Short Story

It was a heartbreaking secret – but Kelly knew that she couldn’t keep it to herself

A thread of gold

Kelly needed to get out of her flat. There were only so many times you could pore over job websites and fill in application forms. Since losing her job three months earlier as a marketing executive, she reckoned she’d applied for over 80 jobs, to no avail.

‘Time’s on your side, Kel,’ her family often said. ‘You’re only 33. You could reinvent yourself. Think outside the box!’

This was well meant advice, but made her wonder if she was expected to become a lion tamer or lumberjack. Her skills were transferable, but transferable to what, exactly?

To avoid moping, she took the bus into town. She savoured a slice of red velvet cake in The Pink Cupcake, buying an extra slice to take home in a ribboned box.

Then, walking to the bus stop for her trip home, she noticed an item in the window of her favourite charity shop.

It was a vintage clutch bag, its stiff satin covered in zigzagging gold thread. And only £3.99!

Kelly was what her dad laughingly called a ‘bag lady’. But in her opinion, you could never have too many (with her sister, it was shoes).

Before she knew it, she was in the shop and asking the elderly assistant, whose name tag said ‘Paul’, to fetch the bag for a closer look.

‘A lovely piece,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Only one slight imperfection.’

Kelly had already noticed it. The very first zigzaggy line of golden thread had been unpicked or fallen off. Still, you could only see if you looked closely.

It reminded her of ‘golden thread’ breathing in her weekly yoga class. As you exhaled, you imagined a golden thread spinning out of your mouth into the air around you. You then had to focus on letting your breath travel along that thread as far as it could take you.

‘It’s cheap because the clasp is so stiff,’ Paul continued, breaking into Kelly’s reverie. He demonstrated twisting and untwisting the clasp. ‘But it’ll loosen up with time.’

Kelly had a go too. Gosh, yes, the clasp was stiff. Still, the bag called to her.

‘I’ll take it!’ she beamed, and headed out of the shop, balancing her new purchase with her ribboned box.

At home, she fired up her computer to type in ‘clutch bag, pleated, probably 1960s’.

One looking similar to hers popped up, with the details ‘evening clutch by Shirelli of Firenze, 1967’.

She wrestled with the brass clasp again to check for a label of provenance inside, finding none.

To be sure the label hadn’t become detached, she ran her hand along the inner lining. Her fingers found a slit for a pocket. Something crackled under her touch. Reaching into the pocket, Kelly drew out a fold of yellowing paper. It had been wrapped in fine-spun gold – the missing thread from the front of the bag.

She hesitated. It looked like a letter, deliberately concealed. It reminded her of when she was little and her sister had put a cotton thread across the bottom of her bedroom door in case Kelly chose to intrude. Then curiosity got the better of her. Gently, she slid off the thread without tearing it and unfolded the paper.

It was a letter. ‘Dear Harry,’ it began. Kelly paused again. She was going to intrude on a stranger’s privacy. But then, the bag had been given away – which meant the letter had too.

She read on…

‘Dear Harry, there’s so much I want to say, and though you’re not around to hear my words, I’m hoping that somewhere, somehow, they can still reach you… I want you to know that I’ve been happy and that you are my only regret. Even then, it is a regret made bearable by knowing we were forced apart by circumstance and didn’t choose to leave each other…’

It was a love letter, Kelly realised with a jolt.

She continued to read as the writer assured Harry that they thought of him frequently ‘and more often than not, with a smile’, and that he had left ‘the greatest gift anyone could wish for to remember him by’.

Kelly reckoned she knew what the gift might be – the memory of having been truly loved.

The letter ended with, ‘All my love, Maude.’

Kelly felt a bit tearful, but not in a gloomy way, thinking of Maude and

the ‘circumstances’ that had forced her apart from Harry.

She checked the letter more closely. There was no date, no address.

Maybe she should return the bag to the charity shop? The staff couldn’t have known the letter was inside.

But was it really likely they’d know who had donated the bag?

