Treasure by Marie Sever

The week after moving house Catherine finally felt she could slow down and relax a little. The retirement complex was only a few years old, and the gardens were well maintained, as good as depicted in the glossy brochure she retained in her capacious handbag. Looking out of the window at the manicured lawns and hedging calmed her further. So far, the people she had met in the residents’ common room were friendly.

To live here one had to be totally compos mentis. She had signed one of the many documents to confirm that should she be diagnosed with any form of dementia, then she would need to sell her compact flat back to the retirement village holding company and move to an appropriate care home. How she was supposed to organise all that if she’d lost her marbles, she had no idea, although she had been assured that if she didn’t have a Power of Attorney in place or suitable and trustworthy relatives, then a solicitor would be appointed, working with Social Services, to ensure she was looked after.

That’s a long way down the line, she hoped.

Packing up her three-bedroom semi-detached and selecting the furniture to go with her and arranging for someone to value and take away the rest had been hard enough. None of her furniture was valuable, but it all held memories such as when she saw the scars on the dining table from Kate’s drawings cutting through the thin paper, and then years later, Kate’s son Jack’s Lego kit assembly had further enhanced the surface with dents and scratches. The table’s surface then succumbed to grandchildren Rosie’s, Phoebe’s, Ben’s and Darren’s assaults with crayons, sharp biros and various assembly kits. Despite, or more likely because it was so battered and held so many memories, Catherine wanted to bring the table with her, however there was no room for it in her tiny apartment.

The writing desk her husband had presented to her had somehow been squeezed in, but the only place for it, stupidly, was the narrow hall where she couldn’t use a chair. But then, she rarely wrote letters now, and when she did, she preferred to sit in her armchair with a flowered lap tray on her lap.

So many things had had to go.

That had been the main reason she hadn’t moved years ago. At 84 she knew that Kate was right and she had left it so late that the whole move had been traumatic. Kate herself was 63 and despite being sprightly and still working part time, had surprised her yesterday with the welcome news that she too was going to sell up and move into a two-bedroom apartment in the same complex. Kate had persuaded her mother to part with objects, ‘they are just “things” Mum.’  Catherine knew that she too would be handling each ‘thing’ and wondering where it could be stored.

A couple of hours later, having strolled through the grounds with Maisie next door, (Bright lilac hair, thrice widowed and twice divorced; highly entertaining and some shocking stories about all of her husbands), Catherine settled down in her battered old armchair and opened the small rectangular box her grandfather had given her 77 years ago. She remembered that holiday at Woolacombe Bay and had pleaded and begged her mother to buy her the little box covered in small shells. Grandad had relented and she had treasured it for years, however, couldn’t remember opening it since Kate had been born.

Inside were shells gathered from Barricane beach, renowned for the shells that arrived from the Caribbean via the Gulf Stream and from the rock pools holding onto Grandad’s large hairy hand. A broken razor shell which surprisingly, had the one and a half halves still attached with a black rubbery looking ‘hinge.’ Several cowrie shells, one with golden sand inside which came out when she shook it.  She licked her finger and dragged it across the bluey-black surface of a mussel shell. Each shell brought back the memory of that day and being with her beloved grandfather who had joined them on holiday after Grandma had died.

How could she have forgotten this shell box? For years she had opened it frequently to examine her treasures within. It had been to Show and Tell so often that teachers had suggested she choose something else next time. She resolutely hadn’t. Sighing, she set down the box on the side table, and dozed.

Her mobile phone woke her and she fumbled to accept the call. Kate asked how she was and was she meeting people? Had she enrolled for the chair aerobics? Had she enrolled for the trip to a farm shop and café? Was the small on-site shop any good? So many questions. Kate had always been a transmitter rather than a receiver. Her monologues, both on the phone and in person, were hard to breach, but finally, Catherine managed to answer most of her daughter’s questions, then before Kate could start telling her about her trip to somewhere or other, Catherine said, ‘I came across my old shell box that Grandpa gave me when I was 7. I cherished it for years and am mortified that I never showed it to you. Once you were born, I was so busy, it just sat on my dressing table.’

‘The one covered in shells and lots of pretty shells inside?’

Catherine was amazed. ‘How do you know about it?’

‘I found it once when you and Dad had gone out for a meal and Grandad was babysitting. I brought it downstairs and showed him, and he told me all about that day. I was enthralled, but he said it was very special to you and I was to put it back. I have to confess, sometimes when you were out or in the bath, I would sit on your bed and take out all the shells and play with them.’

‘I never knew!’ said her mother.

‘I was careful. I wanted it to be my secret. And something you don’t know… when John and I took the children to Woolacombe, I bought myself an almost identical box and filled it with shells. It is one of the things I will definitely take with me when I move. I was 27 years old but had fallen in love with your box and had to have my own. And Mum, when I helped you pack, I put your box in the packing case so you would still have it, and the memories.’

‘Yes, we have memories, some of which are prompted by our treasures,’ said Catherine. ‘We will have to compare our treasures when you move here.’