Value the little things

She sat with a thud, lower back aching from the digging. The tin, still intact, just a little bruised from its brush with the spade sat squarely on her lap. Smearing the garden dirt aside with her sleeve she revealed the words ‘biscuits & toffees’ amongst the red flecked paint.

Ooh she could just do with a biccy.

With some wrangling she freed the lid, alas no biscuits, instead an assortment of papers and a little black book, all perfectly preserved despite being buried deep in the earth.

She was torn. Someone had hidden these things, treasured on not and to read them would be a violation. On the other hand, no one would ever know and it was a valid excuse to take a rest from the gardening.

Who was she kidding. The little black book was already open in her palm, it’s pages neatly filled with beautifully formed italic handwriting, reminiscent of another age.

“Jack wrote to me today, reminding me of the village dance last summer, the pretty floral dress that Sylvia made for me. The music, the laughing, such happy times...”

She flicked on further, a twinge of remorse as it dawned on her it was somebody’s diary, written with no intention of ever being read, let alone by a stranger who had dug it up whilst landscaping her garden, curiosity had killed the cat but like an addict, she wanted more.

The little black book was the property of Edith Wells, born 15th August 1922 and documented her love affair with childhood sweetheart Jack Smyth, before and during WW2. The content was sweet, romanticised - pure.

The papers, letters from Jack, sent from the front line, began with such optimism, enthusiasm and energy. A teenage boy out in the big wide world for the first time, surrounded by friends who had enlisted together for the biggest adventure of their lives.

Letter by letter that spirit was diluted, dwindled to depression and hopelessness, until, eventually, they stopped.

Sitting back, she let out a heavy sigh, tears pooled in her eyes and gently dropped down her cheeks. Edith’s diary entry’s continued for a month or so. A restless soul desperate to hear from the love of her life and then finally:

“Mrs Smyth heard today.

Jack is gone, my Jack is gone”

Afternoon crept into evening, the gardening incomplete and a dark cloud of heavy emotion weighed over her. Exhausted she retreated to the house compelled to find out what became of Edith, With iPad in hand she began her research.

Over the next week she spent all her free time trawling through archives, censuses and local newspapers and sure enough there was Edith documented over the years. Having survived the war she had gone onto participate in many local events and good causes. Jumble sales for the church, collections for the village school, organising street parties, rallying the troops for harvest festivals. Edith’s crusade went on and on but she could find no personal records, no marriage announcements, no hint of children. Edith was well represented through every decade since WW2 but there was also no mention of her death.

She would be heading toward 99 years old.

Could she still be alive?

Where was she now?

And more importantly how could she find her?

The elderly soon become invisible as their usefulness wanes.

In need of inspiration she took the three minute walk to the village war memorial. She had passed it many times, acknowledged it but never really absorbed its importance.

It was ominous in stature, a solid chunk of grey rock, 7 foot tall, mottled by the weather, moss creeping along its edges. Not pretty nor decorative but functional and strong.

A register of surnames deeply etched into its surface followed by a single initial. A total of 29 young souls who had once been the future of the parish and there he was, Smyth J.

Jack.

She took a moment, a private minute of silence for Jack and then she saw Jack was not alone. Above Smyth E, below Smyth W. She hoped, for his mother’s sake, they weren’t all brothers, perhaps cousins so the burden of grief could have at least been shared. Perhaps Jacks family could lead her to Edith.

Maureen Smyth was easy to find and quick to oblige her voice warm and animated. Maureen had a passion and that passion was networking and knowing. Knowing every detail of every local she felt deserving of her attention. She was Jacks niece from a surviving brother. Relishing the opportunity, Maureen gave a detailed account of Edith, her current health and her current location.

Edith was very much alive.

Further phone calls to a nearby care home, explanations about gardens, biscuit tins and little black books later and a date was set for a visit and an exchange.

Bubbles of anticipation fizzed in her stomach as she entered the sun filled room and she saw Edith for the first time, a woman whom she had never met but felt she knew intimately from her little black book. Big windows overlooked the lush green garden and the room popped with colourful trinkets, a lifetimes collection of little treasures.

Despite her fragile form shrunken into a chair, Edith’s blue eyes glistened like twinkling stars. Her white hair was well kept and newly set. Her skin near translucent with age was wrapped warmly in a comfy navy sweater, a tartan blanket over her knees. Her furrowed face kind, friendly. Like old friends the pair chatted comfortable together, conversation ebbed and flowed and finally turned to the biscuit tin.

“It was all too painful at the time” the elder said, “but I couldn’t bear to burn or throw his letters away, I’m so glad to be reunited with them after all these years.” A beaming smile on her face.

“Now dear, I mustn’t take up anymore of your precious time but I do have a little something for you, before you leave.”

With that, Edith handed over a small slim envelope with her sinewy knotted fingers and the pair parted company, each one feeling a little better for their meeting.

She had never expected to receive any kind of reward for her troubles. In fact it had been no trouble at all, a little mystery to solve, a glimpse into somebody else’s life, a part of history. However, on opening the envelope she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. Inside a single rather old, dull looking brown stamp. Huh. Instantly she felt bad, how mercenary, how vulgar, but really what was she going to do with a stamp?

A short note inside said;

“Dear Megan,

one kind turn deserves another,

there is great value in small things

Best wishes,

Edith”

Perhaps the old girl wasn’t as sound of mind as she appeared, she shrugged to herself, or maybe, just maybe she needed to do one more round of investigation...

“Going once, going twice ... SOLD to internet bidder 281.”

The auction gavel banged down hard and a short round of applause came from the other patrons, waking her from a trance like state. That rather old, dull looking brown stamp had just been sold to an American bidder for a staggering $20,000, she could barely believe it.

Edith had most certainly been right.