Kelly went to bed wrestling with an ethical dilemma.

*****

At her yoga class next morning, she bumped into a classmate, Jess. Recalling that she was a therapist, Kelly told her about the letter.

Jess unrolled her yoga mat and said, ‘It sounds like an unsent letter. Therapists often recommend writing one. You sit down and write to someone about a situation that’s unresolved or bugging you, although you know you won’t be able to send the letter.’

‘Because the recipient is dead?’ asked Kelly, thinking suddenly this might be true of Harry.

‘Not always,’ replied Jess. ‘It might not be expedient to send the letter – if you were brimming over with anger, for example. But writing it down helps to get it off your chest.’

That made sense. It also helped Kelly to reach a decision.

She’d slide the letter back into its hoop of gold thread, then into its pocket, and return the bag to the charity shop in the hope they could trace the owner.

She would say she’d looked the bag up online and it was quite valuable, perhaps given away in error.

That afternoon, entering the shop, she was relieved to see Paul still behind the till. She had the clutch bag inside her own tote bag.

‘I wonder if you know who brought in the clutch bag I bought yesterday?’ she asked.

‘In case they have more that you can buy at the source?’ he laughed.

‘Er…’

‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me! It came in and was put on display by Miss Lovecraft while I was on holiday, and she’s just retired. To be honest, it was probably left among the overflowing bags that appear in the shop doorway out of hours.’

Kelly sighed. She could try chasing down Miss Lovecraft… Then she noticed a sign next to the till, ‘Volunteer needed. Hours to suit.’

‘Interested?’ asked Paul, following her gaze. ‘It would only be a few hours a week until we find a full-time replacement for Miss Lovecraft.’

Kelly weighed it up. She currently had time to spare. Why not give it to charity?

And her best bet of returning the clutch bag might be to speak to customers and ask if any of them had donated it. She knew from browsing charity shops with her mum that customers and donors were often one and the same.

So for now, she said nothing more to Paul about the clutch bag, but kept it with her, nestled in her tote bag, even when she started work in the shop three days later.

*****

‘Hello, anyone home?’

Kelly was washing her mug in the shop’s back-room cubby when she heard someone calling at the counter.

Paul had just left on a late lunch break, saying she’d be OK on her own, as it was their quiet time. She bustled out to answer the summons.

A florid man was drumming his fingers on the countertop.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘I hope so,’ he replied. ‘My mother moved house last week. It’s taken some time to sort out her things in her new place and she’s just discovered she’s missing an item of sentimental value. Your collection van may have spirited it away.’

He explained that his mother had put ‘the bag’ down for a moment on the ‘for the charity shop’ box on her doorstep while she went to answer the phone, then got distracted. ‘And next thing, your van has turned up and your driver has picked up the box with “charity” written on the side and marched off with it!’

Kelly was focusing on the word ‘bag’. ‘Was it a satin clutch bag with a stiff clasp?’

His eyes lit up. ‘Yes! Please tell me ➺

‘SHE’S MISSING AN ITEM OF SENTIMENTAL VALUE’

you haven’t sold it! It’s Mum’s favourite statement piece. She’d had it for donkey’s. Is it in your stockroom, do you think?’

‘I’ll take a look,’ replied Kelly, breathlessly.

The second he’d turned away, she surreptitiously grabbed her tote bag from under the counter and hurried into the back. A few moments later, she returned, bearing the clutch bag.

‘Is this it?’

‘Thank goodness!’ he nodded. ‘Mum’s been going out of her mind. I know it’s only a bag...’ ‘Oh no, I understand.’ But as she was handing it over, she thought she should verify ownership. She tightened her grip, finding herself in a tug of war.

‘What’s your mum’s name?’ she asked. ‘Pardon?’ ‘I mean, supposing someone else comes in looking for the same bag with a similar story?’

‘Why would anyone do that?’ he replied, not unreasonably. ‘Look, if you want my details, I’m Noah Tierney and live with my wife Chrissie at 23A, Bankside Terrace. My mother is Maude Tierney...’

