A key to the world

A key. A name and a phone number scribbled on a torn little piece of paper.

Bettsy Winston.

That was all my aunt had left me. An aunt I had been lucky to see once or twice a year.

She died peacefully in Mexico, in her sleep. Her friends buried her there. No one in the family had expected anything from her. She was always travelling, always off somewhere. She had lived her own life. She had never allowed anything—or anyone—to define her.

But as it turned out, she had left something for everyone.

My brother inherited the deed to her flat in London. It wasn’t anything special. One room and a bathroom. Barely any furniture. Sometimes, when we were in the city, my aunt had let us stay there. It wasn’t worth much, but Nick had been genuinely delighted by it, even getting a little emotional.

Mum received financial security from her sister. Investments...or something like that. To be honest, I had never understood how my aunt could afford to travel so much when she barely seemed to work. She ran a blog and occasionally wrote articles.

Dad got her old wind-up watch, with the comment that perhaps it might finally teach him to be on time.

And I got a nondescript key.

With no explanation whatsoever.

There had never been anything we had in common. I spent most of my days sitting in my room, reading. I lived through stories and avoided all unnecessary human interaction.

The only person I spoke to on the phone was Dad, because he refused to text.

My brother offered to call about the key on my behalf. Somehow, though, I felt that if I let him, I would be letting my aunt down.

Days passed.

Then an entire week.

The little scrap of paper stayed tucked inside the back of my phone case. I looked at it every day. Every day I told myself I would make the call.

I never did.

One Saturday afternoon, the whole family was sprawled in front of the television. Some old adventure film was playing, something about a treasure hunt. No one was really paying attention. We were all scrolling through our phones.

I looked up every now and then, but naturally, I had no idea what was going on in the film.

And yet, somehow, my imagination was caught by the idea of a treasure waiting to be found.

Then I thought of the key.

The name. The phone number.

My hand was shaking as I typed the digits into my phone. Before I could change my mind again, I pressed the call button without thinking.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Four...

Then an older woman's voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon. Is this Mrs Winston?”

“Yes. Who’s speaking?”

“Sorry to bother you.” My voice came out higher than usual. “My name is Anna Harris. I’m Abigail Kealey’s niece.”

Before I could say anything else, Mrs Winston let out a delighted squeal.

Her voice was sharp, almost painfully so. The serious, suspicious tone she had answered with disappeared at once, replaced by warmth.

“Ohhh, Anna, darling!” she exclaimed, far too cheerfully. “Yes, yes. I’ve been waiting for your call. I’m so sorry about your aunt. Abigail told me so much about you. It feels as though we’ve already met. How are you, sweetheart?”

“I-I’m fine, thank you. I just... I didn’t think my aunt ever talked about me to anyone.”

“Oh, believe me, she did. You’re calling about the little chest, aren’t you? The one Abigail left with me.”

“The... chest?”

“Yes, that one. What would you say to coming down here to St Ives? I have a little bakery on Fore Street. We’re rather busy this time of year, towards the end of spring, so I can’t leave the shop. But I’d love to meet you. You could come as early as tomorrow, if you like. Stay for a couple of days. John—he’s my husband—works down at the harbour. I’ll ask him to take you out on the boat for a little while. The coast is beautiful when the weather’s sunny.”

A loud crash sounded somewhere in the background, followed by shouting and the shrill laughter of children.

“Unfortunately, it’s still a little too cold for swimming. At least it is for me. But you’re young and full of life. You can take a dip if the weather’s nice.”

Another burst of noise erupted behind her.

“Oh, darling, I have to go. My grandchildren are here. I’ll send you the address to this number, all right? We’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. Take care.”

She hung up.

I hadn’t even managed to get a word in.

I had no idea what to do.

Could you even refuse an invitation like that?

And if you could, how?

My phone vibrated, telling me I had received a message.

A short address.

Then, once again:

We’ll be waiting for you tomorrow.

Followed by a smiling face.

