A story based on true events surrounding my own family.

The goldsmith sat and worked silently in his tiny workshop in one of the many intersecting side streets in the city’s old town. The streets were narrow and the buildings were closely packed together. They were tall and whitewashed. Some opened out into workshops and bazaars, and others were closed off with large, dark wood doors that kept the heat out and the coolness in. Shoppers and traders crowded the cobbles, some on bicycles ringing bells to warn of their impending arrival and encourage pedestrians to move swiftly away. It was hot and noisy. Women carried bundles on their heads and babies strapped to their front with brightly coloured cotton. The smell of the ocean wafted through the tight streets and the sound of gulls squawking down by the port could be heard. This was Dar es Salaam in the summer of 1962.

The workshop was cool and shaded. A small electric fan moved the air around just enough to make it worthwhile. The busyness of the street outside went by unnoticed as the old goldsmith worked on the ring. He had crafted it from local Tanganyikan gold with a black opal stone. He looked through a magnifier fixedto a stand that had a light embedded in it. It lit up his desk and enabled him to work on the intricate carving etched into the opal. He smiled with satisfaction at his creation. Two African faces in profile were etched in the stone. The detail was phenomenal for such a small surface area. He picked up a soft cloth and rubbed the ring, removing the last traces of dust. He dipped a fresh cloth into a pot of wax-like polish and buffed the ring. It sparkled. He sat back, relieved he had completed the commission on time. His client would soon be here. He opened a drawer on the left side of the desk and pulled out a ring box. He carefully placed the ring inside, slotting it into the tiny opening on the velvety cushion.

The light in his workshop changed. A woman stood at the entrance, a Mzungu.  She was just over five-foot tall. Her dark auburn hair was shoulder-length and held back off her forehead by a black elasticated material headband. She was in her early forties, with sharp, classical features, that in her prime would have been beautiful. She wore a flowery summer dress, square cut at the neck and A-line from the waist, and brown leather sandals on her feet. In a pram was a baby boy, no more than six weeks old. His skin was pale and his hair a wispy brown that spiked into a Mohican style. Next to her on her left was a girl, dressed similarly to her mother except her hair was much darker with more curls, and she had a wave of freckles across her nose. She was eleven years old and looked like one of the characters from an Enid Blyton Mallory Towers novel. She held the hand of her brother. He was shorter, being only five, slightly stocky and his hair was more like his mother’s but cut short at the sides and with a fringe at the front. He too had freckles, but an abundance of them. He grinned mischievously like ‘Just William’.

“Jambo, Madam, come, come in. Are these your lovely children? Come and see what I have for you.” He spoke with the typical Tanganyikan accent. A Swahili speaker speaking English. Joyce, the woman, smiled and her eyes lit up. “Elaine, Peter, come on, let’s see what this nice man has made for your father.” There was excitement in her voice. The two children stepped forward, wondering what the old, African goldsmith would show them.

With pride, he held out the ring box and Joyce took it from him. Opening it carefully, she took out the ring and examined it carefully. “Look,” she said and showed the ring to the two children. “Do you think your father will like it?” Both children grinned and nodded. “Keep it a secret. Don’t go telling him as soon as he gets home. It’s going to be a special surprise.” She spoke gently to her children but with a hint of mischief as well.

“Josiah,” for that was the goldsmith’s name, according to the name above the workshop door. “there are no hallmarks on the ring. Why is that?” Joyce was puzzled.

“This is Africa, Madam. I am a small businessman, and I cannot afford to register a hallmark.” Joyce nodded sagely. Their discussion continued for a few moments more, Joyce ensuring the ring was the correct size according to the sample ring she showed him. Peter became fidgety and wriggled free from his sister’s grasp. He began to wander about, touching tools and exploring the dingy workshop. A sudden crash drew Joyce’s attention away from the discussion. Peter stood stock still, a pile of fine crafting tools scattered around his feet.

“Peter,” his mother snapped, “pick those up, stop playing with things.”  She turned to Elaine, “I thought you were supposed to be holding his hand?”

“Humph.” Elaine screwed up her nose and squinted an evil look in the direction of her brother. He was too busy picking up tools to notice.

“Mummy,” she asked, “why are you buying Daddy a special surprise ring?”