At the name ‘Maude’, Kelly let go of the bag. ‘On second thoughts, that’s OK,’ she said hastily. ‘I’m actually new here. I wasn’t sure of procedure in handing back an item but I’m sure it’s fine.’

Noah Tierney glanced at her curiously. ‘Thank you,’ he said finally. ‘All’s well that ends well. Good day to you.’

As he swept out of the shop with the clutch bag tucked incongruously under his arm, Kelly had no idea if he knew about the letter. It hadn’t been her place to mention it, of course. Neither he nor his mother would welcome hearing that the letter had been read.

Paul returned soon afterwards. ‘Any dramas while I was gone?’ he asked, not really expecting a reply as he headed for the back cubby to put the kettle on.

*****

Kelly got home to three email rejections for jobs she’d applied for.

Arriving for her stint at the charity shop two days later, she felt relieved to have this outlet, sifting through stock with the ever-cheerful Paul.

In fact, she was enjoying sorting out a cache of newly arrived goods when Paul stuck his head into the stockroom. ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ he said cryptically.

It was Noah Tierney.

‘Ah,’ he said on seeing her. ‘You’re here. Good. Mum asked me to come and check if you were here today or when would be a good time to call in otherwise. Are you free for a coffee?’ ‘With you?’ she asked in surprise. ‘No, with Mum. She’s in The Pink Cupcake down the street. Know it?’

‘Vaguely,’ murmured Kelly. If ‘Maude’ wanted to meet her, the reason was clear – she wanted to know if Kelly had been snooping in her bag.

‘Would it be OK if you came now?’ asked Noah impatiently. ‘I’ve only got parking for two hours in the multistorey. I believe Mum wants to say thank you.’ He shrugged. ‘Not sure for what, exactly, but Mum’s old school.’

Noah wasn’t what you’d call charming, Kelly noted.

Yet part of her wanted to meet Maude – if only to act the innocent about the letter and pretend she’d never found it inside the bag.

‘Can you spare me, Paul?’ she asked. Paul waved her off.

She followed Noah to the café, pausing outside to glance through its plate-glass windows.

An elderly woman gazed in their direction from a table.

‘There’s Ma,’ frowned Noah. ‘I’ll let her say her piece, then you can get back to it. Come on.’

Inside the café, Kelly shook the extended hand of Maude Tierney. She had a softly lined face framed by grey curls. Kelly pressed her hand and said, ‘I’m so glad you got your precious bag back, Mrs Tierney.’

‘Maude, please. Can you spare a few moments, Miss…?’

‘Bagshott. Call me Kelly.’ ‘Would you like to sit down, Kelly? Noah,’ she added, turning to her son. ‘Didn’t you say you’d pick up my new glasses this morning? They’ll be ready at the optician’s.’

‘That’s the other end of the high street, Ma!’

‘No time like the present,’ she said tartly, at which her son sighed, grumbled and left the café.

Maude turned to a seated Kelly. ‘Did you look inside the bag?’

Kelly nodded.

‘So you read the letter?’

Kelly flushed. Should she come clean? Looking into Maude’s searching eyes, she knew she had no option.

‘I didn’t mean to intrude,’ she began. ‘I was just, um, checking it thoroughly before it went on sale. I didn’t know the bag was mislaid rather than donated.’

‘Did any of your colleagues look too?’ ‘I don’t think so. The clasp is stiff, as you know. I was the only one to open it.’

Paul would have mentioned the letter if he’d found it. If Miss Lovecraft had taken a shufti, she’d been as discreet as Kelly herself.

‘I want to explain,’ began Maude, Kelly interrupting with, ‘Honestly, you’ve no need. It’s none of my business.’

Maude gave a soft smile. ‘In a way,

it helps to talk of it. Just as the letter helped me deal with my feelings when I wrote it. Noah was 13 when I finally sat down and put my thoughts on to paper. It was a feeling that came over me – on Harry’s anniversary. The anniversary of his death, I mean.’

