Mr P.

Mr P.

I T BEGAN ON

my second day of volunteering at the charity shop.

His name was Michael and he had died in his sleep in a retirement home for army personnel. He had the usual things, of course – books and trinkets, knitted sleeveless sweaters and strong aftershave – but nestled between these things I found a small sliver of paper that in gorgeous lilting handwriting listed

wool (cream), card for Harry, wrapping paper, flowers, black thread

.

And across the top, in an entirely different hand, in boxy navy letters, were the words ‘Gwen’s Last List – March 1995’.

He held on to that list for nineteen years. What better evidence of a love that never wavered could I find? This list was worth everything to Michael. How could it now be worth nothing simply because he had died? It couldn’t be sold in the charity shop, of course, but I couldn’t bear to throw it in the recycling bin. So, Gwen’s Last List and Michael’s enduring love for her came home with me.

Next came the rusty locket. When I first chanced upon it, my heart took a little break from beating as I had been looking for one just like it for nearly half my life. Though it wasn’t the one I was seeking, the two sweethearts inside, a young woman with curled brown hair and a man in naval uniform, certainly didn’t belong in the bin. They can stay a little longer

, I thought. Then came Evelyn’s bouquet, 1911, pressed and framed and tied with a pink ribbon with ‘Evie’s Wedding Flowers’ written on the back of the frame. And below that ‘Granny’s bouquet’ and below that still, ‘Great-granny’s bouquet’. Her pink roses didn’t deserve to die just yet, so I snuck them home tucked under my jacket. They look nice propped up against the box of photographs that were left in a bag outside the charity shop door one winter in which a brother and sister named Andy and Sue cross what looks like North America sometime in the late 80s, having a whale of a time, dancing in discos and driving an open-top car, drenched in an orange sun made more orange by the Polaroid and the passing of time. The wedding certificate of Ada Akintola and Walter Smith from 1961, where the witnesses were both unrelated to the bride or groom and the ceremony was held at the registry office, couldn’t be bound for the bin and so I framed it in gold and placed it in the top corner of the dresser.

The dresser I keep my treasure in is old too. It’s from 1905, according to the inking on the inside of the right drawer. It does look a tad out of place in my modern city flat, but it comes with ghosts of hands that have touched it, of plates that have been stored in it, of bits and bobs that lived within the drawers. The woman in the Red Cross shop said it was

one of the oldest pieces of furniture they’d ever had. And I snapped it up thinking we could be old together.

Mr McGlew’s secrets are still crackling in my blazer pocket as I ride the lift up to my flat. I love my flat. I love seeing all the young professionals with their tired eyes and their travel mugs full of coffee in the lift in the mornings and hearing their pounding bassy music on the weekends. I love how they don’t mind a more senior gentleman such as myself living among them. Or if they do mind, they keep it to themselves.

‘I’m home, Mr P.!’ I call as I pop my keys into the bowl by the door (shaped like a goose, slight scratch on the beak, ￡3).

He squeaks his reply. He is such a clever fellow.

The young woman arrived in the charity shop about six months ago, carrying the cage and looking like she needed a hug. Scarf half wrapped around her, cheeks chapped from the wind, dark bruise on her chin, lip split, eyes raw. ‘Can I donate this?’ she asked, placing the cage on the counter.

Outside the shop, two little boys in matching coats were waiting for her, standing beside a huge suitcase and a stack of bin bags. Each boy was wearing a superhero backpack, and they were bundled up in what looked like all the cold-weather clothing they owned.

From the look in her eye as she noticed me noticing them, I sensed that I had surmised what was happening correctly.

I turned the cage around and peered in between the bars – nestled among the sawdust was a creature. He looked like a toupee come to life, with long white and orange hair flowing down his sides. I could only just make out which end was the front.

‘Hello there!’ I said to him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Spiderman,’ she said, with evident embarrassment. ‘They named him.’ She gestured to the boys.

‘Ah.’ I looked down at the little living wig. ‘Well, hello, Mr Spiderman.’

‘Guinea pigs are supposed to live in pairs,’ she said, ‘but he’s a bit vicious, so the vet told us to keep him alone.’

‘And you’re sure you want to part with him?’

She nodded, ‘The place we’re going doesn’t allow pets, and I don’t know—’

‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘Leave him with me.’

‘It’s allowed?’ she asked.

‘It’s probably not,’ I whispered. ‘But if you leave before Marjie gets out of the loo, I think we’ll get away with it.’

Thank you

, she mouthed, and she hurried out of the shop. I watched through the window as she and the little boys gathered up their suitcase and bin bags as best they could and hurried off towards the train station and, I hoped, a better life.

Marjie came out of the loo, cistern hissing, picked up her half-drunk Foxo from the till and stopped dead.

‘ What the hell is that?

’

Sitting on the dining table in my open-plan living room, the guinea pig I rechristened Pushkin Spiderman Winston squeaks with the happiness of a guinea pig who loves his human and is pleased to see him return from work, or

an animal who associates the opening of the door with his food bowl being refilled (who can say?). He scurries over to his bowl in anticipation of the bounty of crunchy veg I am about to provide.

I attempt to ruffle his fluff through the bars. ‘Good afternoon, Pushkin.’ He whips around to nip my fingertip, but I’m far too quick for him. ‘These sausages are mine, old boy,’ I remind him.

Once his bowl is filled with cucumber sticks and he’s munching away with a thousand tiny nibbles and not a hint of an apology, I take off my jacket, descend into my comfiest armchair and place my latest treasure across my lap. Mr McGlew’s letters. All addressed, and yet not one of them bears a stamp, which means none of these words ever made it to Elsie .

From the first envelope, I unfold a delicate piece of unlined paper. It is skin-thin. In the top corner is the date: 8 February 1971. And in slanted inky writing are the words:

All of the best moments of my life involved you. I miss you, Else.

On 29 May 1974, he wrote:

I still have your white gloves. I can’t bear to throw them away.

In October of that same year, he wrote:

I will wait for you, Elsie.

On 8 February 1975, he wrote:

Do you remember the first time you kissed me? On the pier while your mother was at church? I knew then that I would never love another.

And in the last envelope, from 1981, his final words to Elsie:

Even if you never speak to me again, I will die happy, thinking of that kiss.

I hope he did die happy, thinking of her, of their lips meeting for one perfect moment.

I wonder what I shall think of when I go.