Storm born silver

 

#EllyninParis


“Again!” Ellyn shut her eyes, while Anne scooped up a mixture of brass and tin chains, costume jewellery and cheap odds and ends into the box. She added a small silver ring and a gold bracelet and stirred them all together. Ellyn kept her eyes shut and felt into the box.   

She pulled out the silver ring straightaway, hesitated, and then drew out a tarnished chain before reclaiming the gold bracelet.

“What’s that?” asked Anne, “I thought it was cheap gilt”.  Ellyn looked closely at the chain, and scratched at it. “I think it’s vermeil,” she said, “Gold plate over sterling.”

She laughed “That can just mean red in French; glad you clarified! How do you do it?” 

“I’m not sure.  It sort of chimes against my hand. Gold chimes differently, plate faintly and base metals not at all. My grandmother said it was a gift of the storm born."

I’ve always been able to do it. I used to play in my father’s antique shop and would pull out the silver. After a while, if he picked up a load of silver or jewellery at an auction, he would let me go through it. It was easy for him to check with hallmarked stuff.” She laughed. “Once he was convinced, he’d take me to auctions with him and let me go through stuff before he bid on it. We found some good bargains that way, and avoided costly mistakes.”

“So why aren’t you rich?” Anne laughed. Ellyn’s face closed down. She grabbed her coat and got ready to go. “He died in an accident, ok? I’ve got to be somewhere”

Anne turned beetroot red, and stuttered “I’m sorry, hey, wait!” but Ellyn was gone.  



Location: Paris, France

Comments

Post a Comment

Your comments are very precious to me. Thanks for taking the time, Lynne

Popular posts from this blog

The 99 Sorrows

  No-one saw it start. It was just there, hanging above the edge of the cliff in Folkestone. Because it was Folkestone, people initially thought it was an installation for the local Triennial art exhibition, one of those anonymous expressions of virtuosity like the spray-painted stencils often seen in the town. “But it’s alive,” the Triennial director said. “How could anyone put it there?” This was certainly true. It was a huge teardrop-shaped cloud of butterflies, deep, bruised purple and black in colour, fluttering but remaining as a cohesive whole. She reached out, but the cloud stayed out of range. The feeling around it was of incredible sadness. She moved away. The ache was just too terrible to be borne. The local TV news channel sent a crew, with Jayne, on her first assignment as a trainee reporter. She interviewed a wildlife expert. “Could you tell us about this species, Dr Ellerby? Is it normal for them to mass in this way?” she asked. “I’ve not seen this species of butterf...
Read more

Sycamore Gap

Image
 I was horrified and sickened by the news of the terrible destruction at Sycamore Gap. Here's a sketch I made of Sycamore Gap, and a short story about a tree that was an important refuge for me.  All the best,  Lynne   May’s call had been frantic, so George drove home as quickly as he dared. ‘Ella’s missing. She went out first thing this morning and hasn’t been seen since.’ His daughter had always been a solitary soul, but it wasn’t like her to go missing for this long. ‘Yes, I’ve called the police and the City General,’ she confirmed. ‘We should never have argued like that in front of her last night.’ ‘But if you…’ George stopped himself. ‘What about friends?’ ‘I’ve called Helen and Sue’s families, but they haven’t seen her.’ ‘Has she taken anything, a coat, a book?’ He’d never known Ella be far from a book. ‘Her coat’s gone.’ May bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what book she might have; she went to the library yesterday.’ ‘We’ll have to search.’ In a field above Wetley ...
Read more

Saturday, Porte de Vanves

Image
The grumpy stallholder turned Ellyn away and she walked off, dejected. Was this ever going to work? An old man waved to her from the other side of the aisle.  “Never mind Alain, he had his cashbox stolen last week,”he said. “it makes him wary.”Ellyn had discounted asking this man if she could pitch her stall in the gap next to his, despite his kind eyes, as he was laying out display cases of jewellery. “What is it you sell, petite?”   “Bracelets I made.” She held one up to show him. “Silver Byzantine bracelets.”  He looked closely at it. “May I?” She held it out. He scrutinised the jump rings which made it up. The joints were smooth, barely visible.  “Silver?” he asked? “Yes, recycled.”   “They’re really well made.” He cupped it in his hand. “At that weight they really should be hallmarked.” “I have no resource for hallmarking, Monsieur. Where I’ve re-used a silver clasp it’s hallmarked.” “Never mind, so you’re looking for a corner to set up a stall, is tha...
Read more