A Postcard from Italy

‘Well, you must have forgotten. You always were a forgetful girl. Now, your older sister, Bernadette … she never forgets. Every birthday, Christmas and Mother’s Day, a lovely card arrives. And flowers. Will you look at them over there on the side. Beautiful they are. And fresh. The smell of them is just terrific,’ Cora rhapsodised. Grace glanced at the big bunch of pink lilies that had arrived earlier that week with a card of apology from Bernie for not coming to see Cora on her birthday, on account of her husband, Liam, taking her and her children out to lunch. The same thing had happened last year. And the year before. ‘You could learn a thing or two from our Bernadette now, sure you could.’

‘Shame she didn’t visit, though. It would have been nice to see her, don’t you think?’ Grace mused as she heaved her mother on to her side, unable to remember the last time her sister had been here to their family home. But then instantly regretted the words as soon as they left her lips.

‘Well, she could hardly do that now, sure she couldn’t! She has a busy life herself. It’s important for a mother to spend time with her children,’ Cora lectured. ‘And Bernadette works so hard on the reception desk of that private bank – you know the customers have to press a special bell just to be allowed inside the building. That’s how important it is – so why would you begrudge her one day off?’ she puffed on, and then, ‘Ouch!’ Cora slapped the back of her daughter’s hand as a strand of her silvery-grey hair got accidentally caught around a button on Grace’s shirt.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ Grace flinched, pulling her stinging hand away as she gently untangled her mother’s hair.

‘Well, be careful. No wonder that boyfriend of yours has gone off the boil … if this is how you are with him. Poor man is probably scared you’ll hurt him too with your rough-handedness. And you’re not getting any younger, Grace, sure you aren’t.’ Cora paused to shake her head in dismay, or was it disgust at her daughter’s perceived inadequacy? ‘You can’t keep on letting what happened with that wonderful Matthew ruin the rest of your life. No, you need to buck up and make an effort with this new one or he will also end up dumping you for someone much younger and prettier.’

Grace inwardly groaned and glanced at the ceiling, having heard this tirade a trillion times at least, or so it seemed, over the last few years. She thought of her ex-fiancé, Matthew. The love of her life. But he was married to someone else now.

Grace and Matthew had met at dance school and fallen in love as they worked together on the cruise ships after graduating. Then, later, they had both landed parts in musicals back home in London. Everything had been carefree and fun, until Cora had become increasingly more demanding of Grace’s time, often persistently phoning late at night and waking her and Matthew up when they were exhausted after having danced two shows that day. Not to mention the impact on the following day’s performances where they would dance and end up making silly mistakes through sheer fatigue, until Matthew sustained an injury to his ankle which cost him a part in The Lion King, in the West End, his dream opportunity. With hindsight, Grace could see that was when the tension between them intensified, with her feeling compelled to help her mother, and Matthew constantly biting his tongue whenever Cora found ways to erode their relationship.

And now Matthew was blissfully happy with his super-fit and bouncy-haired, perky yoga-teacher wife and cherub-cheeked toddler twins, living in a proper chocolate-box cottage in the Cotswolds with an actual stream along the end of his back garden (that was really a meadow) full of wild flowers. And if that wasn’t enough bliss for one person … he’d recently got a chocolate Labrador puppy. And Grace knew all this from his Facebook posts, which she still looked at from time to time. Usually in the evening after she’d had too many cherry-brandy hot chocolates and her self-esteem was somewhere on the floor. Because the image from that day – when she had found him in their bed with the Perky Yoga One – would be forever indelibly inked inside her head.

Two years ago it had happened, and Grace’s heart had shattered into an infinite number of unrecoverable pieces as the Perky Yoga One had nonchalantly untwined herself from straddling Matthew’s naked hips and sauntered off to the en suite. Stopping only to do a bend and snap to retrieve her postage-stamp-sized thong from the floor. Later on, Matthew’s reasoning for being naked in their bed with another woman was that he thought Grace would be ‘out for the whole day looking after your mother again like you always are’. He got lonely, apparently.

Struggling to function for weeks after he moved out, Grace had slumped into a depression brought on by sleepless nights full of flashbacks of Matthew being caressed by a tight-bottomed, naked woman in the very bed that she was trying to sleep in. And unable to pay all of the rent on her own, she had lost the flat they had shared. It was then that she’d moved back into her childhood home here with Cora.

