The
Tortoiseshell Comb
by
Malcolm D Welshman
She found my wife’s
comb on a shelf of bric-a-brac in a charity shop. Little did she
realise then how much it was going to change her life.
‘Don’t tell me, Luce, you’ve found a priceless
treasure,’ chuckled Paul, coming over with a cluster of paperbacks
he’d chosen.
‘No…no…just this. Rather sweet isn’t it?’
She held up the comb for her husband to see. It was little more
than six inches long, tortoiseshell with a shaped handle at one
end, inlaid with a delicate tracery of white lilies in mother-of-pearl.
I knew that the feel of the comb in her palm would be soothing,
reassuring, helping to push back the dark shadows that still haunted
her mind.
Those shadows were the reason they were there on Exmoor. On holiday.
The rented cottage Paul’s idea.
‘Might help to buck you up,’ he’d said, his face
screwed up with concern as he searched hers for signs of the old
Lucy, his wife with a passion for life, his wife with a wicked sense
of humour; |
both blacked out these past few months. It had been the same with
my wife.
Lucy decided to buy the comb.
‘Might as well have this too,’ said Paul stretching
past her to lift down a framed photo propped on the top shelf. ‘See…it
matches.’ The photo depicted our wedding day, standing in
the porch of a church. The frame, like the comb, was tortoiseshell,
each corner inlaid with lilies identical to those on the comb’s
handle.
Over lunch in a nearby tea room, Lucy couldn’t resist taking
another peek at her purchases. My wife’s comb was perfect,
no teeth missing; but the support on the frame’s backing was
loose. Something I’d never got round to fixing.
‘Nothing that can’t be put right,’ declared Paul.
Lucy studied our photograph. Faded black and white. We were standing
in stilted pose, arms linked. My wife slight, in Edwardian lace,
fair hair piled on her head, shy smile, her hands clutching a posy
of lilies. Me tall, thick set, awkward in buttoned charcoal suit,
high collar, bowler hat under one arm, dark curly hair, mutton-chop
whiskers.
That night, back at the cottage, with our photo propped up against
the dressing table mirror, the comb lying next to it, Lucy slipped
into a far calmer sleep than she had done for weeks; lulled |