Well.

Now I was definitely going.

I had finished my university exams months ago. I had no tangible excuse for refusing the trip. It was roughly four hours by train. Not exactly unbearable.

At least it would give me some time to prepare myself for the meeting.

I booked a seat on an early train.

Mornings were always more pleasant. On Sundays, people tended to sleep in, so the trains were quieter too.

The air at dawn was fresh and biting, yet there was already a hint of summer in it. The birds were waking earlier and earlier. Sunlight spilled brightly across the landscape.

Inside the carriage, the soft rhythm of the train was accompanied only by the occasional whisper of a few young people.

St Ives was a charming little town filled with whitewashed houses.

By midday, the streets were crowded with people. There seemed to be some kind of market or fair near one of the smaller parks, but I didn’t go any closer.

I wanted to reach Fore Street as quickly as possible and get the awkward first meeting over with.

There weren’t many buses heading towards the harbour, where the bakery was located, so I walked.

The old-fashioned charm of the town, the salty air, even the hum of voices around me had a strangely calming effect.

Little streets twisted and wound into one another, but finding Four Seasons Bakery wasn’t difficult.

The street was lined with cafés, restaurants and tiny craft shops. Four Seasons stood out immediately, its colourful window display impossible to miss.

I couldn’t even begin to count how many different kinds of flowers decorated the place—hanging from the ceiling, clustered around the windows, spilling out both inside and outside.

It was as though spring itself had come along and decorated the shop.

Inside, dried flowers and herbs hung from ornate wooden beams. Here and there, little clay figurines of gnomes and animals smiled at the customers.

Mrs Winston had been right.

A huge queue stretched out through the entrance.

The interior was small compared with most bakeries, but every shelf was packed with baked goods that looked fresher than the last. Loaves of bread, muffins, sandwiches and various savoury pastries were lined up in neat rows.

It seemed there were two tills.

Although one of them looked as though it had been set up temporarily, since the space clearly hadn’t been designed for it.

A young girl was serving customers there. She looked cheerful, kind and friendly. Her voice was pleasantly warm—the sort of voice you didn’t mind listening to.

At the main till stood an older woman, perhaps in her fifties.

She was tall and slender, with an air of authority about her. Firm, yet polite. She worked quickly and precisely.

That was Mrs Winston.

I have to admit, she wasn't what I had imagined. I had expected a sweet, plump little old lady with rosy cheeks and smile lines.

At least I had got the last part right.

I stood awkwardly beside the door, unsure what to do next. Should I say hello? Or wait until things calmed down?

Judging by the current state of things, that could take hours.

My eyes wandered nervously around the room until they met Mrs Winston's.

I was certain she was about to snap at me for standing there aimlessly.

“Anna?” she called out happily.

In situations like this, I was glad I wasn't very good at reading people.

“Anna, darling, is that you?”

“Yes, Mrs Winston. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”

“I recognised you immediately. Come on, sweetheart. Go and leave your things in the office at the back. Jeremy!”

Mrs Winston's booming voice could probably have been heard all the way down the street.

“Anna's here. Get her some tea and give her one of those apple and blackberry turnovers that just came out. You'll see, you've never tasted anything so good!”

She shouted the last part through a thick curtain at the back of the shop.

“And let's drop the Mrs Winston business. You can call me Bettsy.”

“O-okay. Thank you.”

Jeremy, the burly baker, emerged from the back room carrying a small basket of pastries and a tray with tea.

“The office is through this door. It's a bit cramped, and no one can ever seem to keep it tidy. Find a place to sit wherever you can. I brought you a savoury pastry too, in case you're in the mood for something salty. Bettsy's own recipe. Very good. I need to get back to the ovens.”

And then I was alone.

The food really was heavenly. It was so fresh that I burned my mouth on it.

The mint tea went wonderfully with the savoury pastry.

I had been waiting for an hour and a half when Bettsy finally walked through the door.

