Janina Matthewson - Of Things Gone Astray

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Something interesting.’

‘Everything’s interesting.’

Jake’s wandering gaze fell on a small, silvery, old mirror.

‘Who’s was that?’

The Voice followed Jake’s eyes, shook her head and leaned further forward, with a conspiratorial air. ‘That,’ she began dramatically, ‘belonged to a war heroine. She came from a small village near Cambridge, and when things started to turn to custard over the way, she ran off to Paris and joined the French Resistance. She carried that mirror with her always, to make sure her hair was in place while she fought the Nazis. Then, when she died, her granddaughter, who is the kind of person who is Not Interested, inherited it. She brought it here to sell because she thought it was tacky.’

Jake picked up a pair of cufflinks from a shelf.

‘Those,’ said The Voice, ‘were sold to me by the new husband of their owner’s wife. She had asked him to return them to her ex-husband, but he was so jealous he couldn’t stand to see him. So he brought them to me instead.’

Jake put the cufflinks back and turned to a pile of books. The one on the top was small and red and faded. He opened the cover and read the inscription: ‘You are the reason I’m glad there are words.’

‘Who’s was this?’ he asked The Voice.

‘Oh, I don’t actually know about that. Some woman found it when she moved into a new house. It had fallen behind a radiator or something.’

‘I’ll buy this, I think,’ said Jake. ‘What was the woman like?’ he asked as The Voice counted out his change. ‘Tall. A bit chub. Had a baby. Very, very long hair. Blonde.’

‘When did she sell you the book?’

‘Holy hell, I don’t know. A month ago maybe. Maybe two.’

‘Great,’ said Jake. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you.’

Jake could feel The Voice staring after him as he left the shop.

He walked the three blocks to his house as quickly as he could. He was feeling sort of fevered, but he didn’t know why. He let himself into the house. The door to his dad’s office was open, and Jake could tell he was in there, but he didn’t go in, nor did his dad come out to see who had come in, or to ask Jake why he wasn’t at school.

Jake climbed the stairs to his room and shut the door behind him. It was no good. There was too much stuff, too much clutter. His mum used to make him tidy his room all the time but now no one did. Jake hadn’t noticed how messy it had become. He put the small red book carefully on his pillow and began to tidy. He folded his clothes and put them in his drawers. He slipped his books neatly onto their shelves.

When everything had been put away and the floor was clear, he took the red book and placed it in the middle of the floor. He took a piece of paper and wrote, ‘Book. Gift. Behind radiator.’ He put the paper beside the book. He leaned back against his bed and looked at it.

THERE WAS A ROOM IN Delia’s house that Delia never went into. It had been her room when she was a child, and for all her trips home after she moved away to study.

It was still decorated in the style she’d chosen when she was thirteen. Redecoration had been her birthday present that year and she’d spent hours deciding on and second-guessing colour choices. Three of the walls (luscious cherry 037) were almost entirely obscured by posters of pop singers and movie stars, many of which had come unstuck in key top corners. The fourth wall (bruised concrete 109) had a series of doodles in white paint that had started as a rebellion and grown into a meandering, wordless story. The curtains (dark purple brocade) had been closed for years. The bed (single, patchwork mainly in pink) was unmade. The last time Delia had slept in it had been the Easter holidays, a few weeks before the accident that would bring her home for good. She was supposed to wash the sheets and remake the bed herself, having never officially lifted the Keep Out Agreement of 97, but she’d been late for her train and had left them.

But it wasn’t the garishly twee decor or the depressing insight into adolescent Delia’s psyche that kept grown-up Delia out of the room.

When Delia had moved back home, she’d taken the seven boxes marked ‘Master’s Degree’ and stacked them in the middle of the room. She’d piled sketches and paintings on the bed, she’d dumped her easel, her box of paints and brushes, and her blank canvases on the floor and closed the door on them. She’d taken over the room that her mother would no longer be able to use.

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