Although my Grandmother died eight years ago, my inheritance has only just surfaced. Her demon husband, the step father of my mother lingered after her and kept her treasures horded close. Although he remarried soon after her death, he had no qualms in keeping that which wasn’t his, no matter what his new wife thought. As I opened up my newly acquired treasure trove, sights and sounds came back to me.
Item One: a plastic bread bag full of butter knives with bone handles. There is something so homely about a butter knife. I like to spread butter over toast before it gets cold, toast topped with runny, sticky strawberry jam of the homemade kind, with big slick clumps in thin, translucent pink syrup. Toast and jam at Gran’s was different to toast and jam at my house. In my house, I was always sure to spread the butter on the toast as quick as I could, so that in biting into it, I could still feel the heat of the bread, with the butter melting and dripping through my fingers. I would make it myself after school and then wander over, plate in hand to the couch in order to read or watch cartoons (if mum was out) At Gran’s the toast was always in a rack and cold by the time I spread my butter on it. I would have to sit at the table, covered with its every day table cloth, the one with the brown stains in the corner. I was not alone either. There was a demon dark cloud over that table, one who would bark if I was not careful to eat up everything on my plate. The jam was made from strawberries in the garden, the one that they found her in after her stroke. I wonder how long she lay there amongst the red fruits, the green of the plots of potatoes and runner beans filling her vision. I wonder if the demon stood over her, contemplating the time, prolonging her pain.
Item Two: A set of salt and pepper shakers with the picture of an aborigine, and a sort of attempt at a native style of art. They were placed on the breakfast table beside milky scrambled eggs or mince with boiled shallots and sultanas. These were foodstuffs strange to me at breakfast time. I used to stare at the glass ornaments on the sideboard, they had a design like birds in flight, the colouring ranging from deep red, through yellow to clear, and they looked to me like they were made of delicious candy. The demon was out milking cows. Gran would be in the kitchen, not talking, doing the dishes and looking out the window. But mum would be there, and she would relax a little and lean her elbows on the table.
Item Three: A box containing one fork, one knife, one spoon.
Item Four: One teapot in red and grey cosy. The smell of wool and hot metal mixed with tea was the smell of my Gran’s kitchen. When I was allowed to drink tea I was only ever allowed a second rate cup with a chip in the lip and a long crack in the side. I was worried that the crack would leech tea onto the saucer. I had to lift it gingerly to avoid the punishment that would follow, had I spilled a drop. Now I use the old pot regularly, preferring to return to the ritual of pot, jug and teacup that I had long abandoned in favour of one thick mug that would not spill.
Item Five: A bundle of table cloths of fine linen, with intricately embroidered flowers.
Item Six: The red tartan blanket. As I pulled this from the box, I saw the old bedroom with its sheets tucked in tight. One bed with a red blanket, and one with a blue one. I used to kick my feet out after I got warm, but it was a real effort against those tight sheets. I slept peacefully without any knowledge of the possible threat to my well being that lurked in those nights. There was only the bed, with the cover pulled tight as a barrier from the danger. The skulking shadow perhaps applied one vulture eye to the crack in the doorway. Maybe that taut sheet obscured me enough to force his withdrawal. As I remained unscarred and without the knowing that every daybreak brought a sigh of relief from my mother in the next room.
Item Seven: A small presentation box containing a lucky rabbit’s foot broach with a silver and amethyst thistle. A rabbit’s foot is supposed to bring good luck. I wonder if my Grandmother viewed this with irony. It was certainly not a gift by way of an apology for past wrong doings, demons don’t apologise.
Item Eight: A diary with pages torn out. My Grandmother was so menaced and followed, harassed and abused that she wasn’t even allowed to have her own thoughts. I wish she was better at ciphers and deception. If I could crack her shell I could learn her thoughts.
Item Nine: One white jewellery box with flower design. This box was filled with the leftovers of her amazing jewel collection; the rest has been given away or sold by the demon. Once when I was very young I remember seeing this box in her bedroom. She allowed me to open it, and it was as though I had all of Aladdin’s cave before me. She gave me a broach made of plastic and brass in a starburst design. It was a moment of delight and connection, I remember only the joy of the box with its contents, and the pleasure of owning a piece that came from it.
Item Ten: A small blackish leather box. The leather is ripped in some places and it is a faded, dull black. It has a stiff little catch to open it, and there is a slight squeak as you do so. Its original glamour is only faintly visible by tipping it upside down. On the base there is a faint gold design, which must have once been visible on top. Inside the silk cream lining is stained by a rusty, blackened key, made of a cheap gold coloured metal. On one side, the words ‘Yours Today’ are embossed into it. The only other relic in the box is a newspaper article, snipped carefully out of the paper. The article is entitled ‘Birthday Party: Large gathering held at Otamarakau Hall.’ It reads:
One of the largest gatherings and certainly one of the happiest for some time in Otamarakau was held in the hall on Friday evening when Miss Annie Mikkelsen celebrated her 21st birthday. Quite 200 people availed themselves of the open invitation extended by Mr and Mrs T.C Mikkelsen.
Dancing was enjoyed in the gaily decorated hall, the music being provided by Mr and Mrs Warbrick of Matata. Songs were given by Mrs Read, and yodelling items by Mr Heron. Mr Mervyn Reynolds was M.C. During the generous supper the toast of the guest of honour was proposed by Mr Colin Cassels, Mr George Mortensen replying. The toast of Mr and Mrs Mikkelsen was proposed by Mr S.W Gunton.
Miss Mikkelsen, who wore a frock of pink angel skin, was busily engaged unwrapping the numerous presents brought by guests.
My Grandmother was always a shadowy figure to me. I remember her house, garden and food better than her person. She was a cardboard cut-out, playing bowls, growing roses, making jam, the typical grandmother. Yet her life was laced with a pain and suffering I have never known. Only after her death did my mother and her sisters dare to confront the demon, and put him justly behind bars. This dull coloured box contains a happy moment, away from demons and poverty and loss. She was once surrounded by those that loved her. For that it has become my most precious possession.
