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‘Patchouli, right,’ I say, taking the bag from him and making a new pile next to me. Sitting down cross-legged on the floor, I pat the carpet opposite, indicating Ted should sit the same way. ‘We’ll keep that. Now, your dad, close your eyes, what do you think of? What do you want to keep of his?’
Ted’s gaze meets mine across the dimly lit room and my stomach contracts. Then he slowly closes his eyes as requested.
‘I think of all the things he used to be able to do here: his furniture making, playing the guitar, his love of sailing. I think of my mum, them laughing, this house, our dogs, all the things he loved, all lost to him.’
There’s a lump in my throat.
‘Gerry wouldn’t want you to focus on what he’s lost. What does he still have?’
Ted pauses, closing his eyes again, humouring me.
‘His sense of humour, I don’t think he’ll ever lose that.’ Ted bows his head, thinking. ‘The sky, he never tires of studying the constellations. Gin, not a lot, and never before six, and he does an excellent cheese board.’
When Ted opens his eyes, they are swimming with emotion.
‘Laughing up at the night sky with a gin in your hand – sounds good to me,’ I say.
I wonder if Ted feels this intense to everyone. I am now so aware of his physicality, of when he is looking at me. No doubt it is simply the situation, the lateness of the hour, the heightened emotion of what we are doing here.
‘Thank you, Laura,’ he says, his voice almost a whisper. He looks me square in the eyes and some internal part of me is laid bare beneath his gaze.
When I look away, I try to focus on something solid in front of me, and we get back to work, emptying boxes. Opening a battered shoebox, I find it full to the brim with jewellery.
‘Oh, look at all this!’ I gasp. ‘Was all this your mother’s?’
Ted comes over to see what I’m looking at.
‘More likely my grandmother’s,’ he says. ‘Dad said you could always hear her coming, she wore so many necklaces and bangles. I doubt it’s worth much, just dress-up jewellery.’
The box is crammed full of so many beautiful, intriguing objects that my hands don’t know what to pick up first: delicate ivory hairslides shaped like leaves, rings full of purple and green stones, a beautiful brooch of a rose on painted porcelain, and a golden bangle lined with tiny silver bees. Vera’s Vintage would bite your arm off for such a treasure trove.
‘My mum used to repurpose old jewellery; she would have loved this stuff.’
I glance up and see Ted watching me, a charmed expression on his face.
‘Have it if you want,’ he says.
‘No, I couldn’t. These are your family heirlooms – you should keep them.’
Ted picks up a long golden necklace with a stone missing. I find myself wondering how easy it would be to replace the stone with sea glass, how great that could look, the contrast between the ornate chain and the simplicity of a piece of weathered glass.
‘I don’t think any of it is quite my style,’ says Ted.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, holding a necklace up to his beard, ‘bejewelled beards are all the rage these days.’
‘Are they now?’ he says in a deadpan voice.
I hold up more jewellery to his face and laugh as I attach earrings to his beard and then balance several bracelets on his head. He sits still, allowing me to decorate him like a Christmas tree. It feels strangely intimate, and when my eyes finally settle back on his, we just sit, looking at each other for a moment.
‘You should have it,’ he says. ‘Anything that makes your face light up like that – my grandmother would want you to have it.’
‘Can I take a photo of you?’ I ask.
‘If it’s for you, not your followers,’ he says, keeping his face still so none of the jewels fall off. Turns out Ted is incredibly photogenic, with his tanned skin and dark, expressive eyes. I scooch around to show him the screen, smiling at the photos, but when I glance up to see his reaction, he is looking at me, not my screen.
The room suddenly feels warm. Putting my phone down, I carefully take all the jewellery off Ted, studiously avoiding his gaze. With the jewellery safely in the box, I pick up a tray full of papers and letters.
‘Did they have a good marriage, your parents?’ I ask, searching for a thread of conversation to pick up, trusting words more than what is unspoken in the silence.
