Southend U3A

October 2022 - Open Day

The Vase - Anne Wilson

Hold tight! I’m going to slip through her wet fingers: I know I am. I don’t know whether my journey onto the kitchen floor will be a slow one or a rapid one; just that I will land there – either smashed to smithereens or ending up containing more chips than a Harry Ramsden deep fat fryer. I’m just hitting the floor now. What on earth will I look like?

Here he comes: her husband. Mr. Funny Man. If there’s one thing I hate in life it’s someone who thinks they’re a comedian. He stands over me and I think I may be in pieces, but I’m not certain.

‘If this was a human being, what would we do with it?’ he chuckles irritatingly to his wife. ‘Take it to the G.P’s; rush it over to A & E or just have it euthanised. Surely it’s had its day.’

She doesn’t reply and I feel that maybe I have had my day.

I don’t remember my infancy at all: rather in the way a human being has difficulty recalling theirs. I was obviously born in a pottery somewhere, but my first recollection is of being placed on a stall at somewhere called Portobello Road Market in a town called London. I disliked the lack of privacy. Every now and again people would take me off the stall, hold me up, turn me round and inspect me. It was demeaning. I was either too expensive, or too ornate, or I wouldn’t fit in with the décor of the room. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I was rejected.

Then somebody bought me. It was a newly married couple: or at least I think they were. Not in their first youth, but all over each other like a rash; they simpered and giggled most of the time like a couple of teenagers.

They lived in a nice house, so I suppose they must have had money. You can usually tell the class of a couple by the terms of endearment they use to each other and these were top-notch ‘dearests’ and ‘darlings.’ I sat in a prominent place on their living room sideboard for many a year and every now again their hoity toity friends would come round for what my owners would refer to as ‘drinkie poos and nibbles.’ They would gaze at me intently, inspecting me to see if they could find any imperfections in order to ‘score’ over their hosts, but there was little chance of that in those days: I was unmarked and quite beautiful, although I say so myself. Not a chip or a scratch in sight.

One day the endearments between them suddenly stopped and an icy atmosphere pervaded. There were raised voices, slammed doors and the lady of house went about with red eyes, dabbing them with a handkerchief every now and again. She kept referring to someone called ‘her’ which would make her husband incandescent with rage. Somehow I don’t think ‘her’ was going to be invited round for ‘drinkie poos and nibbles’ at any time in the near future.

I started to feel insecure. Was I going to lose my nice home and my pride of place on their sideboard? The man of the house tried everything in the way of peace-offerings: chocolates, theatre tickets, and, much to my horror, flowers. Naturally, there was only one place for them other than the dustbin, to which the lady of the house threatened to consign them. I found myself invaded by a bunch of tulips of all things. Ill-bred and inferior as a flower at the best of times, they suffered from lack of regular attention, resulting in them wilting and smelling vile, as did the water in which they were placed. I longed for her to notice the stench and remove them, which she did. She removed the man of the house shortly afterwards.

There was no fight between them for possession of me and I suffered the indignity of ending up in something vulgar called a Car Boot Sale. Pitching up in their car (now hers) one overcast Sunday morning, along with other bric-a-brac from their former joint collection, we travelled across a muddy field, weaving between stationary vehicles until we found a good pitch. I know I was a bit precious about Portobello Market, but this was a degree of humiliation beyond description. I was manhandled by raucous harridans of women, dirty-fingered children and worst of all, loud-mouthed men who referred to the women present as ‘babe’ or ‘sweetheart.’ After what seemed an eternity a brutish-looking man clutched me to him for dear life and bought me. I said a silent farewell to my former owner. She didn’t even notice.

He bundled me in his car and we drove home to a house not far away from my former owners. That was where any resemblance stopped. As he entered the living room triumphantly he threw me on a dirty sofa strewn with assorted clothes, children’s toys and boxes of recently-eaten take aways. Two little boys in jeans and trainers ran towards him. He ignored them.

‘Ere, babe, come and see what I found this morning.’

‘Babe’ was not like my former mistress in any shape or form. Cigarette dangling from her lips and unkempt, she looked at him disdainfully and I knew before she opened her mouth how she was going to sound. I shuddered as she picked me up from the sofa.

‘What a shitting waste of money,’ she screamed as she shook me in his face. ‘Ow much was this piece of crap?’ Apart from my objection to being referred to as a ‘piece of crap’ it struck me that the statement and the question had become reversed in the heat of the moment.

‘Oh, come on babe,’ he protested. ‘It was the best thing there. Nothing else worth buying.’

I lay on that sofa for days I would think. Then fate took a hand. In moments of boredom (and there were many) the two little boys would ‘wind each other up’, usually by throwing things at each other. One morning, I heard raised voices and saw the moving of some of the toys from the sofa as they flew across the room. I knew I would be next and I was. I braced myself. One started to throw from his seating position on the sofa, whilst the other stood at the back of the living room. Despite the small amount of space involved they were quite young, slightly built and, I estimated, probably inaccurate in their estimates. The first throw was a success as was its return, but the second throw went wide of the mark; its only advantage to me being that it was thrown without force, which would have resulted in my being a ‘write off.’ It was also fairly low to the ground and miraculously I learned there was just a slight chip around my mouth, together with a few scratches. It was evident, though, that my days as an objet d’art were diminishing.

I was despatched almost instantly by Babe’s ranting husband to an antique seller in the town nearby where he received less than he had anticipated. The shop was pleasant enough and the flamboyant owner was good fun. He spoke very loudly in a contrived, camp manner and was a fusspot, dusting around me frequently, which made me feel special. I was difficult to ‘shift’ though and I know he told some lies about my provenance in order to attract buyers.

After a long time a married couple took pity on me and that’s where I find myself today: in an uncertain condition. It’s a shame: I’ve been here a fair while and like it, despite the husband’s idiotic sense of humour.

He picks me up, which gives me great hope. At least I’m not in dozens of different pieces on their kitchen floor. Perhaps all will be well and they’ll send me away to be restored. They both stare at me. You think I would be used to this close scrutiny by now, but I’m not. I’m sensitive about it.

‘Another chip,’ they agree in solemn tones. await my fate but am ever hopeful.

I suddenly hear the dreaded words, ‘Bargain Hunt’ forming on her lips and, even worse ‘Dickinson’s Real Deal’ on his. Does he really think I want my fate sealed in a show where the seller either accepts a derisory offer from a dealer or takes their treasured possession to an auction, in the company of David, ‘The Duke’ Dickinson? Surely I deserve something better after years of service: maybe a nice class of programme like ‘The Antiques Road Show’ where they discuss the provenance in an erudite fashion and the seller is then told that the antique in question is highly desirable.

It's a tough life being a vase.