aged, opalescent eyes, and finding them safe and familiar, summoned the energy to gently wag the tip of his tail. Eunice rushed over to kiss his sleep-warm head and tempt him with his donut, which was already cut and plated to his exacting requirements. But she hadn’t forgotten the rotting fish.

  “What is it?”

  Bomber heaved an exaggerated sigh.

  “It’s called Big Head and Bigot.”

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  “Well, that’s one word for my darling sister’s latest ‘livre terrible.’ It’s about the five daughters of a bankrupt football manager. Their mother is determined to marry them off to pop stars or footballers or anyone who’s rich. She parades them at the local Hunt Ball, where the eldest, Janet, is asked to dance by the special guest, a young, handsome owner of a country house hotel called Mr. Bingo. Her sister Izzy is rather taken with his enigmatic friend, Mr. Arsey, a world-famous concert pianist, but he thinks that the antics of the Young Farmers in attendance are rather vulgar and refuses to join Izzy in a karaoke duet. She calls him a snob and goes off in a bit of a huff. To cut a long and strangely familiar story short, the youngest daughter runs off to Margate with a second-rate footballer where they get matching tattoos. She falls pregnant, is dumped, and ends up in a bedsit in Peckham. After some well-intentioned but rather pompous interference from Mr. Arsey, Janet eventually marries Mr. Bingo, and after his agent forbids it, Mr. Arsey ends up making sweet music with Izzy.”

  Eunice had given up trying to keep a straight face by now, and was howling with laughter at Portia’s latest literary larceny. Bomber continued regardless.

  “The girls’ cousin Mr. Coffins, a religious education teacher at an extremely expensive and completely incompetent private girls’ school, offers to marry any of the sisters who will have him, but, to their mother’s despair, none of them will on account of his bad breath and protruding belly button, and so he marries their other cousin, Charmaine, on the rebound. Charmaine is happy to have him as she has a slight mustache, and is on the shelf at twenty-one and a half.”

  “Poor Charmaine. If she has to settle for bad breath and a protruding belly button at twenty-one and a half, what hope is there for me at almost thirty-one?”

  Bomber grinned. “Oh, I’m sure we could find you a nice Mr. Coffins of your own if you really want one.”

  Eunice threw a paper clip at him.

  Later that evening, she wandered round the garden of Bomber’s rambling flat while he cooked their supper, closely supervised by Douglas. She would never marry. She knew that now. She could never marry Bomber and she didn’t want anybody else, so that was an end to it. In the past there had been the occasional date with some hopeful young man; sometimes several. But for Eunice it always felt dishonest. Every man came second best to Bomber, and no man deserved to be forever runner-up. Every relationship would only ever be friendship and sex, never love, and no friendship would ever be as precious as the one she shared with Bomber. Eventually she gave up dating altogether. She thought back to her birthday trip to Brighton all that time ago. It was almost ten years now. It had been a wonderful day, but by the end of it her heart had been broken. On the train home, sitting next to the man she loved, Eunice had fought back the tears, knowing that she would never be the right girl for Bomber. There would never be a right girl for Bomber. But they were friends; best friends. And for Eunice, that was infinitely better than not having him in her life at all.

  As he stirred the Bolognese sauce in the kitchen, Bomber thought back to their earlier conversation. Eunice was a striking young woman with a fierce intelligence, a ready wit, and an astonishing assortment of hats. It was unfathomable that she had never been courted or set one of her rather spectacular caps at any particular deserving young man.

  “Does it bother you?” He was thinking aloud, albeit a little carelessly, rather than actually posing the question. It seemed a bit blunt to ask.

  “Does what bother me?”

  Eunice appeared in the doorway waving a breadstick in the air like a conductor’s baton and sipping a glass of red wine.

  “Not having some handsome chap with a red sports car, a Filofax, and a flat in Chelsea?”

  Eunice bit the end off the breadstick decisively.

  “What on earth would I want with one of those, when I have you and Douglas?”

  CHAPTER 18

  “The lady doesn’t want it back.”

  Sunshine placed the cup and saucer on the table in front of Laura.

  “You should keep it for the lovely cup of tea.”

  The delicate cream bone china was almost translucent, and hand-painted with deep purple violets speckled with gold. Laura looked up at Sunshine’s serious face; into her treacle-dark eyes. She had brought Sunshine into the study that morning and explained in broad terms the content of Anthony’s letter.

  “He said that you and I should take care of each other,” she paraphrased.

  It was the first time that she had seen Sunshine smile. Curious and eager, she had handled the things in the study without seeking permission, but with a gentleness and reverence which would have delighted Anthony as much as it reassured Laura. She cradled each object in her soft hands as though it were a baby bird with a broken wing. Laura’s attention returned to the cup and saucer and its cardboard label. It was certainly a strange thing to lose.

  “But we don’t know that, Sunshine. We don’t know whom it belonged to.”

  Sunshine’s conviction was immutable.

  “I do. It was the lady and she doesn’t want it back to her.”

  Her words were delivered without a whisper of arrogance or petulance. She was simply stating a fact.

  “But how do you know?”

  Sunshine picked up the cup and held it close to her chest.

  “I can feel it. I don’t think it in my head, I just feel it.” She put the cup back in its saucer. “And the lady had a bird,” she added, for good measure.

  Laura sighed. The fate
of the lost things hung over her; heavy, like a drowning man’s clothes. Anthony had chosen her as his successor and she was proud and grateful, but also terrified of failing him, and if the cup and saucer were anything to go by, Sunshine’s “feelings” might prove to be more of a hindrance than a help.

  BONE CHINA CUP AND SAUCER—

  Found, on a bench in Riviera Public Gardens, 31st October . . .

  Eulalia finally stirred in her armchair, taking in her surroundings through age-opaqued eyes. Finding them familiar and herself quick rather than dead, a broad smile split her wrinkled brown face, revealing a haphazard assortment of still-white teeth.

  Praise Jesus for one more day this side of heaven’s gates, she thought. And curse him too, as arthritis shot shards of pain through her bony legs as she tried to stand up. Alive she might be, but quick she certainly wasn’t. She had taken to sleeping downstairs in her chair more of late. Upstairs was fast becoming unattainable territory. Which was why she was moving. Sheltered accommodation, they called it. She called it surrender. A defeated display of the lily-livered flag. But it couldn’t be helped. One room with en suite; a communal lounge, shared kitchen, and meals prepared if you wanted. Plastic mattress cover in case you wet the bed. Eulalia shuffled through to her kitchen, sliding in her slippers and gripping her sticks like a geriatric cross-country skier. Kettle on and tea bag in the mug, she opened the back door and let the sunshine in. She had once been proud of her garden. She had planned and planted it, nurtured and cherished it for all these years. But now it had outgrown her, like an unruly teenager, and ran wild. The magpie appeared at her feet as soon as the door was opened. He looked as though he was having a bad feather day; a near miss with next door’s cat perhaps. But his eyes were bright and he “chuck chucked” softly to Eulalia as he tipped his head this way and that.

  “Good morning, Rossini, my friend”—it was their little joke—“you’ll be wanting your breakfast, I suppose.”