Joyce handed the ring back to Josiah for wrapping and then turned to Elaine. “Well, when you and Peter were born, your father bought me some lovely jewellery to celebrate your births. I’ll show you when we get home.” She stroked Elaine’s hair affectionately. “When your brother, Jeremy, was born,” she turned to the pram and gently rocked it back and forth, “it was a special surprise. We were not expecting him. So I thought I would buy your father a gift to celebrate his birth.” Jeremy gurgled as if to acknowledge that he was a special surprise.  Elaine looked puzzled, her brow creased.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean you weren’t expecting him? Anyway, how do babies arrive? How are they made?” Elaine’s inquisitive nature began to kick in. Joyce became flustered, not wanting to explain the facts of life to her daughter, especially in front of Josiah.

“I’ll let your father explain all that in due course.” Turning quickly to Josiah and in order to change the subject, she spoke hurriedly, embarrassed by her daughter’s inquisitiveness.

“How much do I owe you, Josiah?”

“Shillingi or pounds Madam? I will take either.” Josiah was hoping for pounds as it would carry more weight than the Tanganyikan shilling. “It is ten pounds or twenty thousand shillings. Madam.”

Joyce opened her purse and selected two, five-pound notes, and handed them over to him. Josiah handed her a wrapped parcel containing the ring in its presentation box.

“Sante Sana, Madam. A pleasure to work for such a beautiful lady and her children. I hope your husband enjoys the ring.”

“Sante Sana, Josiah.  Come on Elaine, Peter time to go and prepare a surprise for your father.” She turned the pram around, held out her hand for Peter to take, and led the way out of the workshop into the heat and busyness of the narrow street.

“It’s lovely. Thank you my love.” Alfred held out his hand to show the ring fitting neatly on the little finger of his right hand. He leaned over and kissed Joyce. “Look, you two. Look what your mother has bought me. Isn’t it lovely?”  Alfred was five foot six tall, with a thick mop of black hair. His skin was tanned, a benefit of his Palestinian heritage. He was good-looking and could have passed for a minor Hollywood celebrity.

“Mummy says she brought it for you because Jeremy is special. A surprise.” Elaine was curious to know what made her brother so special. Alfred shuffled his chair away from the dinner table and motioned for Elaine to sit on his lap. She obliged and hopped on and snuggled in. Peter looked up from across the table. He was still wolfing down fruit and evaporated milk.

“It’s not just Jeremy that’s special, you all are. You and Peter are both very special to us. We love you all.” He hugged his daughter to reinforce his message of love. “It’s just your mother and I had planned to have you and your brother Peter. You were to be our special children.” Peter looked up and grinned. Cream escaped from his mouth and dripped on the tablecloth. “But then Jeremy arrived, unexpectedly. A good and lovely surprise. A welcome addition to our family.”  Elaine, remembering her questions from the workshop earlier that day, turned to her mother. “Can Daddy answer my questions now?”

Joyce who was feeding Jeremy from a bottle containing watered-down evaporated milk, looked embarrassed. “Well, I … I’m not sure now is the time…”

“Mum,” she whined, “you said he could.” Elaine pouted and wriggled on her father’s lap to face him.

“Please Daddy, answer the questions?”

In ignorance, Alfred spoke affably, “Of course, anything.”  Joyce tried to make eye contact and warn him but it was too late. “Ask away!”

“I asked mummy where babies come from and how they are made. She said you would tell me tonight.” Alfred was stunned. He looked like he had been hit by a train.

“Well… I…I… well, um…” he spluttered and stumbled. This was not at all what he had been expecting. He looked at Joyce in a way that said, ‘You set me up!’

“I never said tonight, Alfred. I am not sure it is appropriate, she is far too young to know about  things like this.” Joyce had regained a little composure and was trying to steer the conversation away from procreation, pregnancy, and childbirth.  Just then, Amos, the houseboy appeared to clear away the dishes. Alfred, seeing the chance to escape a tight situation suggested, “Look, here’s Amos, let’s help him clear up and then you two children can play in the garden for a while before bedtime.” He hoisted Elaine off his lap and began to help Amos clear away the dishes.  Peter hurriedly scooped another spoonful of fruit and cream into his bowl before it was cleared away. Their house, in Msasani Road, a suburb of Dar es Salaam, was a cool whitewashed building close to Ocean Road that ran down the coastline of Dar. Alfred worked for the British Government as a Crown Counsel during the transition from a colony to a Commonwealth country.

