A Postcard from Italy. Alex Brown

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СКАЧАТЬ and was now standing outside the door to unit 28. It was one of the oldest large walk-in units, occupying a corner space, and Grace wondered when it had last been opened as the key was stiff in the padlock, which had rust all around the edges. So after walking back along the corridor and locating a can of WD40 in the cleaning cupboard, she had returned and managed to spruce up the padlock and get the key to turn.

      Gingerly, she pulled the metal door, which scraped across the floor as if it hadn’t been opened in years, and felt around for the light switch. Larry had first set up the storage company in the Fifties, and the older units didn’t have automatic motion-sensor lighting installed. She felt a whoosh of anticipation in the middle of her stomach as the old-fashioned strip light flickered into action before eventually settling to bathe the contents of the unit in a bright, wondrous light.

      Grace stood in silence for a moment.

      Blinked a few times.

      Then gasped on registering the sight set out before her.

      She took a few steps forward until she was standing in the centre of the storage unit.

      It was incredible.

      And breathtaking.

      And on first glance it appeared to be the best unit she had ever had the pleasure of opening.

      Right in front of her was a beautiful Aladdin’s cave full of ornate vintage items with a sumptuously soft, deep-piled dusty pink rug beneath her shoes. But the contents weren’t stacked higgledy-piggledy on top of each other to make best use of the space as was often the case. Not at all. Someone had taken a great deal of care to present everything in the best possible way. Someone with an eye for design and sumptuous living, because the unit was organised like a glamorous 1950s boudoir. It was just like stepping onto a Hollywood film set – Elizabeth Taylor’s bedroom would have looked like this for sure, Grace thought, as she folded her hands, one over the over, and tucked them up underneath her chin in glee.

      Then, double-checking the paperwork on the clipboard, Grace saw that the unit belonged to a Mrs Constance di Donato and the last payment had been made by cheque over two years ago. The final cheque had been for a whole year’s rental payments, making Mrs di Donato now one year in arrears, which was far longer than they usually waited before opening an abandoned unit. Grace made a mental note to mention it to Larry, as she wondered if there was a special reason for letting the payments lapse for so long. She flicked on through the rest of the paperwork. There were copies of the three letters that Larry had sent to the address they had for Mrs Donato in London; all of them had been returned, unopened, with ‘Not known at this address’ handwritten on the envelopes in large, flamboyant letters. Grace had to be sure they could show they had tried to contact Mrs Donato several times before she touched anything and started sorting through the items.

      She didn’t know anything about antiques, but even she could see that the ornate French Louis XV style dressing table with its carved cabriole legs and marble top was of significant value. Not to mention the large leather jewellery case on top of it. Moving further into the unit, Grace gasped again as she lifted a dust sheet to reveal an exquisite silk chaise longue with a petrol blue peacock-patterned fabric that had been placed at a jaunty angle over in a corner. A clothes rail ran the length of one wall with at least twenty, maybe thirty, sparkly evening gowns hanging neatly on satin padded hangers. Each gown was carefully tucked inside its own transparent plastic protective cover. A mink coat was draped around a mannequin, presumably to help keep the coat’s shape, Grace figured, remembering how the costume staff in the theatres where she had danced had used this trick too. Stacked in one of the other corners were four old-fashioned brown utility suitcases, and next to them were three expensive-looking leather handbags – Italian design by the looks of them, as one had the famous gold Gucci badge on the front. A selection of paintings had been carefully placed behind the chaise longue, with a large oval-shaped rose-print hatbox beside them on the carpet.

      Grace lifted the lid of the hatbox and drew in the nostalgic aroma of musty paper as she peeped inside to see a collection of old magazines. Variety. Britannia and Eve. Dated 1938 and through to 1941, 1942, and so on, she noticed, carefully sorting through the pile. In jaunty, faded primary colours there were pictures of women wearing headscarves and dungarees like the Land Girls did during the Second World War. Another cover, dated 1950, was much more glamorous, with a woman wearing a ball gown and holding a champagne glass. A faded brown envelope was tucked down the side and contained a handful of dried pink rose petals. Grace turned the envelope over and saw Glorious day, Portofino – 1955 handwritten on the back.

      Grace could feel her spirits rising, and couldn’t wait to get started on cataloguing the contents of storage unit number 28. But where to start? She felt like a child in a sweet shop, elated and overwhelmed by the mesmerising selection of goodies on display. Smiling to herself, she stepped towards the suitcases, figuring this would be the best place to begin as there might be some paperwork in one of them with an address of a relative or a friend they could contact – there was no way Larry could just dispose of these items without them trying hard to find Mrs Donato. But as Grace reached out her hands to release the two brass clasps of the suitcase that was sitting on top of the pile, her mobile rang in the back pocket of her jeans.

      ‘Where are you?’ her sister, Bernie, demanded on opening the conversation, and making Grace bristle.

      ‘At work,’ she stated, in an equally cursory tone.

      ‘Well, you need to get home right away. I’ve just had Mum on the phone. She was put through via the switchboard, so I had to come out early from eating my lunch in the staff restaurant especially to deal with her …’ Grace was sure she heard Bernie tut with frustration, which made her bristling intensify. She crossed her free arm across her body as if to soothe herself. ‘And she was crying—’

      ‘Crying?’ Grace interjected, panic starting to trickle through her, as it was unlike Cora to cry. In fact, Grace wasn’t sure she had ever seen her mother cry. Not even when their gentle, kind dad, had died. Cora had said, ‘It was your father’s time to pass.’ And that was that. No more emotion required.

      ‘Yes. That’s right,’ Bernie kept on. ‘Crying. Sobbing she was, so hard she could barely get her words out. Took me ages to calm her down. Apparently, you rushed off so quickly after your own lunch break that she didn’t even get a chance to use the commode. So now she’s had an accident and feels really dreadful about it.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘No buts, Grace. You can’t just leave her like that. She’ll get sore and then likely get an infection or whatever, and you’ll never forgive yourself if that happens.’ Grace swallowed hard as she tried to formulate a response. ‘Are you still there?’ Bernie barked a few seconds later, and Grace could hear office noise now in the background.

      ‘Yes,’ she managed in a dejected voice, her earlier elation on seeing Mrs Donato’s belongings having suddenly vanished, not to mention her feelings of guilt and confusion. She hadn’t rushed off, and she was sure she had asked Cora if she needed to use the commode, but had been told off for fussing …

      ‘Look, I have to go. But sort Mum out and let me know later, OK? Oh, hold on.’ The instruction was so swift and fleeting that Grace automatically acquiesced. ‘If you take a seat over there, someone will be with you shortly,’ she heard Bernie say in a far nicer voice, and then, ‘I really do need to go, Grace. I’m just so busy. I’ve a queue of people who all need my help and …’ Grace wasn’t listening any more; all she could think about was something she had read online last night at around midnight as she stood waiting for the microwave to ping time on Cora’s request for a mug of warm milk with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top. The article was about people being busy being СКАЧАТЬ