Today I was busy emptying the little storage cubby on the side of the old Singer, hoping for more of the steel bobbins that pre-date the modern nasty plastic ones, and found instead a battered little leather purse, unseen and unused for many years. Inside were two rings, one of which was this, set with an old-fashioned sapphire and tiny diamond chips.
My Tante Mimi had given me this ring when I was about 11, and I lost it about 20 years ago, with long-lasting feelings of regret and guilt to follow. It had been her engagement ring after the war, when she had fallen in love with a Canadian stationed in Ghent, although she had given in to her serious misgivings (and the implacable opposition of her mother, my formidable Bonma) after she began to think about the change in lifestyle and culture she would have embarked upon after marriage.
He lived in an area of Canada where the distance between neighbours was measured in telegraph poles, in themselves huge distances apart, and her nearest neighbour would have been at least 7 telegraph poles away. A weekly train to the nearest city was the only opportunity to shop; for a city-bred girl with an interest in frocks and hats, this was too much, and the engagement was amicably ended, with Tante Mimi keeping the ring as a bittersweet memory.
She later went on to marry my Uncle Jerome, a widower, bringing up his three boys, and maintaining her closeness to my mother. We were intensely fond of Tante Mimi, who was jolly, good-natured and somewhat stout. She wore tailored corsetry, and hugging her was like embracing a well-upholstered sofa. I am so delighted to have found her ring, and even though it no longer fits as it did, and has to move one finger down, I shall wear it in fond recollection of the lovely, characterful and deeply affectionate aunt who gave it to a young niece all those years ago.
Goodness, that old sewing machine is packed with memories indeed...
Neighbours got in a flap yesterday while I was out having Sunday lunch with Maggie; Harry was spotted out in the back lane - on the high back yard walls, to be precise - calling loudly, and no one was able to catch him or lure him down. Messages were left on my mobile, lying useless on the kitchen table, and on my answerphone. Harry has never been known to go out of his own yard without me, and, having a certain Billy Bunteresque build that doesn't lend itself to leaping in any direction, he has certainly never got over a very high wall whilst living here.
But when I arrived home, unaware of all the fuss, there he was, in the house, perky and pleased to see me; investigation suggests that he had got up onto the shed, and from there onto the wall, to roam unhindered, frightening the local populace who believe that he is on his deathbed and read all sorts of doom-laden portents into this sudden noisy appearance. I know he yowls loudly when we are out, but for anyone who doesn't know this, his mournful tone can be distinctly alarming. Sensibly, he made his way back home again after his adventure.
I can only think that the unexpected result of all that weight loss is a rediscovered ability to jump. But cats have secret lives, and for all I know, Harry's former portliness could well have been the result of midnight raids into other houses, and his leaping skills could have been kept well-hidden from spoilsport humans.
Melodrama of this type is not unknown in my house. Many years ago, we had a large lurcher who once got out of an upstairs window onto the bay window, terrifying passers-by by quivering (as lurchers tend to do, of course, being held together with piano wire) on the very edge, as if about to jump 20 feet into the street. A small crowd of elderly ladies had formed, anxiety fluttering, and the fire brigade was almost called, but we came home in time to haul the dog in and apologise for his imposition of half an hour of local terror. Kevin too, once a great acrobat, would often walk over bay windows and front door lintels, on one occasion getting stuck in an apple tree a long way down the street, and attempting to call the fire brigade himself with piercing cries.
So, let's hear it for the house tradition - yow, yow YOW!
Today I was busy emptying the little storage cubby on the side of the old Singer, hoping for more of the steel bobbins that pre-date the modern nasty plastic ones, and found instead a battered little leather purse, unseen and unused for many years. Inside were two rings, one of which was this, set with an old-fashioned sapphire and tiny diamond chips.
