A SOFT LANDING

My mum’s parents lived in an ancient, low-slung stone cottage north-west of Oxford, in the village of Church Enstone. The house was built into the hill and smelled often of the two hunting dogs Albert kept mostly in the rain. There was a medieval conker tree tucked into the corner of the field at the top of the hill. We’d visit on Saturdays and Albert would disappear mid-afternoon to watch the wrestling on TV. He’d perch on the edge of the sofa, bare liver-spotted shins above his sporty socks, ducking and feinting and grunting. It was the most serious thing in his week and you could probably have sold tickets to watch him. I was desperately convinced there were ghosts in that house too, and turned down any invitations to spend the night.

The couch was in green velvet worn shiny as the backside of his pants. There were elaborate embroidered cushions and curtains thicker than blankets, with ivory tassels tickling the floor’s honeyed boards. There was limestone two feet thick, and until she gave them up (and then died because of them), the smell of my grandmother’s black-pack John Player Specials wafting from the flagstone kitchen.

I bring this up because a recent client moved into a smaller space and among the belongings I’ve been asked to re-home, are the fabulous hand-embroidered, feather-filled cushions from England, pictured above. They are what my grandparents would have bought if they’d earned more (much more). I’ve got them on the couch in the office at the moment and they transport me way back, to a simpler, albeit malodorous time

They can’t stay here, that’s my reason for writing. I’d like to find a new home for them. Tricia tells me she paid 300 pounds for them, which worries me when I think about how long ago this was, but they sure are purty. Perhaps they’re worth something to you, even if it’s not something similar to what was paid for them. Let me know, and if things work out I’ll donate the proceeds to charity.