The door has just slapped shut behind me and already I am shouting the news of my latest find, toeing off my shoes and undoing the paper parcel I’ve been carrying under my arm. My final sentence, delivered in breathless excitement is the price - only forty-five pence! My father however, looks up from his paper with the critical eye of a perfectionist and wants to know more before he will commit to an enthusiastic response: “Let’s have a look at that seam.”

It’s true. There is a thick, ugly smear of amber coloured resin which bisects the young girl and her cloak. It’s also tricky to guess what the original colour of the statue would be, since the overall effect is an oily grime and my hands still feel mealy just from handling her in the shop. The antique store owner, a Mr. Corrin, is a friend of mine if that is what you call the relationship between a fourteen year old girl and a 76 year old respectively. Mr.Corrin is tall, stately and wears a never ending series of silky cravats. His thick, wavy white hair is always combed straight back and he has recently confided to my mother (over a cup of tea in the shop, served in vintage china cups) that it was refreshing to see such a girl as myself, always polite, well spoken and genuinely interested in antiques. “Not like some of them around here,” he intoned darkly, patting his hair in place with an exaggerated shudder.

My father is still studying the join line. “Hot water and lots of it.” He turns the sink on full blast with a generous squeeze of dish soap and I watch his glasses steam up, cigarette clamped firmly to one side of his mouth. The little statue is immersed and promptly floats to the service, bubbles escaping from beneath her feet. After a good soak and a thorough scouring, she is revealed to be a pale bisque most likely stained that way - but best of all, my father carefully loosens the old glue and it peels away with a twist like a strand of hardened toothpaste. Without it, she looks stunning, emancipated even and much later when she is dry, the two pieces will be married together once more but without a trace. Only then, will my father smile, slightly, and be satisfied. He is also smug to point out that this is likely Parian Ware - something Mr.Corrin wondered himself - and whilst not a museum find, is definitely worth more than what I paid and also very collectible. I cherished the nostalgic idea that I had saved her from the bottom of a basket and excitingly, could now see that she was holding violets and not just pressing her cloak shut against the wind.

And so she will stand on my dressing table watching me hunch over books or sob over boys. Then onto my desk. She will remain stoic as she is rolled up in cotton, then bubble paper each time I change house. Three times across the Atlantic and then she will appear as a sentry in yet another house. Now she stands on my windowsill looking out at the garden through sightless eyes, often causing me to wonder where she had lived before I found her in Mr.Corrin’s shop and where she might have ended up if I had not found her. Waiting. © Speranza