The Silver Spoon

Andrea pressed her foot firmly down on the pedal of the kitchen bin. The lid opened in response, inviting her to dispose of the spoon.

And yet she couldn’t.

Andrea was pretty sure the silver spoon was worthless. Especially after recent events. Her children didn’t want anything to do with it and her best friend had suggested she just chuck the thing away. Except now, when it came to it, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

Andrea removed her foot from the pedal, the bin lid fell, cutting off the disposal option for now. She carried the spoon to the table. The spoon lay, nestled in its bed of cream faux-satin, inside a tiny box made of gold coloured cardboard. The box had a clear plastic lid embossed with the words ‘community plate’. There was a small pink ribbon tied around one corner of the box. If Andrea had been born a boy, the ribbon would have been blue. And if Andrea had been born a couple of hours later, nearer the actual time, the silver spoon would have been a silver tankard.

Andrea had always felt a bit sad that she had missed out on the tankard. She could have done better. Nevertheless, the spoon was part of her. It always had been. An integral part of her childhood. The subject of family folklore, Andrea’s claim to fame, she was the one ‘actually born with a silver spoon in her mouth’.

Andrea had lost count of the number of times her mother had told the story. Her mother was in the throes of a particularly painful contraction when the midwife rushed in with the news.

‘The doctors are at the Palace!’

Andrea’s mother never divulged the exact details of her reply, merely suggesting that her words could have landed her in the Tower. Sometimes Andrea tried to imagine the expletives her mother, normally such a mild-mannered woman, had yelled in response to the glad tidings. But she would never know, her mother had died taking the secret to her grave.

Apparently, the spoon had arrived a few days after Andrea’s birth, along with a letter from the editor of the local paper. Andrea had inherited the letter too, it had gone a bit yellow, but the type-written words were still clear.

Dear Mrs Hickingbottom,

I have great pleasure in sending you a gift from my newspaper to mark the arrival of your baby on the same day as the new Prince.

Long life and happiness to your daughter, born on this royal occasion.

Yours sincerely,

Douglas Goodlad

Editor

 

Douglas Goodlad had signed the letter himself. In blue ink. Andrea wondered what had become of him.

She looked at the spoon again. It was in need of a polish. She remembered how much her mother had treasured it, keeping it safe through the years. Not on full time display, that would have been ‘showy’, but behind closed doors on the top shelf of the wardrobe. It was taken out for the occasional spring clean and returned with reverence when the shelf had been dusted. What would she think now? What would her mother want Andrea to do with the bloody thing? In light of everything? In light of the man the baby Prince had become?

Andrea had spent her formative years basking in the reflected glory of her royal connections. Her life inextricably bound to that of her handsome Prince. But all that was over now. Andrea’s once handsome prince was old, grey, a little chubby. These things were forgivable, it was the other stuff, the stuff her prince stood accused of. Her Prince’s reputation was tarnished, and no amount of polishing would ever restore it. Andrea despised him.

But still, what was she to do with the spoon? Andrea sighed. She might not like it, but she had little choice. She carried the spoon and the letter upstairs; she opened the drawer by her bed. And even though they weren’t precious, of course they weren’t, not at all, she tucked them in with the things that were, like the notes from her husband brimming with expressions of early love, and their first born’s first shoes, the leather scuffed at the toes from early adventures. Andrea made sure that the spoon and Douglas Goodlad’s letter were well hidden, then she shut the drawer.