Page 18 of The Society of Unknowable Objects
Finally, on a Sunday evening ten days after the funeral, at the end of a lazy, sunny day when Magda had felt ripples of her old good humour appearing once more, she had sensed she was now ready to read her mother’s words. She sat in the same armchair she had been sitting in when Frank had given her the letter, a gin and tonic on the table by her side and early evening sunlight pouring in through the large bay window. She opened the envelope and unfolded a few pages of paper, her mother’s neat handwriting filling the lines.
Dearest Magda
If you are reading this letter, it means I am dead. Sorry about that, but I know you’re tough and you will survive. Please don’t grieve too hard for me—I have had a fabulous life with many blessings. I mean... of course you must grieve. But don’t make a scene, dear. Some discreet tears are plenty. Feel free to laugh and make jokes at the funeral. People can be so miserable at those things. That’s the last thing I want, especially from you.
I hope I die peacefully in my sleep somewhere around my 100th birthday but failing that it would be preferable to go out with a bang, something dramatic and impressive that makes people sit up and take notice. I would love to be one of those stories that people talk about over the dinner table... “Did you hear about that woman Imelda Sparks who died when her parachute didn’t open and she crash-landed into the centre circle at Wembley halfway through the FA Cup final?” Something like that.
Magda smiled sadly at her mother’s joke. It was exactly the sort of comment Imelda would make, but Magda knew her mother well enough to know that she had likely opened with something silly just to cheer Magda up.
Anyway... I am waffling, and I don’t have long because I am supposed to be going to the cinema to meet up with some of the girls. The point of this letter is to reveal an important secret. It’s a pretty big secret... and not even my closest friends know it. But I have to tell you because responsibilities that are mine pass to you upon my death. Sorry about that too... but I think you are more than capable of what is required of you.
This is the secret, brace yourself:
Magic is real.
Pretty amazing, huh?
But what do I mean? Do I mean wizards and witches? I don’t. Here’s the short version: There are ordinary, everyday items with magical properties. In the first half of the last century my grandfather, along with three of his friends, learned of one such item and went looking for others. These items were rare, but they could be found if you knew what you were looking for. When they found a few more items they began to realise what the wrong sort of person could do if they got hold of them. So they formed a group with the intention of gathering all of these items and keeping them safe and out of the handsof those who might make mischief with them. This group—the Society of Unknowable Objects—is the meeting I go to twice a year.
Magda was aware of her mother’s meetings. It was just one of those features of their family life. When Magda had been younger her mother would leave her with a babysitter or with friends twice a year. Or, when she was older, Imelda would leave her reading or doing her homework to attend her meeting. Magda never really inquired about it—she just understood it as a charity her mother’s family had set up.
Frank Simpson is a member of the group too. He is the longest-serving of all of us, actually. There are two other members, four in total, each of us a descendant of one of the four men who established the group last century. All of us received a letter just like this when one of our parents died. If you are reading this, you are now ascending to become a member of the Society. One day you will write a letter just like this to be given to the person you pick to succeed you as a member. (I hope a child of yours... even though I know how you feel about that! But I have a right to want to be a grandmother!) Someone you trust to keep the secret and to look after the Society archive. I hope your letter doesn’t have to be read for a very long time.
Some practicalities. The Society meets in Bell Street Books twice a year (it’s why we were always there when you were younger, it’s how I know Frank—the Society has hidden below your entire life, Magda). We check in to see if there is news of any new magical items, and we make sure the archive is as it should be. It has been quite some time since any new magical items were discovered. All of that can be explained to you when you speak to Frank—and you must speak to him, he can tell you more. The point of this letter is just to tell you about this and to reassure you that Frank is not crazy, even when it sounds like he is saying outlandish things.
I hope you accept the responsibility I leave to you, Magda. I think you have the aptitude and the heart for it. I’ve raised you knowing that you would succeed me eventually, and I’ve seen that you have the qualities... but ultimately the decision must be yours.
Think of it, Magda: magical items. Each of them able to do wonderful things. Like make fire. Or control the elements in the earth. Or fly. Can you imagine being able to fly, Magda? Just hanging in the air above hills and lochs and being as free as a bird? That would be amazing.
One final thing, since I have you... I want you to have my jewellery. It means a lot to me, even though I know you don’t really wear jewellery normally. Some of it is particularly special. You remember that silver necklace with the green stone—I bought that when you were a child and always wanted you to have it, because it goes so well with your red hair. Will you wear it for me, please, Magda? Keep it close and it will remind you of me.
Thank you.
Imelda Sparks
(your mum)
(but you know that)
(love you!)
It was only upon reading her mother’s letter that a memory clicked into place, a moment from that holiday when Magda had been a child. Up in the hills on that grey day, she remembered her mother holding her close and showing her the necklace she had written about in her letter, the simple chain with the green stone.
“This is magic, Magda,” Imelda had said to her, dangling the stone from the chain. “This lets you fly. What do you think about that?”
Magda hadn’t known what to think about that, so her mother had shown her, and that was the day that Magda had flown, the day she often remembered where it hadseemedas if she was flying, even though she obviously wasn’t. Because flying was impossible.
On the day many years later when she read her mother’s letter Magda sat very still in the armchair for a few minutes, her eyes gazing off to the world outside but seeing nothing, the letter in her hand and the distant ticking of the grandfather clock counting out the duration of her thoughts.
She put the letter down, picked up her gin and tonic, and downed it in one, and then she went upstairs to her mother’s bedroom. She had avoided going into the room ever since she had returned to the house, leaving it as something to face at some distant, future time when her emotions were more settled. But she had a question now that she wanted an answer to, a crazy idea that she had to test. She crossed the room, through the lingering, faint smell of her mother’s perfume, to the dressing table by the window. There was a small jewellery box in the bottom drawer. Magda squatted down, opened the drawer, removed the box, and then rummaged through the contents until she found what she was looking for—the plain silver chain with the green stone. It felt heavy in her hand.
Magda hummed to herself, wondering.
She stood up as she passed the chain over her neck and let the pendant rest against her sternum. It felt good there, solid and heavy, comforting, like the reassuring hand of a friend.
“Just a necklace,” she said to herself. “No need to be stupid about it.”
But her mind went back to the day she had flown, her mother’s words: “This lets you fly.”
