The Button Tin

Black shoes? I never wear black shoes. I only own one pair and they are looking a bit dated and dusty. Should have given them a swift wipe over I suppose, especially today. The back of the trousers will do. I hate black shoes… They remind me of death.
These days it takes special circumstances to bring us all together. As with most families we grew and dispersed like dandelion seeds on the breeze of life, or mortality, but if there is one occasion guaranteed to bring out our long stored, mostly black finery, then it’s a good old fashioned funeral. Is there a script for wakes? I mean, every time we get together like this we all seem to play the same part. My brother is acting out his usual cute little boy act on Auntie “Fag Ash”. He’s thirty eight years old for Gods sake! He should be having a midlife crisis like me. Perhaps he is? “Fag Ash” is seventy odd and still falling for it. He might get a sweetie for being a good boy in a minute. He is looking a tad grey these days though, and bald, and a bit podgy. And she is still puffing her life away and thinking about lighting the next one. I see that she’s got a new wheel chair by the looks of it. Jesus, she needs it. Barely enough strength to strike up another death stick. There’s Dad being all blustery and over attentive, which mostly involves refilling glasses to the top and a little bit more. Especially his. I admire a man with one simple solution to the problems of life. My “Big Uncle” is standing in the same corner of the room as last time. He doesn’t talk much. Has he been there since the last funeral? The smelly family dog Scatty is laying right in the middle of the room blissfully unaware of proceedings. Completely oblivious… Is he alright? Is he breathing? Oh good, he just twitched. Probably had one of Dad’s top ups in his bowl. Everyone looks so much older. Except me. And there’s mum trying to do her best by serving cold vol au vents stuffed with obscure mushy treats. On days like these I’m torn between celebrating a life full of fun and happiness, whether it had been or not (don’t talk ill of the dead, they might come back to haunt you) or plain, outright, unashamedly weeping and a wailing. It’s taking a lot to hold it in today. Funerals are chocked full of false bravado a catching up.
Ah, here we go, here they come. The special concoction that is produced on occasions when it is necessary to dispatch relatives to the Underworld. Pale sea insects marinated in a circa nineteen eighty six pink sauce and all neatly presented between two slices of precisely cut white triangles with no crusts. The plate is outstretched, I take one, it’s got curled up edges. I take a bite.
‘Are you alright mum?’ I’m sure there’s cocktail sauce dripping from the side of my mouth. I know there is.
‘Yeah.’ A half sigh. The other half is a cross between groan and moan. Mostly moan. ‘I just can’t believe that she’s gone.’
Neither can I. My Nan was the best Nan in the world. She played the part perfectly. When you know someone for all of your life and only ever see the wonderful side and then genuinely shocked to hear about the bouts of depression, or her almost dying of pneumonia as a young girl. And when they die… It’s a the end of childhood.
‘Do you want to go through her things?’
‘What?’ Just got a tasteless lump of ocean flesh caught in my throat so what I just said came out as more like an exclamation.
‘I thought you might want something of hers. As a memory.’
‘Oh yeah, that’d be nice.’ I think I’ve got a bit of tail, or leg, or something stuck in my tooth. Why did I say “nice”? If it’s nice then why do I feel like I’m about to raid a secret tomb? Barely an hour ago - us - this family, who are not exactly prone to over emotion and physical outpourings, were standing in a cold chapel exchanging friendly banter and giving each other firm but short lived shoulder hugs when in came Nan. Horizontal, five feet off the ground, slow and steady as befit’s the pace of pall bearers. The coffin did me in. Tiny. A child’s coffin. And here I am, about to steal her treasure. Mum leads me down the hall and pushes open a door to the incredibly small box room. I used to sleep in there.
‘I put it all in here.’
At a glance, a quick life assessment, my Nan didn’t leave much for the ninety six years that she graced this world. Three bashed up cardboard boxes in the corner, stacked on that wonderful travelling chest that my Grand Dad bought back from the Far East. I feel guilty for some reason but I want that. I used to roll marbles around the exotic maze of carvings on the top. Over Japanese birds, angry samurais and sharp trees in full bloom. I think I can smell the scented wood inside, It’s still there. I made my decision and was just about to say, “I’ll have the…” when mum cut in.
‘Anything but the chest. Your brother wants that.’
Ok, I could rant on about my bloody brother and his second born son hang up and how he is always competing for affection by acting like a spoilt child and how he’s going bloody bald and looking well fat but, I’m not angry, not today… just sad.
‘I’ll leave you to have a little look through.’ said Mum.
Stamped on the first box is a logo declaring it was originally manufactured to transport bleach bottles. Now it contains a third of my Nan’s life. I’ll take a peek. Nothing but fleeting memories, flashes of the past, too swift to recall, too painful to surface. The second box (Baked Beans) has got nothing in it as well. What’s in the last one? A noise. A dull, tinny tumbling. It’s deep, I know it’s in here. It is… it’s The Button Tin. Now, this is a treasure. It used to keep me entertained for hours. Everyone buys a big tin of chocolates for Christmas, it’s tradition, and usually by New Year all that are left are the ones you don’t like. Coconut or coffee or whatever. This tin is old, very old. It hasn’t stored sweets for years. On the lid is a Victorian soldier in tight pantaloons, I think there used to be red, he is seemingly wooing a demure young lady in a wispy white dress who’s draping a parasol suggestively over one shoulder. This is from the days when tins were made of tin. Trying to remove it is like handling a un-defused bomb or managing a container of plutonium. Strangely nervous. It’s heavy. Not the tin, the contents. They must be there. A little shake. Sounds good. Run my thumb nail around the curled lip of the top, tweak it…
I think I heard a whisper of dreams.
Buttons. Hundreds of them. No two the same. Each with a different story. Here we go then, my first real sin of the day. I am going to pick one up. As a child I was never allowed to touch them. They were sacred. To normal people they were just buttons. In my Nan’s hands they were magic.
It all came back…

