Significant Things. Helen McLean

Victorian canes, run his fingers over an ivory letter opener or a massive silver-topped cut-glass inkwell.

      One day his attention was drawn to a tiny silver pocket knife that lay beside others under a glass-topped counter. When he leaned over to look at it more closely he couldn’t believe his eyes. The knife had his initials on it, E.C., plain as day, engraved on an oval medallion on the side. A thrill went through him. That knife belonged to him, he knew it did. It had been there waiting for him. He absolutely had to possess it. He was jumping up and down as he pointed it out to the shopkeeper.

      “That silver penknife there, the little one — no, the other — yes, that one — look at it, sir, it has my initials on it!” The man smiled and drew it out from under the glass display counter and held it in the palm of his hand.

      “What’s your name, laddie?”

      “Edward Cooper, sir.”

      He peered at it. “Then you’re quite right, Edward. Fancy that. Maybe it belonged to some relative of yours. Here, want to have a closer look?”

      Edward held the little knife in his palm and gazed at it. Sunlight from the window flashed on the silver, and the metal felt almost hot against his skin. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. He opened its single blade very carefully and closed it again, almost breathless when he spoke.

      “How much is it, sir?”

      “Not too much. A pound, I guess, son.”

      Edward’s face must have fallen. He didn’t have a whole pound at the moment.

      “But I could do, oh, let’s say ten shillings, since it has your initials on it already.”

      He had seven shillings at home saved out of the pocket money his mother gave him. Even Rak tossed him a few sixpences or a shilling now and then, as one might pitch coins to an urchin on the street.

      “If I went home and got seven shillings now would you save it for me until I can bring the rest?” He knew he had only to ask his mother out of Rak’s earshot, and she would give him enough to make up the difference.

      “Of course I will, young fellow. Bring in your seven now, and when you’ve got three more it’ll be yours. How’s that?”

      Edward ran all the way home, pelted up the stairs to his bedroom, emptied his treasure box, and ran as fast as he could back to the shop.

      “Here’s the seven shillings,” he said, gasping for breath as he proffered the fistful of coins. “I’ll bring the other three shillings tomorrow morning. But sir ...”

      “Yes?”

      “You won’t sell it to anyone else before I come back tomorrow, will you?”

      The man laughed. “As far as I’m concerned, sonny, it’s as good as sold. I won’t even put it back in the showcase.”

      Edward hardly slept that night for thinking about the penknife, woke up the next morning beside himself with impatience to hold it in his hand again, to feel its warmth in his palm. His need for it was stronger than any pang of hunger he’d ever felt, almost as strong as the love he felt for his mother. His yearning for it made him forget everything else. He knew, somehow, that when he had that knife in his possession he would be happy again, at last. As soon as Rak left for work he rushed to his mother’s room and asked her for three shillings, and with the money clutched in his hand he hurried back to the Lanes to claim his knife.

      Owning that little silver knife thrilled him so much that for the next few weeks all he had to do was hold it in his hand and look at it to forget how much he hated Harvey Rak and his house, how unhappy it made him that his mother was lying upstairs half-asleep in bed day after day, even how bored and lonely he felt so much of the time. He could take that knife out of his pocket and press it to his cheek, or to his lips, take it to a window to let the sun shine on the beautiful silver, run his fingertip over the initials incised in its side, and feel the same burst of joy he felt the first time he set eyes on it.