The Bracelet
by Linley Jones
For several days the invitation sat on the mantelpiece. Flute-edged, heavily embossed blue and gold lettering. It was most impressive. She had placed it beside the grandmother clock that no longer went because she had mislaid the key after moving from the large house to the unit.
And the urn that held Henry’s ashes.
Also the ticket to Turkey. One way. One day she went as far as laying it flat, the invitation, face down, because it disturbed her so much, the pressure of having to make a decision.
But the morning that the bundle, clumsily wrapped in rough tissue, worked its way forward in the drawer to lie amongst her underwear, she made up her mind. With a sense of trepidation, she unfolded the coarse paper. As always, the bracelet took her breath away. It deserved better. She knew that, as soon as she saw it again.
She slid the urn behind the clock, seized the invitation, sat down and wrote an acceptance. She then moved the airline ticket into a more prominent position.
From the back of the wardrobe she unearthed a black evening dress, a silk jacket and shoes with heels. The patina of rust the black dress had acquired pleased her, matched the gold of the jacket.
And the urn that held Henry’s ashes.
Also the ticket to Turkey. One way. One day she went as far as laying it flat, the invitation, face down, because it disturbed her so much, the pressure of having to make a decision.
But the morning that the bundle, clumsily wrapped in rough tissue, worked its way forward in the drawer to lie amongst her underwear, she made up her mind. With a sense of trepidation, she unfolded the coarse paper. As always, the bracelet took her breath away. It deserved better. She knew that, as soon as she saw it again.
She slid the urn behind the clock, seized the invitation, sat down and wrote an acceptance. She then moved the airline ticket into a more prominent position.
From the back of the wardrobe she unearthed a black evening dress, a silk jacket and shoes with heels. The patina of rust the black dress had acquired pleased her, matched the gold of the jacket.
*
Ten of them there were, seated at a splendid table; silver cutlery and sparkling crystal on crisp white linen, ladies in shimmering gowns and men in black dinner suits. On her right sat Gordon, a young Environmental Engineer, who entertained her with anecdotes about his ancestors. Like hers, they had travelled out from Ireland in the late 1800’s to settle on the West Coast but been caught up in the Depression. A life of poverty and penury. Anna felt comfortable with him, forgetting for a time, that she was there only to make up numbers, although by rights a seat at this table was hers. Henry had been a member of this august group of Professional Engineers.
‘Lamb tagine and slow roasted aubergines,’ Gordon read from the menu. ‘The early settlers would have wondered at food like this. ’
‘What about something like Hanim gobeg?’ Anna laughed.
‘What’s that?’
‘A delicious Turkish dish … means tender morsels of love.’
‘Spent some time there, have you?’ Gordon’s searching look brought a blush to Anna’s face.
Remembering dinner party etiquette she turned to the Mining Engineer on her left. Naturally, the Government proposal to allow mining in the National Parks led to a sparkling exchange of values. His theory was that the economy needed the boost of exportable resources and that eventually disused mines became objects of interest for future tourism. Also good for the economy. Hers differed. ‘Rape of the landscape … displacement of animals … loss of their natural habitat.’ It had been some time since she had been able to express such strong views. Suddenly he bent his head closer and took her hand.
‘Such a beautiful bracelet,’ he said, turning it this way and that. The deep blue of the enamel was especially intense and the gold seemed very yellow under the brightness of the chandeliers.
‘Turkish,’ she murmured.
‘How many carats?’ he asked, raising it to see more closely. Anna stared at the age-spotted, garden-roughened hand clasped in the huge hand of the salt-of-the-earth-mining engineer. Could that really be hers? Her mind drifted beyond the now, back to a pair of elegant brown hands.
The bracelet was bought on their last trip together.
‘Everyone needs to go to Turkey at least once in their lifetime,’ Henry had been adamant. ‘You can’t miss out on one of the pleasures of life. You’ll love it.’
He was right. From the moment they entered the Grand Bazaar she smiled. The piquancy of great mounds of pungent spices cleared her head and the hypnotic oriental music throbbed through her veins Lavish piles of silk in gem-like colours; Tyrian purple, turquoise, rose, ruby red and acid green spilled from shelves like iridescent waterfalls. A sensory overload of new sights, sounds and smells. Her skin tingled. She felt alive.
She had wanted to buy something for the girls but Henry protested.
‘Get something for yourself,’ he had insisted (possibly because they were not actually his daughters)
Anna lingered over the gold finger rings, silver anklet and toe rings.
‘Best price for you, Madam.’
But, no, she had reluctantly decided a bracelet would look better than rings which would only draw attention to her hands – and age. The heavy gold and blue enamel bracelet was beautiful. But not as beautiful as the young man who clasped it gently around her wrist allowing his slim fingers to linger against the skin of her forearm. Anna shivered.
‘Call me Samir.’ His large brown eyes caressed her.
