Broken Old Things

I’m slouching in the charity shop stockroom just about bored enough to ask Tina out for a drink when we hear the smash.

‘Aw, Jaysus.’ Tina tosses her cigarette out of the open fire escape and exhales smoke-laced stress. ‘If that’s another kid from the estate running loose spilling the jewellery display, I swear I’ll scream.’

But it’s no kid we find muttering apologies to Eileen the manager beside the scattered remnants of the porcelain salt shaker. It’s an old man with a tumbleweed head of white hair and the bulk of a collapsing cottage.

‘I’m sorry, it just...’ As his hand trembles over the pieces on the floor, I think of a priest giving the last rites. Eileen’s eyes are the size of a bush baby’s through her corrective lenses.

‘Don’t trouble yourself, love. Accidents happen. It’s just an auld thing anyway.’ She beckons Tina with a twitch of her head, before strutting off to vent her frustration on a half-priced rail of ladies' jackets. Look how much trouble you’ve caused, announces the clangs and clatter of coat hangers. Tina pads forward proffering the old man a smile as though it were a tissue.

The old man doesn’t notice her. He’s staring at the pepper shaker companion of the shattered salt shaker. I see tea streaks patterning his raincoat; his shirt is more wrinkled than his face. As he stares rheumy-eyed at the shaker on the shelf, a garish bit of crockery on which the 2.99 price sticker has long since faded, his wordless murmuring reveals a mouthful of tawny teeth and gaps, and I feel moved to say something.

‘Those old things have been gathering dust for years, mate. Nothing to lose any sleep over.’

He bristles at my intrusion, the craquelure of his face flushing with shame. I see it’s not rheumatism in his eyes but tears. When a nervous jiggle from Tina produces a jingle of broken porcelain, she looks mortified at the dustpan in her hand and says ‘sorry’ as though she’s interrupted a funeral.

The old man grunts something that could be a strained apology, before clasping his hands behind his back with the dignity of a businessman waiting for a bus. I don’t know what to do with Tina’s look of helplessness when it comes scurrying my way, so I just send it back.

The old man straightens up into decision and strides over to the till.

‘How much do I owe you?’

Eileen’s gawp widens. ‘There’s no charge, really, could have happened-’

‘I insist.’

He produces a cracked leather wallet bulging with receipts and mementos scribbled on envelope scraps. A five-pound note is extracted from a wad and placed on the counter, before he tucks the rest of the notes back in behind a plastic memoriam card.

‘Thank you. And again, sorry for any inconvenience.’

He nods curtly at each of us in turn, before composure inflates his chest causing a decade to depart his stature.

‘There’s still one shaker left,’ I say. ‘You might as well take it if you’re paying for it?’

‘No. Thank you, young man. As you say – it's just an old thing.’

He exits, leaving an incense of melancholy lingering in the air.

‘Och. I hope he’s okay.’ Tina wanders over to the window with the curiosity of a housebound dog.

‘Queer sort,’ says Eileen, her eyes now black beads of suspicion over the rim of her spectacles. The old man is shrinking down the street, disappearing – and then he’s gone.

I look at the little pepper shaker and feel a strange pang of sadness. It may only be an old thing, but now it’s all on its own.