The trunk

The Trunk

A trunk. Not one belonging to an elephant, or an item of clothing used for swimming, or a part of the body, or what holds up a tree or even what foolish Americans call the boot of a car. But, a wooden trunk. An ornately carved Chinese camphor wood trunk. Or should I call it a chest? No matter we will stick to trunk.

We have one such trunk. It sits in the study, a rather pretentious name for what is in fact a room which contains a multitude of  disparate books, a computer, an ironing board and a mouldering pile of laundry waiting for attention. And a trunk. A trunk with a history.

It had once belonged to my husband’s granny, who had many tales to tell of her time in Hong Kong. I never had the pleasure of meeting her, probably for the best as she was reputedly quite a fearsome creature. The trunk with many other items of Chinese art had been shipped back to England when she had eventually returned after the war.

I had always coveted said trunk, fascinated by its carvings and what it might hold. Eventually, no one else in the family was in the least interested, it came to me. Much to my husband’s dismay, he hated it.

It was like Christmas and birthdays all rolled into one when the carriers informed us of its delivery. A space was made in the study and it seemed to settle well into its new home. My first task was to give it a good clean. Its intricate carvings of mountains, bridges, blossom trees and human figures needed careful dusting to get into all its crevices. I’m sure there is a story behind the images. I was tempted to open it up and discover its secrets but I knew that the outside needed to be pristine before its hidden gems could be unveiled.  Almost as though those ancient Chinese craftsmen who had carved it were protecting its contents.

An old toothbrush got into most corners and then a coating of teak oil to bring out its depth of colour and beauty. The last external job was the brass clasp which was its locking mechanism. 

‘You know it’s not a valuable antique don’t you? Made for the tourist market pre war. Although it does look a lot better than it did. Have you opened it yet?’

I did not like to admit I was slightly scared of this ultimate action fearing the disappointment on seeing its contents.

‘My gran kept bedding in it. The camphor wood was supposed to keep the moths away. I dare say there’s just a load of moth eaten cloth inside. Come on let’s open it now.’

Thankfully his phone rang at that moment.

‘It’s Mick checking up I’m still OK for the golf.’ He trundled off downstairs much to my relief. I wanted this unveiling all to myself. I know it sounds selfish and after all it had belonged to his granny but I really felt that the ancient Chinese wanted me to open it.

I undid the metal clasp, my labours with the brass polish had shown that it had engravings, possibly Chinese writing. A shaft of sunlight made it glow. It lifted with a bit of a groan. And now the lid. A heavy lid needing two hands to lift it and a slight creaking reluctant sound. The lid leant back against the wall and at last I could see what was within.

Holding my breath I carefully removed the browning, brittle, tissue paper which was hiding the contents. Complete disappointment. He was right, my husband, old, yellowing utilitarian type pillow cases met my eye with the aforementioned moth holes. Layer after layer of unusable bedding revealed itself.  Despair growing I delved deeper and found a packet of old sepia photos, people and places long since forgotten. Then a whole cache of shopping lists and old receipts. Why? A box of buttons that might be useful , and not much else. I was about to give up but decided to have one last rummage. Pushing my hand down into the depths, afraid that a rampant mouse or spider might be tempted to attack. My fingers encountered something small, smooth and hard. 

As I pulled it out that rogue shaft of sunlight burst its way through the clouds and onto my discovery. A small glass vial about the size of my little finger and the same thickness with wonders inside. I held it up to the sunlight and the myriad sparkling jewels gleamed and danced. Here was my treasure. I decided it had been a gift to granny in law from a wealthy Chinese merchant or a love token from an illicit liaison. My imagination then took me on various adventures. The sale of the priceless jewels would buy a mansion in the Cotswolds, a flat in Venice and as many first class holidays as I could imagine. 

I turned and twisted the container letting the light illuminate the colours. I laughed out loud when I upended it and found the legend, ‘made in Hong Kong.’

‘What’s tickled you? Found anything interesting?’

‘As you said, just a load of moth eaten bed linen. But if only this trunk, and it’s contents could talk just imagine the stories it would have to tell.’

He shrugged, ‘I’m meeting Mick for a round of golf, do you fancy  having lunch at the club house?’

I smiled and nodded.

Putting the treasure into my pocket I carefully replaced all the items and closed the lid. Further investigations would be made another day and who knows what might be lurking in the depths.