‘Anna,’ she murmured. Henry closed in. ‘Anna!’ He gripped her arm hard, too hard, swatted away the clusters of small boys proffering postcards, copy perfume and watches and steered her back to the hotel.
There they had argued, she and Henry. He, accusing her of being flighty, too charming towards, too charmed by the bracelet seller, had quaffed down a large glass of raki and stormed out of the hotel room. Henry had been right again. She was on the brink of something huge.
Clasping the blue and gold bracelet around her wrist, draping a midnight purple and gold silk scarf over her head, she had crept out of the hotel, through the back alleyways to the bazaar. There, Samir, honey-tongued, silky-smooth of skin and manner, was waiting in the shop as if it had been prearranged. He served her apple tea in a tiny gold rimmed glass and sugar-coated Turkish delight, piled like tiny building blocks on a beaten copper dish.
Anna smiled when he licked the dusting of icing sugar from each of her fingertips. She laughed when he traced the blue enamel flowers of the bracelet before unwinding the filmy scarf and letting it float to the carpet. She gasped as he followed the line of her throat and gently laid her back on the jewell coloured carpets behind the shop.
Later, much later, she had crept back to the hotel room, slipped between the cool cotton sheets and lain still, waiting for the fire to subside. Henry returned some time later. Without turning on the light he slid in beside her.
‘Anna,’ he whispered, ‘Are you awake?’
‘M – mmm.’
‘Sorry.’ He moved closer. Tentative fingers reached out to find her bruised arm. She flinched, edged away. Henry jerked back, swore, then rolled out of bed. His heavy tread was punctuated by the slamming of the door.
It seemed only a few minutes had passed when she was woken by shouting and hammering outside the room. ‘Madam! Madam! A terrible accident, Madam! Your husband. Running down road. He didn’t see bus.’
A few days later Henry accompanied her home.
In the overhead locker.
‘How many carats?’ the mining engineer was insisting loudly, leaning still closer to examine the piece of jewellery. Anna recoiled from the roughness of his skin and the hotness of his breath, reclaimed her arm, and clasped her hands tight on her lap under the snowy linen napkin. The piercing eyes of the wife of the mining engineer bored into her from the opposite side of the table. It was proving to be a long evening. Reprieve came with the request to change seating arrangements.
‘I’m Graham, Energy Consultant.’ The new neighbour spoke brightly.
‘Anna,’ she whispered, and withdrew into her own space.
‘Sorry ...?’ she stirred, suddenly conscious of the need to make some kind of response.
‘I said, you obviously enjoyed your dessert. Is Baklava Greek or Turkish? I keep forgetting.’ She looked down. Her plate was empty. She drew a deep breath and tried to mute Graham’s voice. But as she reached for her wine glass, he seized her arm.
‘That bracelet!’ he exclaimed. ‘Turkish?’
Anna nodded. The Energy Consultant, narrowed his eyes. ‘Identical to my wife’s ... or ex-wife ... bought it from a charming rogue.’
Anna froze.
‘Did her head in ... couldn’t make her see sense … young bugger seduced her … had quite a reputation … like a lodestone he was, to old ladies. I finally left her there … in Izmir. What was his name? Sha … Bar … Samir.’
Anna jerked to her feet. The table cloth came with her. Wine splashed red over the table and wept onto the carpet. She stumbled from the room.
‘What did I say? Did I upset her?’ The energy consultant blinked, bewildered.
‘Poor old thing. Never been the same since that trip,’ a voice murmured.
‘You mean when Henry died ... where was it, exactly?’
‘Turkey … I think.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right ... Izmir.’
‘Lamb tagine and slow roasted aubergines,’ Gordon read from the menu. ‘The early settlers would have wondered at food like this. ’
‘What about something like Hanim gobeg?’ Anna laughed.
‘What’s that?’
‘A delicious Turkish dish … means tender morsels of love.’
‘Spent some time there, have you?’ Gordon’s searching look brought a blush to Anna’s face.
Remembering dinner party etiquette she turned to the Mining Engineer on her left. Naturally, the Government proposal to allow mining in the National Parks led to a sparkling exchange of values. His theory was that the economy needed the boost of exportable resources and that eventually disused mines became objects of interest for future tourism. Also good for the economy. Hers differed. ‘Rape of the landscape … displacement of animals … loss of their natural habitat.’ It had been some time since she had been able to express such strong views. Suddenly he bent his head closer and took her hand.
‘Such a beautiful bracelet,’ he said, turning it this way and that. The deep blue of the enamel was especially intense and the gold seemed very yellow under the brightness of the chandeliers.
‘Turkish,’ she murmured.
‘How many carats?’ he asked, raising it to see more closely. Anna stared at the age-spotted, garden-roughened hand clasped in the huge hand of the salt-of-the-earth-mining engineer. Could that really be hers? Her mind drifted beyond the now, back to a pair of elegant brown hands.
The bracelet was bought on their last trip together.
