Finding

Finding

Sorting through our grandmother’s house was like a journey through time.  She was one of those people that never throw anything away, so as well as her ultramodern smartphone (a better model than my own, I might add), there were several examples of earlier types of mobile phones, analogue telephones with buttons, and even two or three with a rotary dial.

My brother stared at one of the latter.  “What do you do with this?” he asked.

Our mother looked at him in disbelief.  “Seriously?  It’s a telephone.  You know what one of those is, right?”

“I can see it’s a ‘phone,” he said, a little sulkily.  “What’s the round thing?”

I put one of my own fingers into one of the holes.  “You turn it to dial the number.”

Understanding dawned.  “Oh!  That makes sense, now – that's where ‘dial’ comes from.”

“Just wait ‘til we find Mum’s first modem,” grinned Dad.

Mum nodded.  “Or her floppy discs!  The actually floppy ones.”

We did find all those things, and more.  Broken toasters and kettles and irons returned to the boxes they came in, then packed away in neat stacks in the attic.  A library of children’s films first on VHS (yes, our parents had to explain what those were and how they worked), then on DVD, which I just about remembered watching.  And books everywhere, from the dog-eared to the pristine, in every genre imaginable.  Yet nothing was cluttered or disorganised, which made sorting much easier.

There were four rough categories.  First was ‘the skip’; anything beyond repair or usefulness went into a large skip in the front garden (and quite a lot of items disappeared from it).  Then we had ‘charity shop’ for anything with some life still in it, including our grandmother’s clothes and most of the furniture.  The third category was 'sell?’ and included some of the better books, a couple of large lamps, and her collection of porcelain.  Finally there was the ‘personal’ category; all her photographs and jewellery, and anything that just caught our eye and reminded us of her.

After two days of careful sorting, everything was either bagged, boxed or labelled.  “That just leaves the cellar,” Dad said, sipping a celebratory cup of tea.

Mum frowned.  “There’s a cellar?  Where’s the door?”

“Let me finish my tea and I'll show you.  I’ve never been down there myself – didn't know it existed! – but Mum showed me the door last time I popped round with her shopping.”

Of all the things I had expected to find in our grandmother’s house, a secret cellar was at the bottom of the list.  It was not even on the list!  She was the most open, up-front person I had ever known – at least I thought she was.  We were all eager to uncover this mystery now, though, and finished our tea in record time.

Dad led us to the large cupboard in the kitchen where our grandmother had kept her cleaning gear.  He took a key out of his pocket and pushed it into what looked like a knothole in a shelf bracket.  The lock clicked and the whole wall swung back, revealing a set of stairs leading down into darkness. He flicked the switch and the cellar was flooded with light.

The walls were painted white and the floor was made of light grey stone.  Except for what looked like an old sea chest against the far wall, the room was completely empty.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Mum as we descended the stairs and approached the chest, not without a little hesitation.

Dad knelt and lifted the lid of the chest.  He took out the items and handed them to me, one-by-one.  I unrolled the rug, set up the folding table and chair, spread the cloth on the table, put on the robe and sat down.  We were still completely baffled but I felt myself caught up in a kind of ritual.  Nothing could be taken from the chest until the previous step had been completed.

Now, Dad could take out the ornate box, covered in leather and with gold filigree on the corners.  I laid it on the table and opened it.  Inside was a crystal ball.