The Lost & The Found

Vincent stood on the drizzle-dampened pavement outside a soot-stained brick building that was squeezed between an artisan bakery and a dry cleaner’s. The faded gilt lettering across the frosted glass door read: Municipal Lost Property Office & Miscellaneous Recovery. He adjusted his collar, took three shallow breaths and checked his pocket. No keys, no wallet, no courage. Well, he had the keys and wallet, but the third item was the sole reason he was standing in the damp city chill.

Pushing the door open, Vincent was met by the chime of a brass bell and the unmistakable smell of old paper, damp wool and furniture polish. Behind a sprawling mahogany counter sat Danielle. She was a delightfully corpulent woman in her mid-fifties, possessed of a grand, bosom-forward presence and a halo of auburn curls that seemed to defy both gravity and local building regulations. She wore a bright marigold cardigan, a pair of reading spectacles suspended on a beaded chain and an expression of warm, unflinching competence.

‘Morning, love,’ Danielle boomed, her voice rich and velvety as warm custard. She dusted a speck of powder from her cardigan. ‘Don’t just stand in the doorway letting the draught in. Come in, mind the umbrella stand and tell Danielle what’s gone missing.’

Vincent shuffled forward, his shoulders hunched in his habitual posture of apology.

‘Good morning. I’m not entirely sure I’m in the right place, to be honest. It sounds rather foolish.’

‘Nonsense,’ Danielle declared, peering over her half-moon spectacles. ‘We had a gentleman in here last Tuesday who lost his sense of timing halfway through a tap-dancing routine in Soho. Found it tucked in a discarded hatbox. What have you misplaced? Keys? Umbrella? Dignity?’

‘My confidence,’ Vincent confessed softly, looking down at his worn leather brogues. ‘I seem to have lost it somewhere between the quarterly budget meeting and the office coffee machine three weeks ago. I haven’t been able to voice an opinion since.’

Danielle clicked her tongue sympathetically and pulled a heavy leather-bound ledger towards her. ‘Ah, confidence. Very common item, especially among lovely chaps who care far too much about what loud people think. Let’s see now.’ She unclipped a silver pen and tapped the page. ‘Name?’

‘Vincent Mariachi.’

‘Right then, Vincent. Describe the item for me. Was it a newly minted confidence, or had it been around the block a bit?’

‘It was never particularly flashy,’ Vincent explained, feeling strangely at ease in her presence. ‘A bit frayed at the edges, perhaps. But it held up quite well during modest social gatherings and basic workplace presentations. Lately, though, it’s completely evaporated. Every time I open my mouth to speak in public, my knees turn to jelly.’

‘Jelly is a terrible consistency for knees,’ Danielle agreed solemnly. She rose from her reinforced swivel chair with a hearty sigh, her marigold cardigan swishing around her generous hips. ‘Wait here, love. Let me check the back stacks.’

She disappeared through a beaded curtain into the shadowy depths of the storeroom. Vincent heard the sound of shifting cardboard boxes, a brief metallic clatter and Danielle humming a jolly music hall tune. A few minutes later, she returned carrying a modest wooden box with brass clasps.

‘Here we are,’ she said, placing the box on the counter with a satisfying thud. ‘One slightly battered, underused ego-booster, returned to the desk by a very honest barista from Costa.’

Vincent stared at the box. ‘Is that … mine?’

‘Well, let’s open it up and inspect its state,’ Danielle said, lifting the lid. Inside lay a soft, glowing ember of warm light, though it flickered weakly, like a candle caught in a draught. ‘Oh dear. It’s got a bit damp, hasn’t it? Full of self-doubt and overthinking. Look at these scratches around the rim, that’s classic performance anxiety.’

‘Can it be fixed?’ Vincent asked anxiously.

‘Fixed? My dear boy, it just needs a proper polish and some decent feeding,’ Danielle barked cheerfully. She produced a soft flannel cloth from her pocket and a jar labelled Unapologetic Spine Restorative. ‘Now, stand up straight, Vincent. Put your shoulders back. You’re slouching like a wet umbrella.’

Vincent straightened instinctively.

‘Better,’ Danielle pronounced, dabbing a bit of paste onto the glowing ember and rubbing it briskly with the cloth. ‘Now, repeat after me, with feeling: I am entirely entitled to occupy physical space on this planet.’

‘I am entirely entitled to occupy…,’ Vincent muttered timidly.

‘Louder, love! The pigeons outside can’t hear you, let alone your line manager. Again!’ Danielle insisted, giving the ember a vigorous buff.

‘I am entirely entitled to occupy physical space on this planet!’ Vincent repeated, his chest lifting slightly.

‘Marvellous!’ Danielle beamed, her cheeks dimpling pleasantly. ‘And again: ‘My ideas are just as valid as those of blokes called Richard who speak loudly in boardrooms.’’

Vincent couldn’t help but smile.

‘My ideas are just as valid as those of blokes called Richard who speak loudly in boardrooms!’

As he spoke, the ember inside the wooden box burst into a bright, steady gold, warming the space between them. Danielle lifted the glowing light with both hands and gently pressed it towards Vincent’s chest. A sudden wave of pleasant warmth surged through his collarbone, settling firmly in his stomach. His spine straightened further, his chin raised, and the uncomfortable flutter in his throat vanished.

‘There you go,’ Danielle said with a satisfied pat on his shoulder. ‘Good as new. In fact, I’ve tightened the spine springs a notch or two for you.’

‘How much do I owe you, Danielle?’ Vincent asked, his voice noticeably resonant and firm.

‘Just sign the register, love, and promise me you won’t leave it lying around near loud idiots again,’ Danielle smiled, resting her hands on her generous hips. ‘And if you ever feel it slipping, you come right back here. I keep a spare tin of backbone polish under the counter.’

Vincent signed the parchment with a flourish, looked Danielle square in the eye and gave her a warm, genuine smile.

‘Thank you, Danielle. You’re an absolute star.’

‘Off you go then, Vincent,’ she said, waving a plump, jewel-ringed hand as he headed for the door. ‘Go give those boardrooms what for.’

When Vincent stepped out onto the rainy street, he didn’t hunch his shoulders against the wind. He adjusted his jacket, held his head high and stepped boldly into the morning, feeling entirely, magnificently himself.