‘Everyone needs to go to Turkey at least once in their lifetime,’ Henry had been adamant. ‘You can’t miss out on one of the pleasures of life. You’ll love it.’
He was right. From the moment they entered the Grand Bazaar she smiled. The piquancy of great mounds of pungent spices cleared her head and the hypnotic oriental music throbbed through her veins Lavish piles of silk in gem-like colours; Tyrian purple, turquoise, rose, ruby red and acid green spilled from shelves like iridescent waterfalls. A sensory overload of new sights, sounds and smells. Her skin tingled. She felt alive.
She had wanted to buy something for the girls but Henry protested.
‘Get something for yourself,’ he had insisted (possibly because they were not actually his daughters)
Anna lingered over the gold finger rings, silver anklet and toe rings.
‘Best price for you, Madam.’
But, no, she had reluctantly decided a bracelet would look better than rings which would only draw attention to her hands – and age. The heavy gold and blue enamel bracelet was beautiful. But not as beautiful as the young man who clasped it gently around her wrist allowing his slim fingers to linger against the skin of her forearm. Anna shivered.
‘Call me Samir.’ His large brown eyes caressed her.
‘Anna,’ she murmured. Henry closed in. ‘Anna!’ He gripped her arm hard, too hard, swatted away the clusters of small boys proffering postcards, copy perfume and watches and steered her back to the hotel.
There they had argued, she and Henry. He, accusing her of being flighty, too charming towards, too charmed by the bracelet seller, had quaffed down a large glass of raki and stormed out of the hotel room. Henry had been right again. She was on the brink of something huge.
Clasping the blue and gold bracelet around her wrist, draping a midnight purple and gold silk scarf over her head, she had crept out of the hotel, through the back alleyways to the bazaar. There, Samir, honey-tongued, silky-smooth of skin and manner, was waiting in the shop as if it had been prearranged. He served her apple tea in a tiny gold rimmed glass and sugar-coated Turkish delight, piled like tiny building blocks on a beaten copper dish.
Anna smiled when he licked the dusting of icing sugar from each of her fingertips. She laughed when he traced the blue enamel flowers of the bracelet before unwinding the filmy scarf and letting it float to the carpet. She gasped as he followed the line of her throat and gently laid her back on the jewell coloured carpets behind the shop.
Later, much later, she had crept back to the hotel room, slipped between the cool cotton sheets and lain still, waiting for the fire to subside. Henry returned some time later. Without turning on the light he slid in beside her.
‘Anna,’ he whispered, ‘Are you awake?’
‘M – mmm.’
‘Sorry.’ He moved closer. Tentative fingers reached out to find her bruised arm. She flinched, edged away. Henry jerked back, swore, then rolled out of bed. His heavy tread was punctuated by the slamming of the door.
It seemed only a few minutes had passed when she was woken by shouting and hammering outside the room. ‘Madam! Madam! A terrible accident, Madam! Your husband. Running down road. He didn’t see bus.’
A few days later Henry accompanied her home.
In the overhead locker.
‘How many carats?’ the mining engineer was insisting loudly, leaning still closer to examine the piece of jewellery. Anna recoiled from the roughness of his skin and the hotness of his breath, reclaimed her arm, and clasped her hands tight on her lap under the snowy linen napkin. The piercing eyes of the wife of the mining engineer bored into her from the opposite side of the table. It was proving to be a long evening. Reprieve came with the request to change seating arrangements.
‘I’m Graham, Energy Consultant.’ The new neighbour spoke brightly.
‘Anna,’ she whispered, and withdrew into her own space.
‘Sorry ...?’ she stirred, suddenly conscious of the need to make some kind of response.
‘I said, you obviously enjoyed your dessert. Is Baklava Greek or Turkish? I keep forgetting.’ She looked down. Her plate was empty. She drew a deep breath and tried to mute Graham’s voice. But as she reached for her wine glass, he seized her arm.
‘That bracelet!’ he exclaimed. ‘Turkish?’
Anna nodded. The Energy Consultant, narrowed his eyes. ‘Identical to my wife’s ... or ex-wife ... bought it from a charming rogue.’
Anna froze.
‘Did her head in ... couldn’t make her see sense … young bugger seduced her … had quite a reputation … like a lodestone he was, to old ladies. I finally left her there … in Izmir. What was his name? Sha … Bar … Samir.’
Anna jerked to her feet. The table cloth came with her. Wine splashed red over the table and wept onto the carpet. She stumbled from the room.
‘What did I say? Did I upset her?’ The energy consultant blinked, bewildered.
‘Poor old thing. Never been the same since that trip,’ a voice murmured.
‘You mean when Henry died ... where was it, exactly?’
‘Turkey … I think.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right ... Izmir.’
Copyright and licensing notice
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
© 2017 by Franklin Writers Group
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
(CC BY-NC-ND 4.0)
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, Linley Jones.
To view a copy of this license, please visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Attribute to: Franklin Writers Group and the author, Linley Jones.
This page published 30th September 2017