The Gravy Boat

When my great-aunt Eunice passed away, the only thing I inherited was an old china gravy boat.  At first I was disappointed.  I had no use for such a thing.  Other people in the family got watercolour landscapes from her time in Zanzibar, or richly knitted ponchos made from the hair of her three favourite rabbits, or her infamous collection of recipe clippings from Eastern European community newspapers.  I got the gravy boat.  Until I was given it, I didn't even know she had owned such a thing.  I'd certainly not ever seen her use it.

We'd attended the reading of her will mostly out of curiosity.  Everybody had known that she had a master list of all her possessions, with names written next to them indicating to whom each item would pass after her demise.  Some things had been allocated, withdrawn and reassigned multiple times over the years as certain people fell in and out of favour for various crimes and misdemeanours, mostly to do with "interfering" or "advice".  Conversely, an unguarded remark or query about a strange object in her house would be met with her assurance that she would pencil your name in next to it on the list.  So we ended up with an informal competition to see who had gotten stuck with the most inconvenient inheritance.

The solicitor read out my name, breathed deeply, and solemnly intoned, "In return for his unflagging support and friendship across the intergenerational chasm, I leave my favourite gravy boat".  My sister laughed out loud, but I was disappointed.  I took the gravy boat home and it sat in my garage for a few months, forgotten.  Then winter came.

Something about the cold air made me remember the gravy boat.  It seemed a shame to let it sit there, gathering dust.  I decided to use it, just once, to honour her memory, no matter how foolish I might feel.  So I tied it to the roof of my car, hung a little red handkerchief from the back to flutter gaily in the wind, and set off down the street.  It had been years since I'd been down to the gravy lake, in fact I hadn't been since I was a child.  At first I thought I might have to stop and ask directions, but I just kept turning down the familiar looking roads and soon enough I could smell the gravy and all I had to do was follow my nose.

From the shore the gravy looked smooth enough, but I knew from experience how treacherous it could be.  The ground dropped away sharply once you'd waded out beyond your knees, and it was unnerving not being able to see your own feet.  I got the gravy boat down from my car and slid it out into the gravy, pushing through the rushes that clustered around the shore.  With one final shove, a quick dash, a hop, a wobble, a curse, a lurch, and a relieved sigh, I was aboard, dry feet and all.  Taking my little paddle, I pushed hard at the gravy and steadily worked my gravy boat out from the shore until I was a hundred meters or more from dry land.

I stowed my paddle and rested.  The breeze blew lightly, sending ripples across the gravy and bringing the hot salty smell to my nostrils.  So this was the nautical life!  My cares and worries seemed faded now, like the china gravy boat itself.  I sat for an hour or so, doing a little bit of paddling, and dabbling my feet in the gravy from time to time, before heading back to land and hauling the gravy boat out and back up onto my roof-rack.  As I drove back up the road away from the carpark I caught one final glance of the gravy lake in my mirrors, and I thought of Eunice.  Had she ever been able to come here to sail?  Was it a lost dream or a passing whim?  And what long-gone comment of mine had made her think that I, among all her family, needed the gravy boat?