Tabitha reached into her pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. Breath quivered through her lips as she saw that she had another three messages from Daniel. Part of her was desperate to know what he had to say, but she was in no doubt of the vitriol they contained, so she clicked delete without reading them first. It was now over forty-eight hours since she had seen him. Turning, she saw Harry coming in from the garden, his cheeks flushed with effort on what was another scorching day.
“I’ll do some of the stuff in here,” he called without looking up. “Might as well make a start on the kitchen.”
“Okay,” she called back. It was so good to be back with him. Beside his gray temples and unfashionable hiking clothes, he was the same old Harry; that cheeky smile when he couldn’t quite meet your eye, and his inexplicable affiliation for old people. How she loved that. He rarely made friends while they were together, but when he did it was always with somebody at least thirty or forty years ahead of him in terms of age. Back then she had thought it was something Harry saw in others that he liked, to help them in whatever small way they needed. But now she wondered if perhaps it wasn’t the other way around. Perhaps they had an affiliation for him. Only this morning he had swept the garden a few doors down and replaced a blown lightbulb for the retired couple in another cottage, and had arrived back at the cottage in a flap about wasting time when he should be looking for the box. He was still that same person she loved, who always made her feel calm. Harry always could make her forget the rest of the world. Now, though, she wondered if that wasn’t because he was simply too scared to live within it himself.
“Harry, come and have a look at this,” she called through from the living room a little bit later. It seemed that Frances Langley had been a lover of mail order, although quite just how much and for how long hadn’t been evident until her death, when the layers were peeled back to reveal periods of a life that had remained a mystery until then. Tabitha heard him stand, then the rhythm of his gentle footsteps on the hallway tile, a sound that calmed her as he approached. When he arrived in the doorway his cheeks were flushed, his hair all ruffled.
“Did you find it?” he said, slightly breathless.
“No, sorry,” she said, realizing his desperation. “But I did find this.” Handing him a small black book, Harry turned the pages.
“What is it?”
“I think it’s an inventory. Look, it’s got a description, dates, where she bought something. She logged it all, and there are loads of them.” Tabitha pointed to a small pile of notebooks.
“All like this?” Harry asked.
“Looks like it. Some of them appear to log the dates and time she saw people outside. She even recorded number plates. Maybe we can try and find an entry for the box.”
“That would be great.”
“And look,” she said, holding up a large black case. “You’ll never guess what else I found.” After lifting the lid, she turned it around so that Harry could see inside. “A trumpet.” She laughed. “Your mother sure knew how to collect a range of stuff. I’ve seen less variety in flea markets and museum storerooms.” At the sight of the gleaming instrument his face softened, then hardened. “What is it?” she asked.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, careful hands reaching for the instrument. “I used to play one of these.”
“I never knew you played an instrument,” she said. “So, is this yours?”
He smiled but shook his head.
“It can’t be.”
“Then what was she doing with it?”
“Who knows?” he asked, his voice alluding to the impossibility of such answers. “What was she doing with any of this stuff?” He brought it to his mouth, pressed his lips against the unpleasant cold of the mouthpiece, enjoying the familiarity of the foul taste. Taking a good breath in he produced a resonant C that vibrated through his whole body. Tabitha smiled, savoring it.
“Play me something,” she said, sitting back and crossing her legs. “What do you know?”
Without another word he whipped his way up the C scale, his fingers remembering the notes. Even if it didn’t sound as fluid as it might have on account that the valves needed a good oiling, it did leave him feeling somewhat pleased with himself that he could still remember how to play. Feeling himself blush as she applauded his effort, he recalled the sense of contentment roused by the presence of somebody in the crowd who was there on his behalf. Foster parents who’d said they were proud. For years he had grieved for his childhood, regretted it as if it had been a catastrophe that he himself was responsible for creating. But the sight of that trumpet had reminded him that along the way were people who had loved him. He wished, then, that he could remember the names of the couple who had sat in the audience and clapped his performance of “O Fortuna.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked as he set the trumpet down. Noticing a tear as it skirted his cheek, she moved to touch his arm. He turned away, hoping to hide it.
“Just takes a lot of puff, that’s all, and I’m out of practice. I had better take my inhaler, otherwise I’ll set off my asthma.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked as he set about looking for the inhaler.
He hid his face, shook his head. “Not really.”
“Maybe that’s the reason why you should,” she suggested. “It might help.”
