Chapter 2

It didn’t take me very long to work out how to open the box.  I pushed and prodded gently at the little wooden panels decorating the box until I found one along an edge that slid to one side revealing a small round wooden button a bit smaller than a penny coin.  I pressed this gently and heard a click, and the top of the box moved a fraction.  It could then be lifted on hinges to show a compartment inside.

The inside was decorated with more fine marquetry, but this time the design was not geometrical but was a beautiful pattern of flowers and leaves, intricately carved in different coloured wood and decorated with gold and silver thread and mother of pearl.  The colours were more vivid than the outside of the box where they must have faded over the years.  The compartment was divided into a number of sections of different sizes and shapes for jewellery to be kept in.  I moved it under one of the recessed spotlights in the kitchen ceiling and just sat for several minutes, marvelling at the workmanship and creative imagination that had gone into its construction.  I had to touch it, to stroke the smooth surface.  As I moved it under the light the colours shifted, bringing the design to life.

In one compartment was a silver bracelet.  A solid piece of silver beautifully engraved with flowers and ivy winding round it, echoing the flowers in the box.  

“Patrick, look at this.”

I reached for the bracelet.  As I picked it up my hand twitched as if I had had a static electric shock.  I had this sensation that it didn’t want to be picked up, but the feeling passed immediately; and for a moment I just held it, taking in the intricacy of the engraving, the cleverness of the design.  On the inside next to the hallmark it said ‘From George to Beth.  Stay with me always’.   And a date, 1955.

The bracelet was sitting on a photograph, a faded black and white print of a woman in her twenties.  She had blonde hair tied back in a pony tail and high wide cheekbones, giving her face a triangular shape.  Striking, but not classically beautiful.  She was sitting on a chair in a garden looking at the camera, smiling.  She was wearing the bracelet, prominent on her wrist, her arm resting on the table in front of her.  

“It’s Beth, my grandmother.”  I looked back at the bracelet.  “I love it”

“It’s, beautiful.  Was he a metal worker as well?”

“I don’t think so, he must have had it made for her.  It matches the design on the box.”  

The bracelet had an old fashioned lever clasp that clicked stiffly open and I put it on my wrist. I felt the same jolt that I had felt as I first picked it up, but again the sensation went immediately.  It fitted closely and comfortably.  I held out my arm and the silver gleamed as the light caught it.  It looked as if it had recently been polished, and was warm to my skin.

I looked back at the photograph, drawn again to my grandmother’s face.  Looking more closely I realised that she wasn’t really smiling at all.  Beth was looking straight at me, and it felt as if she was looking into me.  The smile was fixed, more like a grimace, and in her eyes were hurt and pain.  The print wasn’t originally black and white; it must have been an early colour photograph but most of the colour had drained over the years.  There was a smear of brown in her face and her hair and some green lingering in the trees behind her.  But most striking was a hint of blue in her eyes, looking unhappily out of the past at me.

I could feel the bracelet on my wrist, now feeling slightly tight, pinching my skin.  I adjusted its position, but it was rigid and moving it seemed to make it tighter.  It was starting to bite into my wrist.  I tried again shifting it on my arm, rubbing where it was pinching.  It was unyielding, felt foreign, and suddenly heavy, dragging my hand down.  Patrick must have noticed that something was wrong.  “Are you OK?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You were frowning, and you’ve gone pale.”  He looked down at my wrist and m eyes followed his.

“No, I’m fine, it’s just that this is a bit tight for my wrist.”  I forced a smile.  “They had dainty wrists in those days.”

I tried to snap open the clasp to take the bracelet off, but it was stiff and didn’t want to open.  I could feel pins and needles in my wrist and arm now, and when I tried to adjust the bracelet to ease the blood flow it just tightened further.  In the photograph Beth was looking straight at me, through dead eyes, a plastic smile on her pale face, the faint hint of colour now gone from it.  My wrist was starting to throb as I tried again to move the clasp on the bracelet.

“Patrick, I need help with this.  It’s stuck.”

He reached across to prise open the clasp.  The moment he touched the silver I felt it loosen on my hand, and suddenly the clasp came undone and it slid off.  There were white marks where the metal had been digging into my flesh, and I massaged my wrist to get the blood flowing again.  Beth was still watching me out of the photograph; her eyes unmoving, her face still, but it was as if she was trying to speak across the gap between us.

