Patrick Kendall, 63, had lost his glasses again. He had been holding them to his face to quickly fill out the description of item #07925F, had shuffled to the back to put the umbrella in the umbrella cabinet, and suddenly the glasses were nowhere to be seen. It’s not as though they were discreet; with black rims thicker than Ronnie Barker’s they should have stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the white and pastel papers Patrick was working with. He checked his pockets – only his bustling bunch of keys and cigarettes were to be found.

He was distracted from his search by the arrival of Hitesh, who had a plastic crate full of lost property with him.

“Good Afternoon, Mr Kendall,” Hitesh chirped as he dropped his heavy load in the corner of the small reception area.

“Hello there, Hitesh. I think I’ve lost my - ”

“Have a look on your head, eh, Mr Kendall?” said Hitesh as he went out of the door to get his next crate.

>Patrick gingerly went to pat the top of his silver hair, and would have done, had his fingers not brushed against his glasses first. He sighed, feeling a mixture of relief and embarrassment. He had just put them back onto his face when Hitesh reappeared with the next crate.

“Honestly, Mr Kendall, every week, eh? You always have your glasses on your head! And to think of you in charge of all of this lost property, eh? And you cannot even find your own glasses!”

“Yes, I know – one of these days they’ll probably turn up in one of these crates. Are there many more to come?”

“Two more, I think. Not much today, Mr Kendall.”

“That’s good!” he said as Hitesh disappeared outside again. While he was gone, Patrick rearranged some papers so he looked busier than he actually was. He was filing when Hitesh returned with the third crate, and was preparing the paperwork for these new arrivals when he brought in the final crate.

“Mr Kendall, see what is in this crate,” Hitesh said, reading a list taped to the box he was carrying, “A set of false teeth! How do you lose your teeth on a bus, eh? Someone is walking around with no teeth, ha ha! We should open the box and see, eh?”

“Not right now, Hitesh, I have a lot of work to do before I open these crates. Ask me next time you’re in and if they haven’t been claimed, I’ll show you then.”

“I will leave you to your work. Here - ” Hitesh handed Patrick a form to sign, “I will be seeing you next week, eh?”

“Of course. Cheerio!” Patrick called to the closing door.

Later that afternoon Patrick started to unload the crates. Someone in West Worcestershire certainly was in a gummy state, as they had lost both their top and bottom sets of teeth. After checking no-one had come in and he was completely on his own, Patrick held the teeth in his gloved fingers in such a way that it looked as though his hands had teeth that moved when he pinched his fingers.

“Hello, Patrick,” said his falsetto hand.

“Hello,” Patrick replied in his normal voice.

“I need to brush my teeth,” said the hand.

“So I can see! I’m going to put you away first though.”

“Oh, don’t be an old meanie.”

“I’m afraid I have to. I’m going to file you under miscellaneous,” said Patrick.

“Give us a kiss first!”

“Certainly not!” Patrick smiled at his silliness. “This is what happens when you’re left on your own all day,” he thought.

After dealing with the talkative teeth, Patrick went back to the crate and picked up the next item, a dark brown leather purse. It was about the length of a cheque book and had two small pieces of thread hanging from the corner, as though a metal label had once been attached there.

He opened it like a book and was confronted with a row of plastic store and credit cards. They dominated one of the two inner panels. Behind them was a sleeve for bank notes. It was empty, of course. The other panel had a zip pocket running along the spine of the purse for coins (only a few coppers remained) and on the front of the panel there were more pockets for cards which were filled with various business cards, and a clear plastic window which had been stuffed with photographs. Most easily seen were two passport photos of a cute toddler and a baby.

He didn’t recognise the baby – like all bald babies it just looked like Winston Churchill to him – but the toddler was vaguely familiar. Her strawberry blonde bunches and bright red cheeks accentuated huge blue eyes. She was ecstatic at having her photograph taken – she was beaming and it looked as though her mother’s hand was holding her back from slipping off the stool and running towards the camera.