As he felt the emotion getting the better of him, his lips began to quiver. This time there was little he could do to stem the flow of tears, and the first slipped hot and fast across his cheek.
“I’m angry with her, Tabitha. And with myself. Seeing all this stuff I just feel like, how could she have lived like this? How could this be my life?”
“It can’t have been easy,” she said, rubbing at his arm. “But I think she was sick, Harry. Maybe she didn’t even realize how bad things were.”
“I know that, but I wish she had. I spent my life away from her, never feeling like I was good enough for anybody. It wasn’t fair, Tabitha, and neither is the fact that I’m the one who is left to clear this mess up. I lost everything because of her.”
“You didn’t lose everything, Harry,” she said, pulling him close. A barrier between them had softened. “I promise you that you still have more than you even know.”
That evening they managed to clear some more space. The living room had been transformed from a couple of meters squared containing two chairs, to a small corridor that permitted access to a window, the fireplace, and enough space to spread out on the floor. After deciding to call it a day around nine that evening, they agreed that they were hungry, so Tabitha ordered a pizza. While they were waiting for it to arrive, they carried some boxes out into the rear garden. They had come across piles of his mother’s clothes, dolls, jewelry, some of which Tabitha thought might be of value, and more sheet music for the trumpet than Harry thought might be possible to play in his lifetime. Inventories of collections, filled with pictures of rocks, shells, and leaves, but not one single entry about the Klinkosch box or how they might go about finding it.
“So, what are you going to do first?” Tabitha asked as he returned with a steaming cup of tea once they had finished eating.
He sat back in the chair. “About what?”
“Rebuilding your life. You’ll need new hobbies to fill your time. Any ideas?”
“You mean after finding somewhere to live if we don’t find that box. Oh, Tabitha, I’ve got no idea. All I can think about at the moment is finding it.”
“I’m not asking you to commit to a space mission, Harry.” She pointed at the trumpet. “What about that thing? Wouldn’t you like to play it again?”
“You mean in public?”
“Yes. What if I could find somewhere you could do just that? Would you do it? To try it, at least?”
He eyed the trumpet case suspiciously. “I would. I don’t know if I’m good enough for that, but I would like to give it a try.”
“That’s good enough for me.” She looked down at her watch. “Oh god, look at the time,” she said, standing up. “I have to get a wriggle on.” Disappointed that she was leaving she watched his demeanor shift as she put on her jacket. Something familiar returned to her then, the thought of returning to the life she lived without him. It sat heavily in the center of her chest, making it harder to breathe. “What time should I come back tomorrow?”
“Whatever time. It’s not like I have work to go to. I’m still on compassionate leave.”
“Perfect,” she said, then feeling awkward about the enthusiasm, added, “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
He looked at her through soft eyes. “I know what you meant.”
“Then I’ll be here as soon as I pass by the museum. And I’ll organize an appointment to get that jewelry valued.” They had come across quite a haul, most of it costume but some pieces she thought might offer him some monetary value at auction. “Not sure how much it’s worth, but I would have expected that all together you might be able to get at least a thousand pounds.”
He stood from the chair. “How much?”
“Honestly,” she said, registering his surprise. “I told you already some of the pieces are silver with precious stones.”
Snatching up the bag in which they had placed the items, he pushed it toward her. “Do you want to take them with you now?”
“No, keep them,” she said, pushing his hand away, but he was already shaking his head.
“No, please, you take them,” he said. “And once you get them valued, we’ll decide what to keep and what to sell. They might be some of the last things of hers that have some value.”
“We’ll decide?” she asked quietly, taking the bag. It felt ridiculously heavy in her hand.
“Yes,” he said. “We.”
His voice tremored as he spoke, and she wondered how much courage it must have taken for him to assume that she would be around long enough to take a joint decision in an unknown future.
“Then it’d be my pleasure to help,” she said. Breath rippled from him as he relaxed. “I’ll bring them back as soon as I can.” They walked toward the door and he waved as she left.
“See you tomorrow, then,” she called as she closed the gate behind her. And as she glanced back for one last look at him before turning round a corner, she found he was still there on the doorstep, still waving even though she was halfway up Awkward Hill. So much had changed since he told her their relationship was over, so many decisions had been taken that she could never undo. And yet somehow, looking at Harry watching her as she left, he made her feel as if she was still the woman who had fallen in love with him all those years ago. For a moment, alongside Harry, it was as if all the mistakes of the last ten years had never even happened. She had missed him, she realized. Perhaps too, she understood, she had missed the person she was when she was with him.