Her mother hadn’t been bedbound back then, but had still needed help with day-to-day tasks. So with Grace in a dark pit of grief for the relationship and future life she had thought she was going to have with Matthew, and her passion for the performing arts having dissipated, she had left her job dancing in the chorus line of a West End show and dwindled into becoming her mother’s carer instead. A solitary role, which had suited her just fine at the time, as it meant Grace was able to retreat even further into herself, away from the outside word and all the dangers it held … like predatory, perky yoga-teacher types! Being reclusive felt like a protection of sorts, where Grace could keep herself safe from potential heartbreak. Because on that horrible day her world really had fallen apart. She had trusted Matthew with her life, and it was as if he’d sucked the air right out of it and she had been over and over this a million times inside her head. Constantly replaying that moment when Matthew had opened his half-closed ecstasy eyes and spotted her in the bedroom doorway where she had stood. Frozen. Watching the scene as if by satellite on a time delay. The two beautiful bodies moving as one in perfect symphony and slow motion, immersed in their sensual delight of each other.

The weeks of staying indoors had turned into months until, a year later, knowing she couldn’t carry on that way any more, Grace had managed to summon up the courage to seek help from her GP. Agoraphobia, brought on by depression, was what the doctor had diagnosed, before referring her to a counsellor who set her a programme of tasks aimed at building her confidence and self-esteem back up. And it had worked, to a point. It was soon after that she had started working for Larry at the storage company; she had been there for a year now as their Girl Friday – the counsellor had a friend who knew somebody who knew his wife, Betty, and that she was looking to bring in some help; with her and Larry not getting any younger these days, and their grown-up children living and working abroad, they were finding it hard to manage the business between just the two of them.

So with Larry’s kind patience and the counsellor’s encouragement, Grace could now venture out to familiar places, if she took a familiar route. Like going to work or to the library or to the end of the road to the convenience store on the corner. Nice and simple. Safe. She knew where she was at then, even if it did mean counting the steps to the bus stop to help calm her breathing. That’s how she had met ‘this new one’, Phil. He had seen her muttering to herself, counting the steps as she reached the bus stop one morning on the way to work, and had struck up a conversation. He had been there again on her way home from work and had offered to walk with her to the front door. Things between them had sort of trundled on from there.

‘And you’ll be thirty-five soon so you need to think about that before you scare any more men away. If you don’t get a move on and find one to marry you then you’ll never be a mother.’ Cora cut in to Grace’s thoughts. ‘And I shan’t be around for ever, you know, and then you’ll be all on your own!’

Grace pulled her bottom lip in and bit down hard as she vowed to talk to her brother and sisters again. Something had to change. She worked hard too. And what she wouldn’t give for even one day off from her mother’s foul temper and cruel words … let alone a leisurely family lunch! And Phil was always complaining about Grace never having any time for him these days. Cora was ruining his life, apparently. And even though Grace wrestled with her emotions for having such guilt-ridden thoughts about her own mother, she had to admit that she was rapidly feeling the same way too.

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‘There you are, my love.’ Larry’s homely wife, Betty, bustled out of the little kitchenette area and placed a mug of steaming tea down on Grace’s desk before popping a plate, with an enormous slice of still warm, traditional Jewish babka on, beside it. ‘I’ve put a smidge of sugar in your tea too … to keep your energy levels up. You look done in, dear, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Oh thank you, Betty.’ Grace put down her knitting; she was making a cable-stitch scarf for Jamie, and grinned up at the older woman, admiring the new lemon hand-crocheted waistcoat over her usual navy serge shift dress. Her black wig was coiffured into a wavy halo around her face.

‘Another late night?’ Betty asked, getting cosy in a brown leather bucket chair in the customer waiting area. Grace nodded hungrily through a mouthful of the chocolatey and cinnamon swirled bread that Betty frequently made from scratch and which she absolutely loved. She hadn’t had time to eat at lunchtime as the washing had taken longer to peg out than she had anticipated, and then Cora hadn’t liked the lasagne that Grace had cooked last night in an attempt to make life easier today. Instead, she had insisted on a time-consuming freshly made chicken salad with an oven-warmed baguette. And then the bus back to work had been stuck in traffic for what felt like ages.

‘Yes,’ Grace nodded, ‘and I’m sorry for being late again this morning …’ She turned away; there were only so many times one could apologise before it just felt embarrassingly superficial.

‘You do your best, my dear. That’s all any of us can do,’ Betty said kindly, rummaging in her crochet bag before pulling out a glorious candy-pink-coloured yarn. ‘It’s going to be a dolly blanket for our little Hannah in America,’ she chuckled, looping a length of the wool around her fingers as she worked the hook.

‘I think she’s going to treasure it,’ Grace smiled, remembering fondly when Betty and Larry’s granddaughter and her husband had visited from America to introduce their first great-grandchild, beautiful baby Hannah.

‘I hope so. It’s important to keep our family members happy. And how is your mother, dear?’

