The 15th May 2010 WriteOnSite Winning Entry
It wasn't the total devastation the thieves had left behind in her once neat little lounge that upset Lily Potter the most. Nor the sight of her undies spilling over the edges of open drawers and strewn like scattered pink petals across the bedroom floor. Not even the loss of her favourite handbag, the one her niece had sent her for her birthday, with the imitation Dior logo and the faulty clasp. Or the twenty two pounds 50 she knew to have been inside. (So soon after pension day, the TV licence and leccy stamps bought, the fridge full, and the paper bill paid, she always knew excatly how much was left to last the week.)
No, what mattered the most, what caused her the most distress - and it had to be said, it came as a great surprise to neighbours and police alike - was that after the robbery, Lily could not find the cup.
She threw open kitchen cupboards and rummaged around in the unwashed greasy dishes in the sink. She lifted newspapers from coffee tables and peered under chairs. She even tossed the bedcovers onto the floor in her desperate search. But it was nowhere to be found. Gone. Her cup, her very special cup, gone.
Lily had little faith in the police. Oh, yes, they took a statement, made a note of what had been taken, offered sympathy and even made her a pot of tea before the left. But when it came to the cup, Lily could see they didn't really care.
Was it old? they asked. Antique? Wedgewood? A gift from the Queen? Had her late husband perhaps given it to her, so it held some sentimental value? For the life of them, they said, suppressing what looked suspiciously like a communal smirk, they could not understand why some old cup, cracked too by the sound of it, shuld be held in such high regard that its apparent loss should cause such sorrow? And why, with cash and jewellery lying about, did any self-respecting robber hang around long enough to seek it out and grab it? Lily sobbed into an ironed lace -edged handkerchief and made no attempt to explain.
Aftger they had gone, Lily called her niece. Samantha came round as soon as she could.
'The cup, Auntie? The special cup? Surely not!' she consoled, helping herself to biscuits and making more tea. 'But how will you read the leaves now?'
'That's just the trouble, Sammie, love. I can't. That cup has been with me for years. Decades. I only have the gift when I have that cup. You know that!'
Samantha poured hot water onto a teabag. There was no point in getting out the caddy and using the real leaves. Not if Auntie had lost the gift. A mug and a teabag would do fine.
'So, no more visions then? No more fortunes? No warnings of doom?'
Lily sobbed again, even louder than before. 'Never. Never again,' she said. 'From now on, Sammie, love, you will have to make your own decisions, take your cahnces in life, without the leaves to guide you.'
Samantha sipped her tea. 'But wasn't it this weekend you were going to ask the leaves about Joe? I was all set to bring him round to meet you, to get the leaves' approval before we announce our engagement.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry dear. But I'm sure he's a very nice boy. We'll have to trust your judgement this once, won't we? No more glimpses into the future for us. Or tha past. I just can't do it without the cup. Cracks and all, it's served me well. I can't face starting again, with some new piece of china. That old one had life and love and history just etched into every pore...'
Samantha turned her head away and sighed. She took another bite of bourbon cream and gt ready to go.
Of course Auntie didn't have the gift. What a lot of old mumbo-umbo. But it was best not to take chances. Not with Joe's criminal record.
Good job he was a dab hand at breaking and entering. The cup should be sitting nicely at the bottom of the canal by now. And she could marry Joe without any of Lily's premomitions or forebodings or 'special insights' getting in the way - interference, more like.
Best to keep in with Auntie Lily. Despite the poor old frail OAP act and the counting pennies, there was a pretty big nest egg tucked away in the bank. She knew that. Had hunted about and seen the statements hidden in the drawer upstairs, under all those awful pink knickers.
And she was, after all, Auntie Lily's only living - and loving - relative.
She finished her tea, peered into the mug (out of old habits) and there were no leaves. No secrets.
Then she kissed Auntie, said how sorry she was that some heartless bastard had stolen her very special cup, and left.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.