The compartment the bracelet was in was about two inches deep, only about a third of the total depth of the box, and it was clear that there must be more layers beneath.  But it wasn’t clear how you could get to the next layer.  Patrick was looking closely into the box trying to work it out.  I was shaken by the experience with the bracelet and my wrist was still sore.  “Let’s leave it now, we can work out the rest another time.”

I put the bracelet back into the box with the photograph, carefully closing the lid.  It clicked hollowly into place, as if it had been dropped from a height.  A pale blue thread from my sleeve had caught on a rough edge of the lid as I had closed it, and now hung down the side.  I picked it off, my finger finding the rough edge.  The box no longer felt warm and beautiful to the touch.  It may have been the light but the colours now looked dull, and somehow I felt threatened by it. 

I had another look inside the box when I got back from teaching the next day.  I tried pushing and prodding, looking for anything that might slide or move up or down to reveal the next layer.  I turned the whole box upside down and shook it gently.  Nothing happened.  Knowing my grandfather I knew that force wouldn’t be required, it would be something subtle.  But nothing worked and I gave up and rang my father.

Alastair was the only child of my grandparents.  Strong and practical, he had learned the furniture trade working for George and over the years had gradually taken over the running of the business.  He had moved the main office from Tunbridge Wells into the largest shop, which was in Wimbledon.  My parents had moved up there a few months later. and still lived in a townhouse in Wimbledon Village.

“Dad, it’s Jo”

“Oh, hello dear.  Did you get the box?”

“Yes, it arrived yesterday.  Isn’t it great?”

“Yes, beautiful.  One of his best pieces.”

“Have you seen inside?”

“I don’t think so, I’m not sure I ever saw it open.  I had a quick look before I sent it to you, but puzzles aren’t my thing and I couldn’t work it out.  Have you managed to get the top off?”

“Yes, there was a bit of wood that you could slide across to reveal a catch.  And the inside is amazing.  Even more intricate, with a beautiful flower design.  And in perfect condition, polished and pristine, as if it was made yesterday.”

“Well it was never really used.  My father made it for Beth, I think to celebrate an anniversary, but she died a couple of years later.  I was about nine years old when she died and I guess it was put away and hardly came out again.  To be honest it wasn’t on display and I hardly remember it.  Only when you were born and he brought it out for you and Tom a couple of times.  You were fascinated by it.”

“I remember him showing it to us when we were kids.  I think Tom worked out how to open it once.  I’ve got the top open now, but I’ve only been able to get at the top layer.  It’s quite shallow and there must be other layers beneath.”

“I can’t help you there I’m afraid.  Was there anything in it?”

“Yes, there was, a lovely silver bracelet inside, and a photograph of your mother wearing it.”

“Lucky you.  I don’t remember a silver bracelet.”

“I’ll show it to you next time we see you.  Is everything else sorted?  How are you doing with the house?”

“I was going to call you.  We had an offer yesterday, I knew we’d have no problem selling.  A bit below the asking price, but the agent thinks that we should accept.”

“Whatever it is is fine with me.”

“I’ll have a word with your brother.”

I heard the door to Patrick’s study open.  He had been doing telephone surgery from home.  “Dad. I’d better go.  Patrick has finished work and we need to cook something.  I’ll give you a shout when we’ve managed to open the rest of the box.  You should come and have look.”

“In fact I might come down tomorrow, I need to see the solicitor.  I’ll pop in.  About 5.00?”

“That’s fine, see you then.  Love to Mum.”

Patrick walked in and looked at the box.  “Have you had any joy with the next layer?”

“No, I can’t work it out.  That was Dad on the phone, but he doesn’t have any ideas.”

Patrick started peering at it, running his fingernail over the surfaces inside, looking for a ridge or a catch, or something that might move.  He gave up after a few minutes and went to his study, returning with a desk lamp and a large magnifying glass.  I left him to it and went into the kitchen to start sorting out supper.  Twenty minutes later he was still there.  “I can’t see anything, can’t feel anything.  I don’t know.”

He picked up the box and held it up, almost as if he was listening to it.  Then he shook his head.  “I’ll try again later.  There must be a way in.”