‘The same as always, Betty. Still refusing any outside help … but thank you for asking.’ Grace felt her cheeks flush on criticising Cora. Not being accustomed to doing so to anyone outside the family, it felt disloyal, and she had been brought up never to air her dirty laundry in public. Her mother had been fastidious about it, forever wagging a finger and shushing them as children in case the neighbours overheard their business as they walked to church on Sunday for Mass in their best coats and shoes. Appearances were everything, and nobody needed to know that the electric meter had run out again or the TV had been returned to the rental shop because Dad had lost his job at the printing factory and so hadn’t been paid in weeks.

‘Oh dear. Well, if there’s anything I can do to help … I’d be happy to call in some time with a pile of magazines or one of those Sudoku books. If only to give you a bit of a break. You do look a little peaky, my love, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ Betty smiled kindly, ‘although still beautiful with your gorgeous red curls and English rose complexion.’

Betty’s words hung in the air as Grace stirred her tea, knowing that she would never take Betty up on her kindness. She had been making the offer for nearly a year now, but Grace knew that her mother would never forgive her if she brought a stranger into the house, even if it was only to keep her company over a cup of tea. It was a shame, though, as it couldn’t be much fun lying in bed all day long watching the same daytime TV shows over and over, with only a word-search puzzle book to break the monotony. No wonder her mother was foul-tempered and ungrateful. Grace had tried getting Cora interested in reading, even borrowing a selection of books that she thought she’d like from the library, only to see them thrown aside with complaints that they were boring. The same had happened with Netflix. Cora had hated that too, berating Grace for ‘interfering with my telly’ and ‘wasting money on silly subscription services for rubbish box sets set in foreign places like Sweden or America’.

‘Thanks, Betty. I’d love to take you up on your offer, but …’ Grace let her voice fade away.

‘I know, my love.’ A short silence followed, broken only by the sound of Betty’s crochet hook as she looped the yarn around it and got to work on Hannah’s dolly blanket. ‘Now, Larry has something special for you to do this afternoon.’

‘Ooh, sounds intriguing.’ Grace finished the last of her tea and stood up as Larry walked through the door. A clipboard and a bunch of keys were pressed against his uniform of a black suit, including waistcoat and tie with a freshly laundered striped shirt. With his swept-back silver hair, he had been making an effort to look dapper since he was first introduced to Betty at a tea dance back in the day. They had both been nineteen and it had been a mutual love at first sight. Grace loved hearing all about it from Betty. It gave her hope, that there really was such a thing as ‘happy ever after’, where two kind souls could love and cherish and, most importantly, respect each other as they shared a life together.

‘That’s right, Grace. Your favourite job. Unit 28 needs opening and cataloguing for sale or disposal.’ Larry removed his bifocals and slipped them into his breast pocket before handing the clipboard to her, then started sorting out the key to the padlock on the door of number 28.

‘Thank you!’ Grace particularly loved this part of her job. Not that she was nosey – well, maybe a bit; her mother always said she was as a child – ‘with your constant questioning’. ‘Inquisitive’ was how Grace liked think of it, as she did get a thrill of anticipation when the door to an abandoned unit was first opened and she got to peep inside and then sort through the contents. Somebody else’s cast-off stuff was always another person’s treasure.

Mostly, it was the usual items of furniture stored after a house move, or sometimes catering equipment, packs of party blowers and joke hats belonging to event planners whose businesses had gone bust, that kind of thing. But every now and again there would be a veritable treasure trove of intrigue. She once found a pair of stuffed parrots. Another time a collection of fossils – she’d contacted the Natural History Museum in London on that occasion and they had sent a curator to collect them when numerous attempts to make contact with the owners had proven fruitless. And then there was the World War II medal collection a little while ago. Grace, Larry and Betty had all agreed that it just wouldn’t have been right to sell the medals to recover the rental arrears when they hadn’t been able to contact the owner. It had then turned out that the owner had died six months earlier. Luckily, Larry had managed to find a relative … the son of the deceased soldier, who had stored his medals at Cohen’s for over fifty years in one of the small safety deposit boxes, and that had been a happy day. The grateful son had travelled all the way from Scotland to collect the medals in person and to shake Larry’s hand. A reporter from the local newspaper had even come along too, and then written a lovely piece featuring a black-and-white photo of the man in his soldier’s uniform during the Second World War.

‘I can do that for you,’ Grace offered, indicating the bunch of keys that Larry was fiddling with. ‘They can be very tricky sometimes,’ she added tactfully, knowing how Larry struggled with arthritis in his age-gnarled fingers.

‘Thank you, Grace. You are kind.’ He smiled gratefully, handing the clipboard and the bunch of keys over.

Having found the right key, Grace had pushed an empty trolley along the length of the corridor on the ground floor 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.