How My Mother In Law's Black Antique Diamond Ring Got Me

This is the story of how my mother in law's black antique diamond ring made it possible for me to raise the money to pay for my first Atlantic flight from Europe to America. But wait until you get to the end.

My mother in law Betty passed away quietly in her sleep at the ripe old age of 86. Now I must admit, we weren't the best of friends, ever since she, in all seriousness, said that she didn't like her grandson, our then 1 year old boy, for being a normal toddler who spilt ice cream on her mahogany dining table. You know the type.

Betty had not left a will so it was the immediate heirs’ job to go through her personal possessions. A few weeks after the funeral we arranged to meet on a Saturday afternoon at Betty’s now empty house to sort out the contents of some old dusty cardboard boxes that had been found in the attic.

There were six of us sitting around the dreaded boxes with some apprehension: Betty’s three children, Iain, Ron and Jacquie and their spouses, me, Anna and Hugh. Betty had been a widow, ex-colonial bank manager’s wife who had spent most of her married life in India while her children cried themselves to sleep in English boarding schools from the ages of seven. Her husband Alistair had died shortly after their return to England upon his retirement.

In more recent years Betty had been a member of the church choir and local clubs like flower arrangement and cake baking. Her house was neat and polished with little white lace table napkins on little glass-topped side tables. The pictures on the walls were ancient, mostly of English landscapes by unknown artist, framed in old-fashioned curly frames that were much larger than the paintings themselves. You know the style, not quite up our respective sleeves. Consequently, and also because of the sad nature of the event neither of us was very queen to be there and regarded the sad event as a chore.

We didn’t expect to find anything of real value or beauty in the assembly of what seemed like old junk in spider web covered boxes on the dark green living room carpet. But it was a job that had to be done and if we didn’t want to have to stay up all night doing it, we needed to get on with it. How to start? A system needed to be devised. My husband Iain, the pragmatic solicitor took the lead and proposed:

“Let’s take turns unwrapping one item at a time and make three piles:

1.      Keep

2.      Charity

3.      Rubbish.”

“That sounds good,” Jacquie said, and then how do we share out the keep pile?

“Well,” said Anna, maybe we could take turns again and each of us could either keep or swap what they unwrap?”

“OK,” said Ron who really didn’t want to be there at all because it meant he was missing the football. “Let’s get on with it. Maybe I can catch the end of the game.”

The situation was now becoming more like when we were kids on Christmas day. It was a little uneasy to remain respectful and not to laugh at some of the items we discovered like old tin cigarette boxes filled with tiny little buttons, hooks and eyes, poppers, needles and pins.  A silver powder box with a very soft and fluffy pink powdering pad, still full of pale pink powder, still had a faint scent of lilac perfume. There was a lot of old plated silver wear, knives with ivory handles, salt and pepper containers, place mats, serviette holders and all sorts of outdated and superfluous items.  Most of those went into the charity pile.

When it was Hugh’s turn he stumbled upon the jewellery. There was a lot of custom jewellery but in a special box, inside the bigger one, there it was: the real stuff. There were pearl necklaces, clip-on golden ear rings, engraved golden bracelets and antique broaches. Now the dark green carpet suddenly turned into Aladdin’s cave. From their individual little aquamarine velvet-covered boxes the rings emerged. Hugh carefully laid them out on a clean sheet of paper. We counted nine rings. There was an art deco ring, two with elaborate mountings of antique diamonds; two of them looked like Victorian engagement rings. One engraved with the name Alistair (Iain’s dad), and the other carried the name of George.

“Has Betty been engaged twice then?” I asked.

“Not that we knew about,” said Jacquie.

“OK,” said Ron, still hoping to catch the football, “Let us not delve into my poor old mum’s past; carry on.”

“Look at this,” Anna said, “an antique white gold ring, amazing!” How much would that be worth? Can I have it?”

“Sure,” said Hugh, Jacquie’s husband, who had some expertise in antiques, especially in antique diamond rings. “These could be worth something, why don’t the girls share them out equally, three each and be done with it or we’ll be here forever.” And he proceeded to hand out the rings systematically.

