That Girl From Nowhere by Dorothy Koomson Page A

pair of earrings,’ I explain. ‘I got the earrings when I went on holiday. You know how, when you’re on holiday, something you buy looks amazing and you love it, then you get it home and the shine comes off it and you realise that the thing that was the most amazing thing in the world is now hellish? That was these earrings. They were incredibly uncomfortable. The shape, though, like teardrops, reminded me of the closed wings of a butterfly. I like butterflies, always have done, so I thought I could remake the earrings into something I could wear. It is not very good, because I was just starting to make jewellery.’ I run my fingers along the solid lines where the wings meet. You can still see the rivulets of the solder, something I would painstakingly file smooth if I was making the piece now. ‘I cut into this part of the earring, then I had to file both edges into curves to make them fit. Then I had to solder them together.’
    It sounds so simple, that I just did it, but the pain I went through: I had sobbed as the solder ran into the wrong places because I hadn’t painted enough of the yellow-green liquid flux into the right areas; I had cried again at the moment when I had finally got the solder to stay and it snapped off because I was too vigorous with the filing. ‘I used a large silver jump-ring and soldered it on to the wings to make it into a head. See?’ I moved my finger over the curved antennae on each side of the butterfly’s head. ‘The small antennae were made by melting and soldering on the little links you put through your ears.’ As I speak, she turns the pendant over and over in her hands. ‘I wear it all time now so it’s gone from a pair of earrings that sat in a drawer mostly forgotten to something I love to wear. I want to do that with some of your jewellery.’
    ‘It is so simple but
kaunis
.’ Mrs Lehtinen’s hands turn over the pendant and her eyes, upon which she has now placed the glasses she wears around her neck on a gold chain, continue to scrutinise it. ‘What is the word? Beautiful. But not as ordinary as beautiful. No, no, I don’t mean beautiful. In Finnish the word is
henkeäsalpaava
.’
    ‘
Henkeäsalpaava
,’ I repeat as close to what she said as I can. I nod while I say it, acting as though I understand completely what she is getting at. She’s Finnish.
Does she have children
? I wonder.
Grandchildren? Did they sleep in baby boxes, too? Did she decorate them or were they as plain as they were when they were given to mothers by the government?
    ‘I haven’t met many Finnish people in my life,’ I say.
    ‘I am surprised at that, there are many of us around. Even here, in Brighton.’
    She’s not really giving me her full attention, she seems obsessed by the pendant. It isn’t that perfect. I love it, but I can see all its flaws, all the ways I would have made it differently now I am more experienced at what I do. Back then I was trying too hard to make things perfect and didn’t always manage it. In 2015, having done this for years, I still aim for perfection, but I don’t panic because anything that goes wrong, I know I can usually fix. Or at least make it look like the problem was intentional.
    ‘Do you like butterflies?’ I ask her.
    ‘It is not that,’ Mrs Lehtinen replies. ‘I am always fascinated by them because I remember a long time ago I knew of a baby who had a
perhonen
box.’ She traces her fingers over the wing curves of my butterfly pendant.
    ‘A what?’ I ask, scared to repeat the word in case it comes out wrong and I end up swearing at her.
    ‘A butterfly box,’ she says. ‘A box covered in
perhonen
. In Finland, when a baby is born, the government gives the mother a box full of everything they need – clothes and nappies and the like. And the box has a mattress too so the baby can sleep in it.’
    I know this. The tingling that has taken over my body tells me that I know this. The sudden shortness of my breath tells me that I