An unexpected heirloomFollow

I had often heard family stories about my Grandfather's Great Uncle Gilbert.

He was the coloUrful sheep of the family, it seems; remembered more in legend than fact. The tales I heard as a child (those same yarns heard by my Father and Grandfather when they were young and impressionable) were of a flamboyant man. Always garishly dressed, and often very loud in polite company, Great Uncle Gilbert had a reputation for the fanciful.

In his 30s (as yet unmarried) he would often be seen in the coffee houses of London's fashionable Park Lane sporting a Hussar's tunic, very tight jodhpur trousers, Bronze hemmed hunting boots and a waxed moustache. They say his watch-chain was of Azeri gold, and his cigar case was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and jasper.

In his earlier years he boasted of noble acts fighting for King and Country in the wastes of Jaipur, of defiant conduct in the face of Whirling Dervishes in Khartoum, and selfless bravery against Mirpuri snipers in the Khyber Pass. He was known to regale the smoking houses of Piccadilly with tales of derring-do, of lithe native girls despoiled, and of dusky African nobles bowing before his martial prowess.

It was said that his wedding was attended by the crowned heads of Europe, and that the wedding gift he gave to his betrothed was fashioned for him by Fabergé in the craft-shops of Saint Petersburg as a favour from the Czarina herself. The more fanciful tales place Handel at the keys of the Church Organ.

Such are the tales of Great Uncle Gilbert. I devoured every word of the stories as they were recounted to me on long winter nights by flickering firesides. I hung on each retelling of his adventures (They say the Tiger Rug that adorned Grandmother's drawing room floor had paid the price for attacking an alert (though unarmed) Uncle Gilbert in Punjab).

He was not (by all accounts) universally liked. Distraught stable-hands (he drove his steeds hard), cuckolded husbands ("Shag first, ask questions later" was said to be his motto) and the fight-masters of Londonâ's ****-Pits all held him in contempt.

Although the tales were fanciful and far-fetched, my eyes would always widen as my Grandfather presented evidence that some of his Great Uncle's legend had a basis in fact.

I would shudder with reverence as I was shown the Scimitar (dark stains tantalisingly still tarnishing the blood-gutter of the crafted blade) he was said to have used to defend the honour of a Kashmiri princess against an assassin squad from the infamous Gulvinder-Shah.

With my tiny, stubby fingers I would caress the fibres of the tattered regimental flag. Adorned with the battle-colours of Omdurman, Kabul and Kandahar, he had (as the story goes) taken it from the dying hands of General Montague's adjutant, and held it aloft as he stormed the battlements of an Afghan fort.

As my childhood drifted behind me and I became a doubting, cynical man, the memories faded. When the memories did come back to me, I dismissed them as the tall tales of high drama, and they struck me as having a basis only in the romantic imaginings of my Grandfather.


Today I received a parcel of brown paper tied in twine. It was hand delivered with a note by an anonymous courier. The note was written in an ornate hand, clearly using a fountain pen. As soon as I had confirmed my name to the courier, he turned on his heels and ignored my pleas for information.
Who had sent it? From where?

The note left me bemused. It read:

"This is yours. It is your birthright. Though I do not know you, or when the years ordain it should be delivered, I commend it to your charge. Guard it for your heirs, as I have placed it safe down the years for you"

Twenty minutes ago I carefully untied the twine (it seemed to have been intact for a long time, judging by the ingrained grime within the knots). As I folded back the brown paper, it fractured, like baked, brittle parchment. It seemed to contain a musty, coarsely-woven cloth, of a hefty weave, and wrapped within it was something heavy.

So... eBay?

I bid 3 shillings.

Head of an African noble?

Tom Cruise ********?

The stingray that killed Steve Irwin?

his wax moustache?

Great story, and if none of it is even remotely true, the part about what he wore to the London coffee houses makes him a god among men. Reminds me of that movie, Secondhand Lions, about the kid who went to live with his two uncles and learned about their past exploits (sorry, I'm a hopeless American and relate everything to films).

Chances are however, that nobby's just been dipping into the mig-weed again.

I was thinking it was:

It's always about the sex organs with you isn't it?






Edited, Oct 11th 2006 at 7:05pm PDT by GitSlayer

Not at all. I have a healthy respect for ancient artifacts, is all.

I'm guessing a bottle of well-aged single malt scotch. Nobby will post again when he's finished it.

Joph is like a kelly bag: Timeless.