We - as in my daughter and I - have reached the kitchen cupboards - as in clearing out/downsizing/decluttering. At the back of the cupboard where most of the crockery is stored, I find two jelly moulds, one glass, one metal, in the shape of tortoises. I hold them up to my daughter.
"Nana used to make greengage jelly in these for me when I was little." Nana was her grandmother, my mother but in the years since she died in 1995, we have always called her Nana, because, well, it just seems right. And, in that moment, I see my mother in the kitchen, stirring the scalding, jewel-coloured liquid that will, magically - and provided that I don't sneak into the larder and move the moulds while the jelly is setting - transform itself into into shimmering, quivering tortoises. I always feel slightly guilty when my spoon makes that first indentation . . .
Years later I make jellies and blancmanges in the same moulds for my daughter.
As I turn the moulds over in my hand, time telescopes and I feel a very deep sniff and prickly eyes coming on. I put the jelly moulds back in the cupboard. Where I go, they go.
Later I find myself thinking about my real tortoise, Susan, who joined the childhood menagerie when I was about 10. I was fascinated by the way she moved around the garden, at a measured but determined pace, in search of dandelion leaves.
Next door's cat was equally fascinated. Sleek, shiny and black, Timmy was originally known in our house as the Bed and Breakfast Boy, because he slept in our kitchen, ate his breakfast with our cats and would then nip back to his owners next door to put in a token appearance. When they emigrated to New Zealand, there was no question about what should happen to Timmy. He moved in with us permanently and was, from then on, called by his full name - Timothy.
Timothy was devoted to Susan. He watched over her every movement, and would follow her round the garden, at a discreet distance, and was very protective towards her. He was a gentle, trusting cat, which probably explains why he didn't recognise the warning signs when the only vicious dog in our street spotted him early one morning . . .
Rex was a fat, black and white mongrel, who was never given much more than a desultory walk round the block by one of his owners, Mr or Mrs Smith - or Mr Smith's brother, who lived with them. (There was always a good deal of muttering about the Smiths at our house - mutterings that I now realise indicated that the Smiths had some sort of ménage à trois arrangement. At 10, I didn't understand what this meant. It was, after all, 1957 and children were still, generally speaking, children and not quasi-adults - o tempora, o mores and all that.) Rex would stand behind his firmly shut front gate growling and snapping at anyone - and any other animal - that walked past. No-one lingered at that gate to pat the dog.
But on this particular morning, someone forgot to shut the gate. I was in my bedroom when I heard a terrible cry. Looking out of the window, I saw Rex shaking something. He had my beautiful, black cat by the throat. The anger in our house that morning was palpable and heated words were exchanged with the Smiths.
We buried Timothy beneath the Worcester apple tree at the end of the garden and, shortly afterwards, Susan disappeared. We searched and searched but never saw her again.
Extraordinary the memories that a couple of jelly moulds can trigger.
(Apologies for the iffy line spacing - Typepad's frustrating auto-formatting messes things up again and cannot be undone.)
