The story of an unlucky vase. Or maybe the story of a family as seen by a vase.
Please wash your hands. This wannabe-friendly reminder stuck to the door is what I stare at most of the time in this miserable toilet cubicle under the staircase, in a shared house in South London. Since I have been moved to this claustrophobic space, I have been witnessing the most private moments of all the tenants, their friends and occasionally even Landlady.
You wouldn't believe it while looking at me now, with this cracked edge and all covered with splashes of acrylic paint, but before I was demoted to toilet brush container, I used to be placed in the middle of the main table, in the finest and most spacious dining room of this house, and I would hold scented, fresh flowers. All the guests would congratulate on my exquisite features and my owners would be so proud to own me.
It was Landlord who bought me during one of his trips abroad. He went to China on business for a week but he extended his trip to one month to travel around the country. He came back with an additional suitcase filled with presents for Landlady and the children. Of all gifts, I was the most admired, almost worshipped. The kids weren't even allowed to touch me! And look at me know, with the scar of a war I am not responsible for, and the messy colour stains the youngsters found appropriate to cover me with until they got fed up with me. Now I am neither regarded by the other pieces of pottery - not even the Tesco Value bowl used to feed the kitten! - nor befriended by these working class tools I have to share the new room with. The toilet brush thinks I am too snobby... Do they know what respect means! I don't belong in here!
Oh how I miss my life as a well esteemed ornament, surrounded by a court of precious silver cutlery and shiny crystal and gold cups! Those were the days when Landlord was still living with Landlady and the children would play the piano with him on Sunday afternoons. Landlady was relaxed and happy and this made her smile so beautiful... Everything was perfect back then. What's wrong with humans? What are they looking for when they already have it all?
It was a warm Saturday afternoon when the war broke out. The children were playing with the neighbours in their back garden. Landlady was supposed to be volunteering at the local parish, but she wasn't well. She asked Landlord to go to their monthly meeting on her behalf, and he reluctantly accepted. While he was away, the telephone rang. A high-pitched female voice hesitatingly asked for Landlord. Landlady was visibly upset. She started pacing back and forth on the precious carpet. I don't know what the telephone conversation was about, but it seemed very short to me. How Landlady figured it all out from just a simple question asked by a perfect stranger on the telephone, is beyond my understanding. Even Landlord, when he got back from the meeting, was so surprised that he wasn't able to deny the truth about the woman who called. I sensed that things were devolving in a way I had never seen before. Landlady wasn't herself anymore. She was screaming, crying and swearing! Landlord wasn't able to utter a sensible sentence, which irritated her even more.
It was only a matter of time before objects started flying around the house. I began getting very anxious, even though I didn't imagine that I would join the party. I think Landlady could have killed Landlord if she had aimed properly. I was already a witness, and now I was a weapon! Maybe a Police archive would have been a more decent place than a toilet, but I have principles and I am convinced that everything is better than being involved in a crime! So, I am glad Landlady was too bewildered to concentrate on murdering her husband.
Anyway, I missed Landlord's head, but not the edge of the door frame. I am not sure how I managed to survive. Surely I have to be grateful to the comfortable antique sofa I landed on. After then, Landlord had to move out and I was forgotten for a while. I thought that was a miserable way to end my life. Now I wish that had been the end of my life. Instead, the children discovered me, and decided to use me as a showcase for their lousy creativity. Landlady didn't protect me anymore from them. She hated the sight of me!
You probably figured out what happened next. The house is big, and Landlord's income is now going somewhere else. Landlady started renting out two rooms on the ground floor and at some point one arty tenant saw me and decided that I would make the loo so much more interesting. Even then Landlady didn't defend me. But I still remember her loving eyes when she first saw me, and this memory now is excruciating.