There was never a moment in the drawing room, the family gathered around the bespectacled family solicitor. Although, that would have added the gravitas that Grandma would have liked.
It was a text.
An annoying buzz.
‘You got the Chinese slippers. They were in the box with your name on it.’
Chinese slippers.
Embroidered in red and gold. Shiny plastic beads adorned the edges.
Chinese slippers brought home from the ten-week world trip when the globe was a mysterious collection of far-off places never seen. Castanets from Spain. Formidable women painted in swirling dresses and twirled black hair that exceeded their ripples. Ivory elephants lined up in threes: trunk to tail. German playing cards. Regal and beautiful detail. Point-tipped moustaches on Kings shrouded in elaborate refinery and high-neck collared Queens.
Chinese slippers.
Because she was senile? We did find her pills in every pocket and drawer and the choc orange ball had giant bites taken out it, a remnant of a ravenous midnight snack, then carefully rewrapped so the packaging was still round.
Chinese slippers.
To encourage a wanderlust? Yes, it was true. All my ideas of big adventures had been reduced to weekends at the salubrious Sea View Caravan Park in Cowes. What’s not to love about big orange and brown flower curtains?
Chinese slippers.
Because she thought I was a Communist? I mean there was that group I was in at Uni that called each other comrade. Whatever happened to all the Socialists? I did lend her that book. What was it called? … ‘Wild Swan’, that’s it. Three generations of women. I thought she might be interested in the relationships.
Chinese slippers.
Silk, soft, luxurious and too small for me. Placed in a drawer with the belly-dancing beaded hip sash, the purple, velvet, sixties flares and glow-in-the-dark, bow tie.