Writing for Fun
February 2015
The Curious Incident of The Brooch - Jenni Bowers
I've always been psychic – feeling things about people which turned out true, places being familiar etc –thinking about someone who then I meet or who rings soon after – telepathy is the other word – like the connection between myself and a friend in Australia who always rings when I am feeling down and vice versa.
This was different, the brooch was just lying there in the scruffy grass verge, I felt a strange sensation and almost afraid to touch it, but I picked it up and wiped off the mud, it glistened and twinkled – diamonds? No, must be costume jewellery round here, not a good part of town, probably lost by one of the prostitutes who frequents this area.
Still I put it in my pocket and went on my way. That evening, a cold wind blew through the house and I was checking that all the draughty nooks and crannies were blocked by heavy curtains or excluders when I realised the lump in my pocket felt warm, taking it out and re-examining it I was amazed to see it actually glowing but even more surprising a face seemed to be looking back at me – reflection? No this was a man's face and I turned quickly in fear thinking he must be behind me. Thank goodness, no-one there.
The apparition melted away and I was holding just a brooch, sparkling but benign. That night I slept fitfully, dreaming and feeling very, very sad; by morning I'd made a decision and took it to the Police station. My particulars were taken by a kindly admin. person and I was told to ring in three months time; if it hadn't been claimed it was mine.
On another photography scouting trip in that area two weeks later I met an elderly lady poking with her walking stick at the muddy ground in the area I'd found the brooch – 'I wonder' I thought – 'Excuse me are you searching for something?' I questioned her.
'It's my mothers' brooch, I lost it the day that young man accosted me last month, when I realised he would steal from me I quickly took it off and threw it into the grass, hoping to retrieve it later but it's gone.' Her lips trembled and she went on, 'He must have seen me throw it and come back, but at least he didn't hurt me, just raised his fist and shouted.'
She described the brooch and I reassured her that it was safely at the police station and we hurried there, formalities over, brooch safely in her hands, once again she told me the story of the jewellery.
Her father had perished in Auschwitz, his trade was in diamonds and this brooch was one of his finest pieces made for his wife but hidden during the months before the Nazis took him captive and smuggled out of Holland by his son and daughter who managed to escape to England.
It could have been used to help them survive, but the siblings had been well cared for and found work so the necessity to sell it wasn't great; they could not bear to part with the only thing of their parents they had left, so had kept it safe – looking into the facets of the diamonds to see their parents faces. When I told her of my own 'hallucination' when staring at the diamond she was thrilled; we said our goodbyes and I forgot about it for a few busy months touring around Britain on photography courses, trying to perfect my skills in this competitive genre.
Just before Christmas a parcel arrived with a short note – Miss Edith Goldsberg has bequeathed this brooch to one Juliet Romney with thanks for your honesty and in the hope it will help to pay for the trip of a lifetime you dreamed of and remembrance of her dear parents. Our conversation had included my hope to visit my dear friend in Australia.
I gazed down at the brooch and saw Edith smiling back at me, it felt warm in my hand once more but this time I wasn't afraid when her father's face also smiled from another of the diamond facets.