A gentle pause

Grandfathers aren't just workshops and war stories and wise fingers. Grandmothers aren't the sum of spectacles and roast potatoes and talcum powder. They are spring wrapped in autumn and winter, grass clippings and young blooms stuck away in rotting Hessian bags or pressed flowers hidden on dusty shelves between the pages of crumbling tomes. They are men like yesterday’s news, women like stale teacakes. They were young and foolish once too – still are – frivolous in ribbons and trapped in the accumulated prune skins of age. They were us once. They still are.

The Antique Shop - Part 9

I swear people in China can hear my sigh of relief. The pages feel dry and brittle but they’re still intact. That beautiful, steady hand is as clear as ever. I run my fingers over the words. Such intimate, delicate declarations. I have to read them later. I need to.
I stand up shakily and hold the box tightly to my chest. One of the firemen comes up to me and takes my shoulder. He helps me pick my way through the mess and out the flat. He speaks to me gently but I can’t hear him. I feel numb. Devastated but relieved. Confused, lost, but hopeful.
Before I know it I’m back on the stretcher. The girl is gone. The paramedic shines a light into my eyes and asks me questions. I give him one-word answers. Eventually he just pats my arm and packs his stuff away. Right now I want nothing more than to drift into a deep, languid sleep.
- Excuse me?
I ignore the voice and close my eyes. If you can see them they can see you, so if the reverse is true then. . .
- Sir?
A hand taps my shoulder. I open my eyes and look into the face of the cop who was talking to the old lady earlier. I raise my eyebrows for him to continue.
- I need to ask you some questions.
I nod my head.
- Do you have any idea what happened here?
- Uh, an explosion?
The cop rolls his eyes.
- You know what I mean. Do you know why your flat exploded?
I shake my head.
- I have no idea. . .
- It was a pretty big blast. It’s not the kind of thing we usually associate with an accident.
- I don’t know what to tell you. I left the flat this morning and everything was in one piece. I came back just now and everything I own is destroyed. Your guess is as good as mine.
- Do you know anyone who would want you hurt or dead?
- I don’t know anyone, let alone anyone who would want to do anything to me.
- Are you not from Cape Town?
- No, Durban. I’ve been here a few weeks. I hadn’t even finished unpacking.
- What are you holding?
- It’s nothing. It’s private.
- Mind if I take a look?
- Uh, yes, I mind very much.
I hold the box tighter.
- With respect, sir, there has just been a n explosion. Right now we don’t know why. It’s not in your best interests to hide things from the police. It might. . . colour. . . our opinion of you.
- So I’m a suspect?
- I’m just saying you should do your utmost to cooperate.
I clench my jaw and look away.
- The box, sir?
- It’s nothing, it’s just letters, okay!?
- I don’t want to ask again.
I give him the box and swear under my breath. It’s been months since I swore. He prises it open and empties it out onto the stretcher. I cringe as the ancient pages fold awkwardly.
- Could you be careful please? Those are freaking old!
- Sir, kindly let me do my job.
He flicks through the pages without a hint of compassion. A few pages drop to the ground which he doesn’t bother to pick up. I have to grip the edge of the stretcher tightly to stop myself from freaking out and kicking him in the groin. Every now and then he grunts or chuckles as he reads something. I can tell it’s theatrical. He finally clumps all the pages together and stuffs them back in the box. He hands it back to me and smiles.
- You’re right, it was nothing. Private, too.
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.
- Before you go anywhere, let me know where you’ll be staying in case I have more questions.
He saunters off before I can think of a cutting reply. I’ll probably wake up screaming something witty at two in the morning. I open the box and gently take out all the pages. I pick up the ones on the floor and blow on them lightly. They don’t look too dirty. I stack them neatly and put them back in the box. I feel my eyes tear up. I hate crying, but once I start I can’t stop it. I feel so violated. Everything I own is destroyed, and I my most intimate secret has just been divulged and laughed at by someone who is supposed to help people in distress.
- Young man, do you need a place to stay?
It’s the old lady again. I wipe my eyes. I take a deep breath.
- Thank you, but I. . . I’ll get a hotel room. I have some thinking to do.
- All right, but if you change your mind you know where to find me. I’m in flat number 18.
She smiles at me and pinches my cheek and I can’t help but smile. There’s nothing like the kindness of an old lady. I stand up slowly and stare at the hole in the building that used to be my flat. I’ll come back tomorrow and see if I can salvage anything. Right now I need to get to a hotel, brush my teeth (and tongue and throat and gums and wherever else that vomit taste is still hiding) and sleep. I walk past the cop.
- I’m going to find a hotel. You’re a cop. Finding me should be easy.
He just stares at me and waves his hand dismissively.
I don’t remember the drive to the Holiday Inn. I don’t remember checking in to a room. I don’t remember showering, brushing my teeth, shaving, dressing. I don’t remember getting into bed. I don’t remember opening the box. But here I am, the pages spread out before me, my security blanket in my times of greatest need.
I start reading.

