Chipped Teacups and Broken Chairs

                  Chipped Teacups and Broken Chairs


    Aunt Rose’s cottage, nestled in the foothills of the Dividing Range, was a little rundown, yet it retained a quaint, old world charm about it. The rich, wood panelled walls, leadlight lanterns and flag stoned fireplace gave it a warm, cosy glow.
    Sipping the fragrant Earl Grey from an old chipped teacup with a faded blue and white Wedgwood pattern, Susan looked across at her frail, elderly Aunt. She had seemed ancient even when Susan was small and now, well into her nineties, Aunt Rose seemed to have reached a stage where she was no longer aging but simply becoming transparent.
    Wrapped in layers of overly large woollen clothing, her hair was bundled up into a top knot that barely disguised its wispy sparseness. Her pale skin was almost translucent, every vein and bone visible to the naked eye and glowed dimly from the guttering fire behind her.
    “If you unfocused your eyes,” Susan mused, “She could almost blend into the background effortlessly as though she’d never been here at all. Just another flickering shadow.”
    ‘Would you at least consider the offer Aunty?’ Susan implored. Rose lifted her pale, almost colourless eyes and looked at her, an odd expression on her face as if she’d been far away and had only just noticed Susan’s presence, ‘I worry about you being all the way out here on your own.’
    ‘That’s just the way I like it dear,’ Rose said vaguely setting her knitting on her lap, ‘Another?’ she asked, lifting the teapot.
    Susan put her hand over her half emptied cup and shook her head. She leant back and then shot forward again as she realised that she was sitting on the broken chair. A smile flitted across Rose’s face.
    ‘All these years and you still pick the broken chair. You know what your Uncle would say, don’t you?’
    She did, but she wasn’t going to repeat it. Every time she’d leant back and heard the familiar and hated groan of the splintered chair back, Uncle Henry would frown and say, ‘Susan, by constantly choosing that chair your subconscious is telling you that something in your life needs mending.’
    Superstitious old codger he’d been. Why couldn’t he have just fixed the chair? She scowled and another smile passed Rose’s lips. Susan shook her head slightly and tried to take charge of the conversation again.
    ‘This chair illustrates my point perfectly Aunt Rose. Everything needs mending. There is a draught coming through the roof, which is worrying at your age, the house needs painting, the hot water system is unreliable and the yard is just to large for you to deal with anymore!’
    ‘I’ll think on it dear,’ Rose said firmly, ‘but I really don’t reckon I’ll be changing my mind.’
    Rose may look as though she was fading away, but she was as stubborn as ever. Susan sighed. If she knew anything about her Aunt it was when it was fruitless to go on. For three years now she’d been trying to convince the old woman to move to a retirement village near the city and for three years Rose had been declining, insisting that she could take care of herself and her finances perfectly well.
    “How is the real estate business going Susan?’
    There was a slightly mocking hint to her question that made Susan look up sharply. Rose met her eyes over the clacking needles, looking relaxed and sincerely interested. Perhaps Susan had imagined it. There was an icy trickle down her spine however, that she often felt,  as if Aunt Rose was looking not into her eyes, but into her soul.
    ‘Fine, fine,’ she answered warily, getting to her feet, ‘I’m going to have to head off I’m afraid Aunty. I’ll drop in again next week shall I?’
    ‘Suit yourself dear,’ Rose replied as she lifted a wrinkled, papery cheek for Susan to dutifully brush her lips against.
    Hesitating in the doorway, Susan wondered whether she should press a little further. She watched her Aunt, absorbed in her knitting once more, and decided against it. With a hurried good bye, she left, glad to get out of the tiny cottage which suddenly seemed hot, stifling and oppressive rather than warm and cosy.
    At the sound of Susan’s car pulling out of the driveway, Rose put down her knitting and leant back in her chair. That niece of hers was a crafty one all right. She smirked at the wasted efforts of Susan trying to get her poor, doddering old Aunt into a home and sign over power of attorney out of the goodness of her heart.
    Looking around fondly at the cluttered room full of worn, battered furniture and sentimental knick knacks, Rose picked up the chipped teacup that had survived three generations relatively unscathed. Everything in the cottage was a part of her life, a part of who she was. Every scratch, nick and dent had a story and were as important as the items themselves.
    Her family had never understood this. They’d seen her and Henry as a little bit cracked as well and probably would have kept their distance if it hadn’t been for the possibility of a substantial inheritance. Rose had already outlived most of them already, enduring their clumsy attempts at loving familiarity whilst she happily played the part of the simple minded widow until they’d been forced to give up the game.
    Sadly for Susan, who’d been a devious little creature since childhood, Rose too knew about the multi-million dollar resort planned for the area. Thanks to her own craftiness, Rose had already made a lucrative deal with the developer.
    A nice little house on the beach would be a fine place to spend the rest of her days in comfort. And when it was finally time to join Henry, the Salvation Army would find plenty of more deserving beneficiaries for her.
     


© A.M. Pearce 2007