AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE 2

AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE 

 Richard Banks

       Aunt Mabel was an elderly lady of ample proportions who no matter the occasion was always to be seen in what my father described as her widow's weeds. Having once come to our house with a bunch of daffodils for my mother I assumed that these must be the weeds to which my father referred but when the expression continued to be used, flowers or no flowers, I eventually tumbled to the fact that he was referring to the unrelenting blackness of her attire. To me she resembled a black cloud and as her visits to us twice coincided with heavy downpours of rain I became convinced that Aunt Mabel and rainy days were never far apart.

         My aunt being a widow was easier to understand. She had been married briefly to a man named Bert who was killed in WW1 forty-one years to the day before I was born. My birthdays were therefore a reminder to her of a tragedy from which she never really recovered. It is said that at my christening she shed enough tears to fill the font. 

         She was, of course, my Great Aunt who was usually invited to family gatherings that also included her brother, my paternal grandfather, but after he died her visits became less frequent due, partly, to her moving into residential care. Although she was still reasonably mobile and clear in her thoughts and conversation my father’s acquisition of his first car, a Hillman Minx, made it more convenient for us to visit her rather than the other way around. This we did with great regularity, four times a year, our visits seldom lasting more than an hour although to me, deprived of my playthings, they seemed a good deal longer. Nevertheless my presence did on occasions provide her with a certain melancholy pleasure for she had begun to perceive in my appearance a resemblance to her late husband. Indeed I so raised her spirits that her usual expression of sad resignation sometimes gave way to a smile that also brought an unexpected gleam to her dark brown eyes.

         It was in the early Spring of 1968 that my father declared that our first visit of the year to Aunt Mabel was to take place on Easter Sunday but that it was not to include me. I was still recovering from the measles and although no longer infectious was not, due to my remaining spots, allowed out beyond our back garden. I was, therefore, left in the care of my fourteen year old sister who, once my parents were gone, disappeared into her bedroom to play records. This was fine by me and I set-out my soldiers on the living room floor confident that the ensuing battle would not be disrupted by the intrusion of unwanted feet.

         I was nearing the conclusion of the Battle of Little Big Horn when I became aware of an interested spectator in the form of Aunt Mabel. As she had not rung the front door bell she must, I thought, have gained entry to the house through the side door which in those days was closed but never locked until evening. She regarded me with a smile that by the standard of her past sad glimmerings was almost radiant.

         “Have the soldiers won?” she asked.

         I explained that this was Custer’s last stand and that he and the seventh cavalry were soon to be wiped out by the Cheyenne and other tribes.

         Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Then, Harry, it’s just as well I came when I did. I tell you what, let them have a truce for awhile, I have something to tell you. Come on now, sit down next to me on the settee. It won’t take long and as it involves the giving of a present I’m sure you’ll find it time well spent. And if Mr Custer has his wits about him he might very well slip away unnoticed.”

         I was about to explain that the battle actually happened and that there was nothing I could do to save Custer and his men when I noticed that she was reaching into her handbag presumably for the gift she had mentioned. A moment later the battle was all but forgotten by the sight of a yellow tin bearing the words, ‘Colman’s Mustard’. My face must have registered both surprise and puzzlement although as I was behind it only Aunt Mabel would have known this for sure.

         Don’t worry,” she whispered, “there may be something different inside. Shall we see?”

         I nodded vigorously and through unblinking eyes watched as she lifted the lid to reveal some crepe paper within.

         “Oh dear,” exclaimed Aunt Mabel, “I hope there’s more than paper in there.”

         For the first time, I realised I was being teased and that Aunt Mabel had a sense of humour that was as mischievous as it was unexpected.

         “Go on reach inside, see what you can find, but be gentle it’s very precious.”

         I inserted the fingers of both hands and almost immediately felt the smooth, cool object within. I raised it up and having discarded the paper still clinging to it saw an enamel egg. I should have been disappointed - after all what use was an enamel egg to a boy who spent most of his spare time playing soldiers or football - but I wasn’t, far from it, and Aunt Mabel observed my reaction with evident satisfaction. She had judged me well. I had a soul that, despite my childhood obsessions, could be touched by the alluring appeal of fine art, and that egg was, without doubt, the most beautiful object I had ever seen.

         “Let me tell you about it,” she said. “Have you heard of Peter Carl Faberge?”

         I shook my head.

