A Piece of China
My mother often asked me to set the dinner table with our best china. As it became something of a tradition, I never thought to question it. I simply assumed it was one of Mums odd preferences, a small whim, and so I did as she wished.
One evening, while I was laying out the plates, our neighbour, Mrs. Barker, popped in unexpectedly. Mum, bustling away at the stove, invited her to come in. As Mrs. Barker glanced at the gleaming dishes arranged on the table, she remarked,
Oh, you must be expecting company. Ill come back another time. I should have phoned first.
No, no, nonsense, Mum replied. Were not expecting anyone.
But why use the good china if not for guests? Mrs. Barker was puzzled. I only get my posh dinner set out twice a yearChristmas and Easter, thats it.
Well, said Mum with a gentle chuckle, Ive made the familys favourite meal tonight. If we bring out the finest plates for outsiders and special occasions, why not make an ordinary meal special for the people closest to us? My family deserves the best, just as much as any guest.
Mrs. Barker raised an eyebrow. But what if some of your lovely china gets chipped? She clearly couldn’t see why Mum would risk it for a regular dinner.
Mum smiled, her eyes twinkling. A few chips and cracks arent much to pay for the feeling we get, all together at a table set with our favourite things. And besides, she continued, taking a plate from the cabinet, each little nick has its story, doesnt it? She looked at Mrs. Barker as if she expected her to understand, being a mother of two herself.
Mum held up a plate. See this chip? I was seventeen when it happened. Ill never forget that day. Her voice softened as though pulled away by memories. It was autumn, and my brothers needed help bringing in the last of the straw, so theyd asked a young man from the next village, a sturdy chap, to lend a hand. My mother sent me to gather eggs from the chicken run, and thats when I first saw him. I stopped and watched him, the way he tossed the straw so easily. He was strikingtall, broad-shouldered, jet black hair. I suppose he sensed me standing there, because he paused, turned around, and flashed a dazzling smile. My brothers seemed to take to him, toothey invited him to stay for supper. When my eldest brother sat him right next to me, I thought Id die from embarrassment. He must have known Id been staring, and now there he was, right beside me. I was so shy I could barely speak.
Realizing shed wandered into more personal territory in front of me and the neighbour, Mum blushed and hastened to finish her tale.
Well, he passed me his plate, asking for seconds. My hands, all clammy and shaking, just let it slip. The plate chipped against the edge of the pan.
Mrs. Barker shrugged. If I were you, I wouldve tried to forget about it.
Mum shook her head. A year later, I married that remarkable man. Even now, when I see this plate, I remember the day we met. She carefully placed the plate back in the cabinet, tucking it behind the rest, and catching my gaze, she gave me a quick secret wink.
Sensing that Mrs. Barker wasnt especially moved, Mum fetched another plate, this one clearly broken and pieced together with careful glue.
This was the day we brought our newborn son, Matthew, home from hospital, she said. It was freezing, a gale howling all around. My six-year-old daughter tried to help and dropped this plate in the sink. At first I was upset, but then I thoughtIts just a plate, and Im not about to let a broken dish spoil our joy of bringing home a new baby. As I recall, patching it back together, bit by bit, felt oddly satisfying.
I was sure there were countless other stories tied to that china.
Days later, I couldnt shake thoughts of that first plate. There was clearly something special about it, especially since Mum had hidden it so gently behind all the others. It intrigued me to no end.
A few days after that, Mum went off to Oxford for shopping. I, as always, was left in charge of the younger ones. No sooner had her car disappeared down the lane than I climbed onto a kitchen chairstrictly forbidden!and crept into my parents bedroom. Fishing out the top drawer of the wardrobe, I rummaged around as I had many times before. Nestled at the back, beneath a swath of wonderfully scented grown-up nightgowns, I found a small square wooden jewellery box. Lifting the lid, I gazed at its treasures: a ruby ring that had belonged to Mums favourite aunt, a pair of dainty pearl earrings Dad had given her when they wed, and her beautiful wedding band, which she often took off while helping him outside on the farm.
As always, I couldnt resist trying them on, imagining myself all grown up, as elegant as my mother, having my own beautiful things one day.
But this afternoon, my attention shifted. I pulled back a fine piece of scarlet cloth, revealing an ordinary-looking chip of white china. It had meant nothing to me until today. Taking it, I held it to the light and hurried off to the kitchen. There, after hauling over a chair and opening the cabinet, I pulled out that precious plate. Sure enough, the chip, kept safe with Mums few treasured jewels, fit perfectlymatching the plate that had slipped from her hands the day she set eyes on my dad.
Now I understood. That piece of china wasn’t just a chipped plate; it carried a memorythe very start of my parents love story, and fifty-three years had passed since that fateful day.
One of my sisters once asked Mum if she could have the ruby ring, and another set her heart on Grannys pearl earrings.
Theyre welcome to the family jewels. As for me, Id rather have the piece that holds the story, the memory of how a great and steadfast love began. I would choose the shard of china, for its sometimes the simplest, most unassuming things that tell the whole tale of a life well lived.