Kelly waited, full of compassion. It was just as Jess had said – Maude had unburdened herself in an unsent letter.

‘Harry was the love of my life,’ smiled Maude. ‘He was in the Army and was posted to Aden in the 1960s. He bought me the clutch bag as a keepsake before he left. He’d seen me eyeing it up in a posh department store.

‘We’d conducted our relationship largely in secret because my parents didn’t approve of me dating a soldier – what with it being a dangerous profession and the likelihood of him being sent overseas at the drop of a hatpin. Plus, Harry had grown up in care, so my parents thought him a potential tearaway.

‘I didn’t care about their prejudices or objections. I was 18, full of the joys. We both were.’

She looked out on to the street before resuming. ‘Things did get dangerous in Aden in 1967. It became known as The Emergency. There was an uprising. Harry was killed while on patrol. By the time I learnt the news, I’d also discovered I was pregnant.’ Kelly gasped.

‘Luckily, another young man was in love with me. I confided in him and he suggested we marry at once. That was my late husband Jerry, a wonderful husband to me, and father to Noah.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ admitted Kelly. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Maude leant forward and gripped her hands. ‘Don’t be,’ she smiled. ‘If you’ve read the letter, you know that I wrote it partly to let Harry know how happy and fortunate I’ve been. In more ways than one – because when I look at Noah, Harry’s still with me. All my life I’ve been a very lucky woman.’ She let go of Kelly’s hands. ‘I’m glad to have shared the letter with you, truth be known. But I think it’s had its time. I plan to destroy it when I get home.’ Kelly understood. This had been a close shave – what if Noah had come across it? ‘I feel very privileged to have read it,’ she said. ‘And to have heard your story. Thank you, Maude.’

She wanted to leave before Noah returned. First though, something prompted her to mention ‘golden thread’ breathing to Maude.

‘It’s another way of focusing the mind,’ she explained. ‘The thread in this case is invisible, but I thought of it when looking at the golden thread wrapped around your letter.’

‘I might give that a try,’ said Maude thoughtfully. ‘Loving is like breathing, isn’t it? Even if I destroy the letter, I’ll keep the thread and just winding it round my finger will bring up that feeling of love. That’s what I think, anyway.’

Kelly thought so too. Maude was very open-minded – ahead of her time almost.

The secrets that people kept… lived by. Maude’s story was poignant, yet also enthralling. She was so glad to have reunited her with her keepsake and her unsent letter.

*****

That evening, Kelly was back online job-hunting. She’d been looking at the council website for a while. This time, her eye was drawn – as if by invisible thread – to a request for ‘creative suggestions to improve your local community’.

It suddenly came to her – a box in the park where you could pause to take in the view and then…

She sketched out her idea before refining it to email to the council.

‘There could be a little table with an alcove containing slips of paper and a pencil attached by a chain. Nearby could be a box. You write your unsigned thoughts, blessings, a little poem or anything you want to unburden yourself of, and post it into the box.

‘Every so often, the council comes along and removes the locked box to empty environmentally.

‘The confluence of nature and a quiet place to reflect can be very therapeutic.’

She added that she’d gone on a walking holiday in the Lake District where such an initiative had worked well, walkers pausing to drop their penned thoughts into the box provided.

She didn’t hear anything back, which was mildly disappointing.

Then, three weeks later, there was an email from the council.

To her surprise, it was about a job she’d applied for, yonks ago, in their marketing department. They were inviting her for an interview! She had to reread it to ensure it was real.

Of course, it was ‘only’ an interview. But maybe… maybe her ‘creative suggestion’ had been passed to the marketing department and got her application fished out of the slush pile? That was as good a way to think as any. She emailed back her acceptance. And thought of invisible golden threads everywhere, spooling out across lives, criss-crossing, uniting, drawing even strangers together for an instant. And changing their lives forever.

THE END

‘LOVING IS LIKE BREATHING, ISN’T IT?’