The Shiny People

Joan creaks out of the shower and wraps herself in a thick towel, clinging to a vestige of warmth. She shudders; another patch of rust on her forearm is growing. It brings to mind Brian’s medieval gauntlets, marred by rust after a particularly soggy re-enactment weekend and a leaky tent. She swallows the thought. The floorboards groan, as she clanks towards her bedroom workbench. Cure-rust for her arm, wire wool for the scratches criss-crossing her face, she finishes off with multi-purpose metal polish all over, and sighs. It’s the best she can do. 

Heavy pewter clouds hang in a colourless sky. Her feet hit the pavement with resounding thuds as she heads for the charity shop at the end of Towngate. The voices that rattle around her head, begin their morning ritual. 

Volunteering isn’t real work. Too old. Too stupid. Too weird. 

Joan judders to a halt and thwacks her head on a peeling silver birch.

They only let you help because they couldn’t find anyone better. 

As her head meets the nearest lamp post; she curses at the thought of how long the damage will take to buff out. 

She wonders how Margaret, always ready to greet Joan with a smile, starts her day. She pictures copper pans and a gleaming Aga and Margaret rolling dough, surrounded by clouds of flour, the air thick with cinnamon and sugar. Margaret would have contemporary music playing in the background, and she’d know the words. 

The kettle is already whistling when Joan clunks into ReachOut. Margaret hands her sticky flapjack, rich with the scent of ginger. Joan’s crumpled custard cream wrapper sits in the bin from yesterday. 

“Your hair looks lovely.” Joan nibbles the flapjack. Wonders if the compliment was cringe-worthy. Feels herself shrinking, hears the grating of metal as her skin shifts to accommodate the tiny woman within. 

“Thanks. That’ll be the sun.” 

Joan nods. “How was Majorca?” She can ask that, can’t she? 

“Great. We met up with our friends, the Greens again. If you ever fancy it, you could join me and Ann for the shopping. The boys prefer their golf.” 

Joan smiles and sips the sweetened brew, wondering if she should work more lubricant into the corners of her mouth. She can’t find the correct response. 

“You going away this year?” Margaret wipes a sliver of oat from the corner of her mouth, with a small pink finger. Dainty. Nothing clumsy about Margaret. 

“Maybe Scarborough … or perhaps I’ll potter around the garden—it could do with the work… .” Joan satisfies herself with the lightest tap to her head, aware that the metallic ring is jarring. She blinks back images of a holiday with Brian. She’d promised him she would visit Scarborough again, and their other favourite places, and remember him and their best days. As though she’d ever forget. Silly man. 

When she’d noticed the others at breakfast—the loud woman with platinum hair and an armful of bejewelled bracelets, the silver-haired one with designer sunglasses and a string of pearls, the men with their mirror-glaze shoes, razor-edged pocket handkerchiefs and sharp conversation, Joan had shrunk into her chair. 

But Brian had sat up straighter, then leaned across and whispered, “Just be yourself, love. We don’t need sequins and sparkle like the shiny people.” And she had tried. She’d tied her hair back in a neat ponytail and given herself a spritz of Lily, and strode out. With Brian by her side, she had tried. 

“I wonder who donated this; it must have been special to someone.” Margaret’s voice yanks Joan back into the present. Margaret pulls out a sunshine-yellow duster and rubs soundly at the gold-plated trophy. “I’ll finish the box. You want to start on that sack?” 

The sack at Joan’s feet is one of the sturdy black ones with tie handles. She fumbles the knot open and pulls out a pink coat. The collar is finished with neat white piping and the buttons are tiny pearlescent beads. Joan runs the fine wool between her fingers. Probably worn at a wedding, by the sort of woman who never wears the same outfit twice. 

“That’s a fine piece. We’ll get a good few pounds for that.” Margaret’s eyes sparkle; every penny made for the charity is a victory to relish.

Joan pulls out a coat hanger and finds it badly bent. She presses it against the ground, using her thumbs to coax it back into shape. When she slips the coat onto it, one shoulder droops. She sighs and rummages for a sturdier hanger. Even some thing that exquisite can’t hide the twisted wire beneath. 

The day passes quickly enough. A shuffle of bargain hunters, a trickle of time passers, interludes spent with those who value fresh conversation along with vintage clothing. 

Margaret slips into the back for the keys to lock up. She returns with a small parcel in a Centro Commercial bag. 

“You shouldn’t have.” Joan means it. 

“I wanted to. I couldn’t do without you now, and you deserve a treat. Open it when you get home.” 

The familiar smell of Lily of the Valley hits Joan in a rush. She hasn’t used it for so long. Her hands shake as she inhales the steam and watches the bubbles grow. She eases herself into the tub and tries to relax. Stupid. Fancy soaking in the bath. Soaking. What is she thinking? There’ll be so much rust to deal with. No end of it. The rivulets down her cheeks will be the worst. Saltwater is so corrosive. 

But, fancy Margaret remembering. One chat, all that time ago. Joan had learned since then, to keep the conversation light and right in the here and now. She was never making a show of herself in the shop like that again, no matter how kind Margaret had been. But now, the tears are falling faster than ever. There’s no end to them. They drag themselves from every corner of her being. It feels like hours before they slow to a trickle. But at last, they stop. 

She explores her face with soft fingertip pads, shocked to find bare tender skin. Her bathtub is glittered with a kaleidoscope of fragments. She pulls the plug, eases herself upright, and watches a storm of rust flakes fall around her feet and swirl away. Joan prods at soft pink flesh. It feels so vulnerable, so naked, but warm.

First Published by A Coup of Owls in their Other and Different anthology 2023.