Treasure

Treasure

‘E DDIE, MY DUCK,

these had to go to you.’

Bhav heaves two shopping bags on to the counter with a thud. The bags sigh and slowly expand. I peer at the necklaces writhing within. The beads and chains and the tiny bits of sparkle glint in the shop lights. Do you suspect you might find what you seek?

they hiss at me.

‘I can only apologize for the state of them,’ Bhav says. ‘What a shambles! But that’s what you get when you accept teenagers doing the Duke of Edinburgh Award into your donations room.’

I met Bhav on one of my many visits to the shop she runs in Selly Oak on behalf of a homeless charity. Or was it a cat charity? I can’t remember. Perhaps it was for homeless cats, but it’s closing down now, anyway. Bhav says ‘supper’ instead of ‘tea’ and ‘greetings’ instead of ‘hello’. We shared one energetic dance last year at the Birmingham Charity Gala when she was covered head to toe in black sequins and I was wearing my snappiest suit and my hedgehog bow tie. My knee let me know about it in the morning, but oh, what fun we had.

‘This is very kind of you,’ I say, not quite sure where to begin with separating the serpentine chains to see if I can find it.

‘I always kept a lookout,’ she says. ‘Whenever a locket was donated.’

‘Thank you, Bhav.’

‘I assume you haven’t found it yet?’ she asks, her eye caught by an orange scarf that hangs on the stand by the till.

I shake my head. ‘I got very close once. But there was a name engraved on the back. Ingrid M.’

‘And inside?’

‘It was empty.’

I have never wondered what I might feel if I finally find her locket and it is empty.

‘I do like a treasure hunt,’ Bhav says, picking up the orange scarf and running it through her fingers. ‘So exciting to be searching for something. It gives us purpose, don’t you think?’

She buys the scarf and implores me to let her know if I ever find my treasure. She is on her way down Corporation Street before I realize I have no idea how to reach her even if I do.

Bella and I place the bags of snakey necklaces across our knees on the bench and work quietly, detangling wooden beads from rusted gold chains, separating silver hearts from pearl strings.

‘We’re looking for a locket, then?’ Bella asks.

‘A locket,’ I confirm.

‘A gold locket,’ she says.

‘That’s right.’ I manage to untwist a gold dolphin pendant that’s wrapped around a purple friendship bracelet.

‘It’s always in the last place you look,’ she says. ‘When did you last see it?’

‘Nineteen sixty-eight.’

‘Hm,’ she says. ‘We probably can’t look there.’ And she pulls out a pink beaded necklace with the name ‘Emily’ written on it and pops it around her neck.