As Alfred snuggled down into bed that night with Joyce, not only did he admire his beautiful wife but his ring too. “It is beautiful. Thank you again. I will always wear it, ‘til the day I die.” He kissed Joyce on the forehead and flicked off the light by the side of his bed. Jeremy gurgled contentedly in his cot at the end of the bed.

***********

The ring did indeed remain on Alfred’s little finger for the rest of his life, save for one afternoon when he lost it whilst gardening. Miraculously, he recovered it after frantically searching the flowerbeds in the garden of their house in New Malden, Surrey. It had been a stressful time but joy had flooded through him when he discovered the ring buried next to some potatoes he had planted that afternoon.

The ring witnessed many things. Holidays in France and Spain, arguments about driving, between Joyce and Alfred. Family Christmases, presents, food and fun. The stresses and strains of commuting to work, the joy of returning home. The ring watched as Alfred painted pictures, smoked cigars and listened to jazz. The ring was there when Elaine, Peter and Jeremy got married. It helped to hold the grandchildren in Alfred’s arms. For year after year, the ring watched the life of Alfred and Joyce, their love, their family, their joys and their woes. It even grieved when Joyce finally gave in to her weak heart in the winter of 1984. The ring was a constant in Alfred’s life, a reminder of the joys and surprises that life brings to us all.

Elaine, Peter and Jeremy sat forlornly in the front room of Peter’s home in Surbiton. Alfred had just died. Their hearts were broken, for a second time, by the death of a beloved parent. It was the end of May 1989.  Peter placed an A4 brown envelope on the coffee table. It clinked.

“What’s in the envelope?” Jeremy spoke quietly, the enormity of the day’s events just beginning to sink in. He was not yet twenty-seven and had lost both parents. This was not unusual, taken in a global context, but at that moment in time, all he could think about was his personal loss. The pain in his chest increased and he sobbed, just for a moment. Elaine placed her arm around him and held him tight.

“It’s Dad’s personal stuff from the hospital.” Peter picked up the envelope and tore open the top. He tipped the contents onto the table. Amongst the papers and coins and wristwatch that tumbled out was the ring. It bounced and slipped off the edge of the table onto the carpet in front of Jeremy. “Look out!” He said and picked it up. He handed it to Elaine who turned it around in her fingers.

“This really should belong to you now, Jez. After all Mum bought it for Dad when you were born.” He looked at her and then at Peter, who nodded in agreement.  She handed it back to him.  “Thank you.” His chest squeezed tight again, but he suppressed a tear with a deep breath. He slipped the ring onto the little finger of his right hand. It fitted, a little loose, but it fitted.

************

The ring played a part in Jeremy’s life for several years; watching him develop as a father to his two boys, as a husband and as a teacher. It experienced a different life than that of Alfred, but nevertheless, it was a symbol of love and hope. A love of a spouse for their partner and a hope that the future would bring all that hard work, perseverance and love should bring. The ring became a fixture on Jeremy’s finger, just as it had been on Alfred’s. It reminded him of his father, the love he had for Joyce and all his children. Jeremy treasured it and often sat twisting it on his finger whenever he thought about his parents or whenever he had serious thinking to do. Beyond his wedding band, the ring was the only other jewellery Jeremy tolerated.

Jeremy paddled in the warm Mediterranean Sea, his four-year-old son Joe held his hand. They talked and played, splashing around in the shallows. Joe’s blond curly hair danced in the gentle sea breeze as they played together. The sun was hot. It was late April, the last week of the school holidays. Jeremy, Sandra, his wife, and two boys Joe and Sam, along with the in-laws Pat and Jim were in Spain. A holiday in Xavier. Sandra sat on a sun lounger guarding Sam who scrambled around on the sand under a parasol. At fifteen months he was still not walking and his skin was fair, his colouring like that of his Nana Joyce. There was a hint of ginger in his hair and freckles were emerging. Sandra waved to her husband and son. She too was blonde, her hair beautifully wavy, her skin turning golden brown as she soaked up the spring Spanish sunshine.

“Look,” said Jeremy, pointing at his wife, “Mummy is waving. Wave back.” He pointed back up the beach to where Sandra sat waving at them. Joe grinned and pulled his hand away from Jeremy’s in order to wave.