Patrick pulled out a turquoise credit card. The silver had rubbed off all of the numbers, but you could still work out the name – Mrs S A Smithson. Patrick loved it when lost property came with a name tag, it made his job so much easier. Even if there was no more information he could just call up the credit card company and ask them to contact her. He continued his search through the purse none the less, just in case he could contact her directly himself. He pulled out a pearly blue business card. First time lucky, he had Samantha Smithson’s contact details in his hand. She was a graphic designer who could be contacted at her London office or on her mobile.

On the short walk from the crate on one end of the counter to the phone, which was on the other end, Patrick dropped the card. As it skidded slightly on the tiled floor, another one came out from beneath it. Patrick bent down to pick them up, and as he did he saw the second one was a faded blue but had the same design as the first card. Having grabbed them, he read the details on the second card as he straightened back up. It read:

Samantha Kendall

Graphic Design

Office: 0171 254 6379 Mobile: 07965021763

Patrick froze, still half bent over. Samantha Kendall? It couldn’t be. His blood ran so cold his cheeks burnt up. He hurriedly went back to the purse and with shaking hand, he pulled all of the photos out from behind the plastic window. There were three or four photos of the toddler, who was looking more and more familiar, and two more pictures of the baby. There was a picture of a thirty-something man relaxing on a balcony in a suit with red wine, and then he finally found what he was looking for – a picture of the man and woman together.

Patrick held the picture close to his face (he had lost his glasses on the top of his head again), and examined it closely. They were sitting in a field of dirty tents covered in mud. They both wore Wellington boots; his were green and hers were covered in pink and blue flowers. Thick mahogany red hair was flowing out from underneath a blue woollen hat, parted only by small pixie ears. She was laughing as she pushed the stubbly man sitting next to her into the surrounding mud. He was laughing too, reaching out to her rather than to the ground. If he was falling into the mud, she was going with him – laughing.

Patrick stared at the woman. He knew that grin. He could almost hear that childish laugh. The toddler was the spitting image of her mother at that age. In his hands, Patrick held his only daughter, thirty years after he had lost her.

Here she was, safe and found.

He had lost her after her mother had grown weary of him and the domestic drudgery which was required of her, and had joined a hippy commune claiming to be a feminist. The radical group did not admit men to the camp at any stage, believing they could be totally self-sufficient. Patrick had tried to get his daughter back, tried to give her into some sort of ordinary life, but all the only lawyers he could afford had been too scared of rocking the feminist boat to interfere and get Samantha back for him. He had given up on ever seeing her again many moons ago.

He had so many questions to ask her, so many things to tell her, so much he needed to know. He could call her right now, on her mobile phone, and hear her adult voice for the first time. He could. But what would he say? “Hello Samantha, it’s Dad. I’ve got your wallet?” Or, organise a time for her to come and collect it, and then freeze up and say nothing then? And besides, she probably hated him. He could never forgive himself for not fighting harder to see her, and was sure she would never forgive him either. She was bound to have inherited his stubborn streak. Combine that with a feminist, man-hating regime for at least 20 years and suddenly, there was no way contacting his own cherished child could be a good thing for either of them.

But on the other hand, every child needs a father figure, however late in life he appears. She might have rebelled against the commune. She had found herself a man, after all. She couldn’t hate them that much. And he had so much wisdom to pass on. He could tell his – how old would she be now, thirty-three? He could tell his thirty-three-year-old daughter so much about the world. Admittedly, she had probably already learnt how to cycle, and any daughter of his must know their times tables backwards. But he could teach her something, even if it was just his family’s medical history!

It was decided. Patrick stood by the phone. This was it. This was the moment he was going to call the fiery red-haired beauty and fill that missing jigsaw piece of his life. It was with a sweaty hand that he picked up the receiver. He paused to take a calming breath. Slowly, carefully, he dialled.

He could hear ringing on the other end, and then a female voice. It was soft, flowing and gentle. It was the sort of voice that would calm you down as soon as you heard it, even if your world was falling apart. Whoever came home to that voice in the evening must consider himself a lucky man.

“Hello, is that Visa? Yes, I’ve got a wallet here with one of your credit cards. Its belongs to a Mrs S A Smithson? I was wondering if you could return it to her….”