“Here, 2 black diamond rings, one for you,” he threw one into my lap; “and one for you Anna. Jacquie can have the bezel setting engagement ring from George, whoever he may be.”

“Then Anna should have that 3 stone engagement ring from our dad marked Alistair,” said Ron.

“Can I have this one?” Jacquie asked, picking up a ring mounted with little antique diamonds.

“OK,” My husband Iain interrupted, “this emerald cut in gold ring, which I think is the most beautiful of all can go to my most beautiful wife.” He handed me the ring.

“Right,” said Ron who was really in a hurry to finish, “the last three, this antique diamond ring for Jacquie and these two diamond ones with the really antique ring setting is for you.” He threw the valuable objects into my direction. “Now you have three rings each. Happy?”

Jacquie and Anna were delighted. As for myself, I hardly ever wear jewellery because it irritates me. So I put the three rings assigned to me back into their little boxes and dutifully added them to the pile of goodies in front of me. We stopped for tea before tidying up all the various piles of things in black bin bags and went home with our “inheritance”.

A few months later I received a letter from my twin sister in America asking me to please come and visit her in Boston. The truth was I couldn’t afford the flight which amounted to about 700 pounds in those days. I mentioned the letter to Iain and he said no, of course we can’t afford it but what about those rings my mother left you that you never wear, maybe they could fetch some cash for your trip?

So I took the bus to Notting Hill and walked down Kensington Church Street along a whole row of antique shops. At first I was a bit shy of entering a shop. What would I say? “How much will you give me for these rings?” I felt embarrassed, a bit like a beggar, and I also felt guilty trying to sell the rings instead of wearing them in respectful remembrance of my late mother in law. Especially the beautiful black antique diamond ring which I had tried to wear once at a wedding but soon had to take off because every time I was introduced to someone and had to shake hands, the ring had viciously pinched a near hole in my finger from the handshake squeeze.

For courage I kept telling myself: "I do not want these rings; I want to go to America to see my twin sister and her family." So I grabbed the bull by his nose-ring as it were and entered the first shop. “Of course you only get a valuation and then walk to the next shop for comparison,” said the little amount of Jewish blood I have in my veins as I entered the first shop.

An hour later, after having gone into about twelve different shops equipped with a little note pad with all the different bids for my rings, all three rings had been sold and produced nearly 1500 pounds in cash. Well! That would not only pay for the flight but give me plenty of spending money as well, brilliant! I went home a very happy woman, clutching onto my now so valuable handbag. Funny when the handbag had been carrying the little rings it had not seemed as precious as it felt now containing a big wodge of cash.

I landed at Logan Airport on Good Friday. The place was jam packed and my sister was no-where to be seen. It is always a disappointment when you arrive in a completely strange city expecting to be picked up by your loved ones and nobody shows. My sister lives somewhere in the suburbs of Boston in a place called Bedford. Where the hell is that? And where the hell is she? I called her home, no answer. Cell phones didn’t exist then. Being a city slicker it tickles my pride to find my way around new places. Disappointed as I was, I had to face the challenge of finding my own way to my sister’s house, luggage lugging included.

To The Suburbs

I had to take the underground into the centre of Boston and from there find a bus to Bedford. From the Bedford bus station I would have to take a taxi, a cab as they say here. When I finally got to my sister’s house three hours later, no-one was in, only an unwelcoming dog barking behind the locked door. It was dark, cold, and beginning to rain. I was hungry, thirsty and exhausted. I sat down in the porch on my suitcase, cried a little and fell asleep propped up against the wall. When I got woken up by someone shaking me it was my sister saying,

“Hi, you made it.”

I had forgotten that my twin sister, older by 15 minutes, was the dominant one of the two and that she had always treated me like the runt of the litter. We argued for the two weeks I was there and I had a terrible time. Betty my mother in law must have laughed with relish in her grave.

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