The Vase
by Tony Dawson

 

 

In July 1966, we rented a flat in Santander from Don Miguel. It was furnished with a plethora of what looked to my untutored eye like valuable antiques. There was a particularly magnificent 3-foot-high ceramic vase with a pattern of Byzantine intricacy just inside the front door. No sooner had we arrived than our clumsy son, enthused by the fact that the World Cup that was in full swing in England, booted his football down the passageway, smashing the top half of the vase. I was devastated.

“We’ll have to repair it somehow, disguise the damage by turning it around and hope Don Miguel doesn’t notice it until we’ve gone.”

For the next week, while the rest of my family were ‘holidaying’, I spent every minute sorting through the chippings of the smashed vase and working out where each fragment fitted.

When our stay came to an end, Don Miguel reappeared to pick up his keys and as we trundled our luggage out through the door, I turned to him and said, “By the way, that’s a beautiful antique vase you have there.”

“Antique vase?” He looked puzzled and then chuckled. “Oh, you mean the umbrella stand by the door. Antique? You’re joking! It’s old but hardly antique. They’re ten a penny in the local flea market...”

 

 

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