         “Well, he was a very gifted craftsman, a jeweller and goldsmith, who made all sorts of lovely things for the Czar of Russia and other royal people. In addition to everything else he did for the Czar, each Easter he would make him an egg, like this one, which he decorated with gold, silver and precious stones. They are wonderful works of art that if sold today would cost the buyer many, many thousands of pounds. Yes, you may well open your mouth in disbelief. However, I mustn’t raise your hopes too high, this is not a Faberge, but it’s the next best thing. This was made by one of his pupils, who in 1912 set up his own studio in Antwerp, Belgium. He soon became successful in his own right attracting many well to do clients, including a Duke and several Earls. So, you see you have something very precious that today can only be found in museums and private collections. That is all but this one, and for that, we have to thank your great uncle Bert.”

         “Is that the Uncle Bert who was killed in the war?”

         “Yes dear, he was my husband, although not for very long. We married in 1916 just before he left this country to fight the Germans on the western front. We should have waited until the end of the war which was only two years later but we weren’t to know that at the time. We were young and in love and in far too much of a hurry to wait. We honeymooned in Yarmouth for three days, which was all we could afford, and a week later I saw him leave this country on a big ship from Portsmouth harbour. I thought I would never see him again but three months later I did. He arrived, unannounced, at my parents’ house, where I was still living, on the day before my twenty-fifth birthday. It was the best present I ever had, the only one I truly wanted but he was determined that I should have something really special to commemorate an event which was as important to him as it was to me.”

         “And that’s when he gave you this egg,” I said, anticipating her next line. “It must have cost him an awful lot of money.”

         “Well, not quite, but it did cost him his tobacco allowance for two weeks and for someone who loved his pipe as much as he did that was a high price to pay. You’re looking puzzled, dear boy. Let me explain. Your great uncle was allowed a quantity of tobacco each day which he gave to another soldier in exchange for the egg. How the soldier came to be in possession of it is a mystery we will probably never have the answer to, but in war, many things are lost and found, or more likely looted from damaged houses.”

         “The thought that I might be in possession of stolen property, at last, became too much for me and, several years after the ending of the war, I took the egg to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London and tearfully confessed all, although I had little to feel guilty about. That’s when I found out who the maker was and that, as I suspected, it was worth a good deal of money. I thought they were going to take it away from me, and for a while they did, but after a month it was returned to me by the Director of the Fine Arts Department, no less, who said that a bill of sale existed for the egg but that the purchaser could not be identified from the records of that time. Therefore unless someone came forward who could prove their ownership my assertion that it had been purchased legally, if somewhat irregularly, was sufficient title in law to make me the owner.”

         “I should have been happy, sold it at auction and used the money to buy myself an annuity that would have provided me with an income for life, but I didn’t. A pity, especially as Bert would no doubt have wanted me to do so. Instead, I kept it on my dressing room table as if it was a religious relic. You see, I couldn’t bear to be parted from it. Indeed in my depressed state of mind, it would have seemed like a betrayal of Bert if I had. It was, of course, a huge mistake. Miserable as I was I should have come out of mourning after a year and made the most of my life, but I never did. Life became a terrible burden, and only now it is over am I able to feel the way I once did. Your parents think I’m a dreadful old hindrance; they have done their duty by me but derived little pleasure from my company. I hope, Harry, you will think better of me. At least you now have the egg, so take good care of it. And if anyone tells you it’s not yours tell them that’s it’s written in my will. Any questions? No? Then I had better be getting along. I could be leaving by the side door but if you close your eyes and don’t peep I can be on my way a little more quickly. I have an important engagement in two minutes time and I don’t want to be late, not after fifty-one years.”

         “You mean you’re off to see Uncle Bert?”

         “I think so, dear, I certainly hope so. Shut your eyes and wish me luck.”

         I did. On opening them again I realised I had not thanked her for her gift, but by then she was gone.

         An hour later my parents returned from the care home with the news that Aunt Mabel was, in my mother’s words, ‘passed over’. By then I had finished the Battle of the Little Big Horn and placed the egg at the back of my games drawer. My father seemed very gloomy about his aunt and was not at all pleased when I was not.

         I said nothing about Aunt Mabel doing some of her ‘passing’ by way of our house - they would never have believed me. As for the egg I kept quiet about that too until the reading of her will when I said that she had already given it to me during one of our visits to the care home. As the will said nothing about its likely value and I was equally reticent on that subject my parents assumed that it was an inexpensive bauble which, after a brief inspection by themselves, was soon forgotten.        

         Twenty years later I sold the egg to the V&A for a good deal less than it was worth and invested most of the cash I received in a new Hillman for my father and a house for myself and the girl I was about to marry. If I had any regrets about the sale they were few in number because by then I was an Assistant Curator at the Museum and therefore able to see the egg on any day of the week that I wanted. More importantly it could also be seen by the many thousands of visitors that every year passed through our doors. It was, I thought, both the right and sensible thing to do, and as I have yet to be struck by lightning I can only assume that Aunt Mabel thinks so too.

                                                                             Copyright Richard Banks