As Good As Old

A family heirloom needs some TLC in this gentle short story by Elizabeth Palmer.

knew it was unlikely I could afford it. But I hadn’t known I’d miss it so much.

I gave the salvage man a week to work his magic, then drove to Bridge Street on my lunch break.

The store front of Everything Old held a variety of cast-off items that had been given new life, but my gran’s chair wasn’t among them.

Neither was the store’s proprietor, until I rang the bell and summoned him from the back.

He appeared behind the counter like a ginger genie.

“Hello. I’m Curt,” he said as he wiped paint off his hands with a rag.

Mrs Benson hadn’t said that Curt was young, with a warm smile and hair so red it dared you not to stare.

I forced my gaze away from it and looked instead at his friendly, freckled face.

I introduced myself and explained my predicament.

“Sure, I remember your chair,” he said. “Antique, made by hand. I was surprised to see it at the kerb. It’s worth repairing.”

He leaned over the counter, close enough to mesmerise me with his blue eyes.

I shook myself out of my reverie.

“Then you’ve repaired it? Because I’d like to buy it.”

Curt mulled it over for all of five seconds, then shook his head.

“No.”

“No, you haven’t repaired it, or no, I can’t buy it back?”

Although I’d discarded it, I now wanted that chair more than I’d wanted a pony for Christmas when I was eight.

“I haven’t finished the repairs.”

“Well, when you’ve finished, can I buy it?”

“I have plans for it.”

His brow was furrowed and he seemed sorry, but my quivering lip and my plea that it was all I had that had belonged to my gran didn’t change his mind.

So I swallowed my disappointment, thanked him for his time and left his shop.

Actually, I did have one thing left that had belonged to my gran – my good manners.

Which was more than I could say for Curt.

****

I placed a cushion on the hard chair and resumed watching the evening sky from my porch.

At times I thought about my encounter with the attractive but exasperating Curt.

My gran’s chair, I had to admit, wasn’t the first thing I’d discarded that might have been salvaged.

My discards ranged from slightly dented toasters to slightly tarnished relationships.

But it seemed there were to be no second chances.

****

Then one night I plopped myself down on my chair after dark and felt it move beneath me.

I quickly discovered I wasn’t falling – I was rocking! In a rocker that felt just like gran’s.

I jumped up and examined it under the porch light.

It wasn’t exactly like new – it was more like, well, old.

Like an old and beloved friend.

The next day I returned to Curt’s store, where I found him arranging a display of small kitchen appliances.

“I can’t believe someone threw out this toaster,” I said instead of hello.

It bore a suspicious resemblance to the one I’d tossed out.

Curt looked up and smiled.

“Hello, Erin. You’d be amazed at the things some people discard.”

He had no idea.

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I didn’t. I told you I had plans for it. Repairing it and returning it to your porch was my plan.”

“But why?”

“I drove by once and saw you sitting on it.” His pale skin reddened. “You made such a pretty picture, with your picket fence, the red roses and your beautiful hai – er, chair.

“When I did my route and saw the rocker at the kerb, I figured you didn’t know it was valuable. But I did.”

Having someone in my life who knew what was valuable and what wasn’t, I thought, could be useful.

“If I had more things I was thinking of tossing . . .?”

“I’d like to see them first,” he finished, just as I’d hoped he would.

“I’m free tomorrow evening. Maybe you could come and look the items over and stay for supper?”

That would give me the afternoon to see if I had anything in the attic that might interest a salvage man. If not, I’d run to the charity shop and stock up on family heirlooms.

Curt grinned.

“Shall I bring something? A bottle of wine?”

I pointed to the dented toaster, which was looking shinier by the moment.

“I think this deserves a second chance, don’t you?”

I couldn’t afford to fix the rocking-chair, despite what it meant to me . . .

The End.