I remembered the clicking I’d heard in the shop. ‘That sounds dangerous.’
‘Oh no, it’s quite safe. It’s high voltage but the pulse duration is short, so the energy transmitted is low. Like a fence for horses.’ She put down the soldering iron and led me back into the shop. The clicking sounded more ominous now.
‘You’re not going to make me stop are you?’ Grace said. ‘It would only affect someone who tried to steal something. It’s off when the shop’s open.’ She reached forward and touched the edge of the cabinet containing the lovely jewellery. A spark cracked the air and she pulled her finger back sharply. ‘There! I’m still alive. Try it if you like.’
‘No thanks. Look, just make sure no one can wander in the way I did, and put some signs up.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll switch it off and get your mum’s brooch.’ She tapped a code into a keypad behind the counter. The clicking noise stopped. I let out the breath I’d been holding.
Grace reached under the counter and pulled out a box, which she handed to me. I opened it up and the brooch was spot on – exactly like the original. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Perfect. It was her grandmother’s and she was so upset to lose it. I know it’s not quite the same to have a new one but I think she’ll be pleased.’
Grace smiled, put the box into a plush velvet pouch, and tied it with a silver ribbon. ‘Have one of these too.’ She took a magazine from a pile on the cabinet of lovely things and popped it into an expensive-looking paper bag, with the brooch. ‘I do hope your mother likes the brooch.’
‘She will. I can’t believe she was so careless, but she’s been a bit forgetful recently.’
‘What a shame. Do you see her often?’
‘Not as much as I should.’
‘Oh, I was the same. I should have done so much more for my father when he was still alive.’
Her eyes glistened. I wasn’t sure what to say. I gestured at the cabinet. ‘Your jewellery’s beautiful. Do you make that yourself?’
‘Yes, it’s rather special.’
I walked a step closer to the cabinet. ‘It’s lovely. Like nothing I’ve ever seen.’
‘Well, it’s a rather unusual type of jewellery.’ She opened her mouth as if to say more, but then hesitated.
‘Oh?’ I leant to peer into the cabinet.
‘You might have heard of it. I call it Soul Jewellery.’
‘No, I haven’t heard of it.’
‘You may have heard the term Cremation jewellery. I know it sounds strange but people kept asking for it. I wasn’t sure at first, but I like it now. It’s made from loved one’s ashes.’
I stepped back. Dead people’s ashes. I shivered.
‘Those ones aren’t for sale, obviously. They’re for the relatives. But do you see the different colours? That tells you so much.’
‘Oh, what does it tell you?’
‘You can see from the colours those who have led good lives versus those who haven’t.’
‘Sorry?’ I glanced at her face. She had the Stepford Wife look again – eyes wide, slightly vacant expression, not a touch of irony. I swallowed. ‘You mean the light ones versus the dark ones?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled and a little dimple appeared in each cheek. ‘Well, that’s how I see it anyway.’
*
As I was in Eldercliffe, I decided to drop Mum’s brooch round. It would be an excuse to check she was okay and moderately assuage my ever-present gnawing sense of guilt.
I drove up the hill and navigated the lanes to the more modern side of the town. Leaving Eldercliffe was like travelling in time, as the buildings progressed from medieval through Georgian and Victorian, past 1930s semis and finally to the ‘executive’ new-builds which sprawled around the town’s edges. Mum lived in the semi-detached zone, in a dull but reasonably affluent suburban street, where men washed cars that weren’t dirty and mowed stripes in their lawns, and women did everything else.
I pulled up outside Mum’s house, and was surprised to see that her car wasn’t in the driveway. She must have nipped to the shops. I decided to let myself in and wait for her.
I walked through the privet-enclosed garden, turned the key and gave the front door a shove. A crash came from the direction of the kitchen. She was in after all – dropping things again. Maybe she’d left the car at the garage.
The door slammed behind me, as if a window was open somewhere in the house. That was strange, in this weather.
‘Mum,’ I called. ‘I’ve got your brooch.’
No answer. That was really odd. Mum must have surely heard the door slam, and would have come into the hallway, or at least shouted a greeting. I hoped the crash hadn’t been her falling. They always said the kitchen was a potential death-trap and best avoided.
I heard a soft thud, like the boiler room door closing. I figured she must be okay if she was fiddling with the heating. I headed towards the kitchen. ‘Mum, are you there?’
No answer.
With a flush of adrenaline, it occurred to me that it wasn’t Mum in the house.
I froze and stood in the hall, ears straining. I contemplated calling for help, but it would take too long for anyone to arrive and I’d feel an idiot if it was just Mum having one of her moments.
I retraced my steps to the front door and picked up Mum’s cast-iron boot jack. Gripping it in my right hand, I edged towards the stairs. I had to check Gran was okay. She was now a professional ill-person and was virtually immobile, lying helpless in bed. I crept up to her room and gently shoved the door open. She was asleep, snoring gently, and I could see no evidence of an intruder. My own breathing slowed.
I tip-toed back downstairs and paused outside the kitchen. I could hear nothing but my own heart, which was surely beating more loudly than it should have been. I inched the door open.
The room smelt of washing up liquid and vinegar, and under that a trace of burning. There was no one there.
My gaze flicked over the clear work surfaces and tiled floor. All looked normal, except that a window was wide open, leaving gingham curtains fluttering.
I stepped over to the boiler room, clutching the boot jack with rigid fingers, and pushed the door. The room was empty. I rushed to the back door and out into the garden, but could see no one, so ran round the side of the house and looked up and down the road. It was tumbleweed-level deserted.
I stood stupidly in the road, looking back and forth, feeling my breath rasping in and out. Who could have been in Mum’s