“Sorry you had to wait so long. Like I said, it's a busy time of year.”

“It's all right. The pastries here are really good.”

“I told you they were. Did you get enough to eat?”

“Yes, thank you. As for my aunt...”

“Yes, yes. I'll get the little chest”

The wooden box was just as unremarkable as the key that had opened it. Simple, varnished and completely undecorated. Not particularly large, but not small either.

The padlock, however, looked surprisingly sturdy.

“Abigail left this here—I can't even remember when. Years ago. She asked me to keep it safe for you. Every time she came to visit, she put something new inside. The last time was about three months ago.”

She smiled faintly.

“I've always wondered what was in it. You don't mind if I stay, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

Why would I? Bettsy seemed kind and trustworthy. And besides, this wasn't exactly an emotional moment for me.

The box was filled with postcards, photographs, children's drawings and several printed booklets.

At first, I couldn't make sense of what I was looking at. Why would my aunt leave these things to me? But as I leafed through them, I realised.

“These are my drawings.”

I stared at the pages.

“The stories I... And these are pictures and postcards from her travels. But why did she send them here? And why did she keep my drawings? And how did she know that I...?”

“You write stories?”

Bettsy looked almost amused.

“Of course she knew. From what I heard, you were quite the little storyteller when you were a child. She used to rave about what a famous writer you were going to become one day. She also told me how much the two of you were alike.”

She paused for a moment.

“You know, Abigail and I went to the same secondary school. We've been friends ever since. Back then, she was a quiet, shy girl. She hardly spoke to anyone except me. But everything changed at university, when one of her professors started dragging her along to all sorts of events and lectures. Shee saw the talent in her. She believed in her. And eventually, well... look what she became.”

Bettsy smiled.

“A true world traveller. She was happy right until the very end.”

“I never would have imagined that about her.”

I looked down at the photographs.

“But I'm different. I like a quiet life. I'd rather live in stories. I don't know what she was trying to achieve by doing this...”

Bettsy let out a gentle laugh.

“You sound exactly like her.”

She leaned back slightly.

“And I never really understood how she managed to change so much either. When I asked her about it, she simply said, ‘Before I make an important decision, I ask myself: what's exciting about it?’”

Bettsy's smile softened.

“She realised quite quickly that she'd been bored all her life. And that the only way she could create worlds was by getting to know her own.”

She tapped the box lightly.

“I think that's what she wanted to tell you. When she left the chest with me, she gave me an instruction too. You had to come and collect it yourself.”

“She wanted me to leave my room.”

I looked at the photographs in my hands, studying the unfamiliar people in them, and thought deeply about what Bettsy had said.

Aunt Abigail was grinning broadly in every single one. Her eyes were bright. In some, she was badly sunburned. In others, she was wrapped up in so many layers that she was almost unrecognisable. But the smile was always the same.

She had been happy.

At the bottom of the box, I found a small envelope. Inside was another key, a name and an address. And alongside them, a flight voucher.

“What is this? There's no phone number.”

“You'll have to figure that part out yourself. But judging by the name and address, I'd be heading to Spain.”

“Spain...”

Bettsy had to return to the shop to help out.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering down by the harbour. After quite a bit of searching, I finally found John, and we introduced ourselves. He was a quiet man, but kind-hearted.

I stayed with them for two days. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

I became friends with Jeremy and Mary, the girl working behind the counter. It turned out she went to university in London and had only come home for the summer. I went out on the boat with John and a few other tourists. At the beach, I dipped my foot into the water for approximately two seconds before immediately regretting it. I can't stand the cold.

The box Aunt Abigail left me is sitting on my desk now, beside my laptop.

On the screen, I have the British Airways website open, along with a map of Spain.

I thought I'd been inherited a battered little box and a handful of scraps of paper.

But Aunt Abigail had given me a path into the world.

And I've decided to take it.

Besides, what else would I do all summer?

Sit in my room and read...

That's what I should do.

But what's exciting about it?