The Wise Witch dipped her aged hand into the sea of buttons, felt the caress of memories and slowly stirred the pot. She smiled knowingly and paused, raised her wrist, waited for the tension to mount and then plunged back to stir again. The boy was being teased. He was excited and after what is an age for a five year old The Witch finally plucked out a disc and held it before his eyes. Brown, four holes, not too big, not small. The sort you get on dark lab coats. Plain and functional, but between the finger and thumb of a good and kind person it was a relic of pure imagination.
She spoke.
‘This button belonged to a Persian Princess who was young and beautiful. The middle of three daughters far enough from the throne to be allowed loving leeway in the eyes of her father. She was his “Princess”.
The “Prince” was not a prince at all, he was Captain of the Imperial fleet and had saved the kingdom on many occasions from dark skinned barbaric invaders who spoke with an aggressive tone of speech and had alien concepts of honour and piety. The King liked The “Prince”, loved him like the son he had not. Whilst returning from an adventure that included slaying dogs with ten heads and negotiating at least three temples of gloom, all to rescue the Princess, they were shipwrecked together during a tempestuous storm and swam ashore to the White Isle where they fell in love. They were rescued all too soon. The King promised her hand to The “Prince” but first a task. “Bring me the head of the Emperor of my enemies and I shall betroth you to my daughter.”
“Agreed.” said the “Prince” and he sailed off beyond the line between sky and sea. From the highest tower, when his the mast could be seen no more, the Princess wept. In her hand was a token. It was this plain, brown button from his war tunic. Every day the Princess watched the glittering ocean as she polished the button and she would do until the day he returned…
He never returned.’

Saturday afternoons were always the same. These tales enthralled me. At the time I didn’t know why. I was young, my life skills hadn’t yet equipped me with any form of critical analysis other than “I don’t like liver and bacon”. I should have been disturbed. There was never had a happy ending and the hero never, ever came back, but on the up side there were loads of crazy creatures and battles.
There’s something sparkling in the tin. I know this one. Gold; dull; old, strangely alive. Worn with pride, decorated with an anchor. A sea button. Here I go with sin number two. For the first time I see a different finger and thumb holding it. My Nan would sit for hours caressing it, looking out of the window to the sky. A curious memory. I’d watch her dreaming. Sometimes she would turn and look to the dresser, to an old black and white photograph of a fine young sailor and now I know, it makes sense, she was waiting, wondering when he was coming home. Forty years she waited… and then forty more, and finally… she’s with him now.
My Grand Dads button…
‘I was going to throw that old tin out.’ Hello, Mum’s back. She’s behind me. ‘Your Nan collected them for years and never used one. She said she kept them for emergencies.’
‘What? Like someone going out half naked because a button was missing.’ It’s a joke. Now I’m guilty.
‘Yeah,’ A loving sigh this time. ‘You know what she was like.’
‘Yeah…’
‘Is that it then?’ That was a bit sudden Mum! Perhaps she doesn’t want to think about Nan anymore. Not today. ‘Is that what you’re going to take?’ she said. A tin full of memories? Do I want to keep it?
‘Yeah.’
‘Well come on then. Bring it with you and let’s go back into the Living room and get you another prawn sandwich.’