“Mummy, Mummy, come and play with us!” His voice was filled with excitement and joy. He grabbed his father’s hand once again and began to drag him back into the shallows. The water gently lapped the shore. Joe pulled and pulled trying to get Jeremy into the sea a little deeper so that he could splash him. Just then, his hand slipped out of the grip of his fathers and he fell backwards into the shallow water. Joe sat there spluttering, the waves gently pushing against him. He grinned, Jeremy laughed and Sandra looked shocked until she saw all was fine. Then she too laughed.  Jeremy scooped him up and stepped two paces further out and sat down in the water. Joe and he splashed each other, enjoying the warmth of the sun and each other’s company. The ring, however, was not where it should have been.

The ring sank and was quickly buried by the current washing sand over it.

“Daddy, where’s your ring?” Joe pointed at his father’s hand. Jeremy looked, raising his hand to look at it.

“Shit!”

Instantly, he began to search the shallows tracing his hands along the sea bed where he sat, panic rising as he did so.

“No, no… no! This can’t be happening. No please!”  His voice was scared, and a knot began to form in his stomach and began to quickly tighten.

“Daddy, what’s wrong? Daddy?” Joe too began to panic sensing his father’s distress. Jeremy was kneeling in the shallows, scooping up handfuls of sand trying to find the precious ring, the gift that represented love and hope. He muttered to himself a mixture of prayers and curses and fought back the creeping realisation that the ring was lost.

“Joe, go and get Mummy, quickly” He urged his son by pointing at Sandra. The tone of his voice betrayed his anxiety.

“What do you mean you’ve lost the ring?” Sandra’s question was quite natural and a normal response, but it infuriated Jeremy who was still desperately sifting sand in the shallows, retracing the steps he had taken in his playtime with Joe.

“It must have slipped off my finger when we were playing, or when Joe was holding my hand.” Sandra sensed the distress in his voice. The ring was precious to him.

“Oh God, I am so sorry. Where were you standing?” She held a hand up to her mouth and then took a few paces to her left. “You were here, right in line with me and Sam.” She held Sam on her hip, his floppy green and white striped hat shielding his eyes from the sun. Jeremy shuffled down the seashore scooping sand and sifting it through his fingers. Nothing. The ring was gone.

For the next thirty minutes, Jeremy waded up and down trying to spot a glint of gold on the shallow seabed. He was not going to give up. Gradually the truth took hold in his mind; the ring was gone forever. His chest ached as he grieved the loss of the precious ring, a connection to his past, to his father and mother. His eyes ached from straining to see the ring in the water and from the occasional tear he had shed. Reluctantly, he walked up the beach and joined his wife who sat playing with her boys. The mood was sombre. He sat down on a white plastic lounger and Sandra leaned across and kissed him.

“I am so sorry my love; I know how much the ring meant to you.” There was nothing else she could say. Sam shuffled across on his bottom and held his hands up to his dad as if to say, “Pick me up Dad, it looks like you need a cuddle.” Jeremy picked him up and Sam fell into his lap and snuggled in, hiding his face from the sun.

“Thanks, Sam.” He kissed his son on the head.

***********

There are times when Jeremy thinks about his mum and dad. He reminisces and smiles at the fond memories he has. Invariably he thinks about the ring.

“Where is it now? Who is it blessing? Is it still buried? Who found it?”  Jeremy and Sandra have been back to Xavier on several occasions. He was often tempted to scour the antique shops and market stalls, just in case. He never told Sandra that. Jeremy sometimes thought about the adventures the ring would be having now. Did a little girl find it as she played on the beach making sandcastles? Did she keep it for years until she met the man of her dreams? Was it a gift to him on their wedding day? Do their children wonder about the two faces carved into the stone, as Jeremy had done, making up stories about them?

Was it found by a treasure hunter and sold at a market? Was the ring making another family happy somewhere in the world? Perhaps it was bought by a collector and now has pride of place in a cabinet in a big country house. Has it been used for good or evil? Has it been a blessing or a curse? Is it worn with pride or is it hidden away in a box, no one caring about it?

Did the ring have a say in where it went? No, that’s crazy, it was just a ring, but for the years it spent in Jeremy’s family it did hold a special place in his heart and that of his father.

************

A young man, tall and slim, walked along the seashore, holding his young son’s hand. They were enjoying the summer sun on Xavier Beach. It was busy, children playing, sun worshippers soaking it up on loungers, lovers walking hand in hand along the promenade. As father and son walked, the sea lapped up at their feet and something caught the man’s eye. A glint, a glisten, something gold and black. He stopped and looked. Another wave rolled in and gently stirred up the sand. It was gone. Was it ever there? He shook his head gently as if to say, “No I didn’t really see anything.”  The ring was still waiting to be found.