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I’m sitting in the kitchen watching the minutes roll over on the digital oven clock. It’s only been three minutes since I last asked "Is it time yet?". I don’t want to bug Non but I’m just about bursting with anticipation.
I can’t sit still. The swivel chair I’m sitting on is moving constantly. Swivel left, swivel right, swivel left, swivel right. Non is busy preparing something at the kitchen bench and peers over her glasses at me. I know the constant motion is annoying her but I can’t help it.
I’m not sure how I successfully negotiated an afternoon alone at Non’s, but I’m feeling extremely pleased with myself. We can’t ever get the precious dolls out when the littler kids are around because of a recent breakage by Cal.
Finally, Non gives me a little nod. I’m up and out of my chair before she can change her mind.
I open the sliding door to the dining room. The air in the dining room is cold and moist and smells like a mixture of Mr Sheen and liqueur. I wrestle with the aluminium step ladder, being careful not to bump into the sideboard or the dining chairs.
I climb up the ladder and cup my hand under the olive green key tassel. I love the way it feels, heavy and soft at the same time. I turn the key in the lock of the glass doll cabinet.
The dolls have been collected from all around the world. They are just souvenir dolls but to me they are so precious. I’m sure it’s got something to do with the fact that they are stored up so high, under lock and key. Their glass and mahogany home is so decadent. Surely they must be worth an absolute fortune.
I carefully remove each one and lay them one at a time on the velvet runner on the sideboard. Once I’ve made my selection (always leaving the broken marketeer and his wagon behind), I lock the cabinet and carefully carry the little figures back to the kitchen.
The next hour is filled arranging and rearranging the dolls on the kitchen table and listening to the stories of where they were purchased. It’s clear from the way Non speaks that they really are valuable. They are memory anchors for her and memory makers for me. They well deserve to be treated with such care and respect.
More careful stories here.