© William Edgcumbe

The Antique Shop - Part 8

I’ve never felt so out of control in my life. My body feels like it’s turning in on itself, like my oesophagus will burst out of my mouth and envelop me so that I look like a giant, glistening sausage. I drop to my knees and vomit until there is nothing left to bring up, and after a few extra agonising dry heaves my stomach stops bucking my body further towards the ground. I stand up shakily and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. My mouth tastes foul; I’m ten-years-old and have gastro; I’m an awkward 17-year-old, drunk out of my mind at my matric dance, eyes glazed, conscience numbed. Since then, I’ve had a few “worst nights of my life”.
- Are you okay?
The hand on my shoulder is warm and tender. I realise it’s the first time I’ve been touched caringly by another person in months. I miss it terribly.
I try to speak but no words come out. Words usually gush so easily. I look at the person next to me. I recognise the old lady who lives down the corridor. I’ve greeted her a few times I think. She smiles at me, and her face is all motherly tenderness and homely comfort.
- Wha-
- Shshshshhh… don’t you worry. Let’s get you some care.
She leads me over to an ambulance. A paramedic is looking into someone’s eyes. They look a little sooty and shaken.
- This is the young man who lives in the flat. I think he needs some attention.
The paramedic gently sits me down on the stretcher next to the girl he’s examining. I notice a thin cut above her left eye, and she has a big lump on her forehead. I look away when her eyes flick to me; I hate being caught examining people. I look instead at the old lady. She’s talking to a cop. They both turn, and he follows her finger as she points at me. He nods slowly. It could be a “Yes, he looks like our man” nod, or a “Shame, poor guy just had everything he owns blown up” nod.
- Oh crap!
I’m up and running before the words leave my lips. Someone tries to reach out and catch my arm but I brush their hand away. I hear shouting but no words register. I leap over the debris cluttering the building entrance and jump the lobby steps two at a time. I’m on the landing. I’m on another set of stairs. Landing. Stairs. Landing. Corridor. My door isn’t there anymore. The entrance hall/kitchen is a blast hole. My toaster looks like it got some of its own treatment and lies dead where the front door would be. The corridor wall is black, fingers of soot spread in every direction and chucks of plaster are missing where bits of brick and door shot into it. I step into the wreckage that is my life and don’t notice the two fire fighters picking through the debris and occasionally dousing the odd flame with extinguishers. It’s amazing how in a flat so small you can feel so lost. I’m missing all my points of reference – my coffee table, my CD rack, my bed. Everything is a smouldering, crumbled tangle of wood, cement and plastic.
I start scrabbling frantically where my bed used to be. I cry out as an ember melts into my hand. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. They must be here. I dig with the rhythm of my thoughts. One fire fighter makes a move to stop me, but the other holds him back and shakes his head.
My hands are bleeding and my arms completely black when I finally find it. The tin box has a huge dent in it and looks like it’s gone a few rounds with a pit bull but to my relief it doesn’t look like it’s been breached. It’s still hot from the fire, but my hands are so burnt I don’t really register the heat. The latch is gone, and when I try to lift the lid it won’t budge. I put it on the floor and whack the lid with a piece of wood. On the third strike it pops up. I close my eyes, say a quick prayer and lift the lid.

© William Edgcumbe