“I’m the Mummy.”
“No, I’m the Mummy.”
“No, I’m the Mummy.”
“No, I AM the Mummy.”
“But I’m wearing The Bracelet.”
“Oh, so you are. May I have it back please.”
“No (big sigh) because I’m the Mummy now.”
A seemingly normal bath time battle at the Muddy End. But I hadn’t realised that Miss B had become so corrupted by the allure of Motherhood or that she had in fact, turned into Gollum. The similarities are obvious now: small, feisty, peculiar turn of phrase, obscenely strong grip on jewellery which isn’t hers! Tolkien’s Sauron had “one ring to rule them all”, well clearly at the Muddy End, there is one bracelet.
Now, said Bracelet of Power, is a chunky, silver snake thing, that That Sort of Mother used to wear until I, rather like Miss B, insisted that I try it on. Now, That Sort Of Mother is far more bountiful and gracious than I am, and insisted that I keep it. And on my wrist it has stayed, only removed for bath time duties when it might actually inflict injury. It has become a part of me and as far as Miss B is concerned, it is a signifier of Motherhood, part of my robes of state.
As children, the details of our mothers’ person and belongings are so well known to us that they have a powerful effect even into adulthood. The often bandied phrase ‘sentimental value’ communicates nothing of the deep sense of identity and connection that these objects hold. Talking to That Sort Of Mother about this, we began to remember with startling detail, Great Granny’s hands – her long capable fingers with chipped coral nail varnish and the trace of ericaceous compost that seemed permanently to line her cuticles. And on her wrist, her charm bracelet.
Now, that bracelet held power, as a recent family confession session made clear. Apparently, one quiet afternoon, when Great Granny was otherwise occupied, my two older cousins took the bracelet from her dressing table to have a better look at all the little wonders: the windmill, the man in the sombrero, the golden compass (not of Philip Pullman fame but almost equally mysterious to us). Having carefully detached them, they realised with horror that they couldn’t get them back on. Children’s logic being rather like that of politicians, when they became panicked by the threat of discovery and disapproval, they hid the many charms around the house. Of course their crime was discovered but not all the charms and as Galadriel would say: “some things that should not have been forgotten…were lost.”
So to this day, hidden under the grandfather clock or perhaps in the lining of the nursery curtains, they are still waiting to be found, probably by another child looking for a place to hide their Precious.
The Muddy End of the Lane 