By Pat Barnett
The beginning of this heirloom started with little caterpillars munching the leaves of a mulberry tree – then to the thread they spun; which was gathered and woven into lengths of fine silk. This story follows a roll of the beautiful material on a journey from China to a walk up the church aisle of a small fishing village.
Firstly, the length of silk was made into a parachute where it carried a man behind enemy lines and into the field of conflict. His mission took him to do feats of courage, and he was awarded with medals for his bravery. But our story is not about his mission; it is about the silk parachute left hidden under the dune bank on that war-torn shore.
The parachute broke free when a high tide scooped it up, and like some giant jellyfish took it across the sea to wash up on the beach of a fishing cove. It was a boy called Jack who, whilst mending his granddad’s fishing net, spotted the parachute as it bubbled and bobbed with the tide’s movement. He immediately thought the area had been invaded by an enemy, so he sounded the alarm.
“Looks like one of ours,” said the coast guard.
“Does that mean there’s a man lost at sea?” Jack now wished for an enemy running free rather than the alternative.
The coast guard looked among the tiny gathering and saw their pain. He nodded towards the vicar and coughed, “Perhaps we could say a few words for him.”
The vicar prepared himself for prayer, but before he uttered a word, the tiny population raised their heads and sung Eternal Father.
“Can we say a prayer just in case he isn’t dead? Can we send him hope?”
Seven-year-old Annie looked up to her mother and asked.
So a prayer of hope was sent across the grey sea.
With reverence, the parachute was laundered and placed in the vestry of the little church by that close-knit fishing community.
Annie grew into a creative young woman who spent her adulthood writing music. She also wrote lyrics – some in the style of sea shanties collected from songs from her own village and others around the coast.
As the years rolled by, Annie often looked back to days of the war, and her chest filled with pride when she recalled how they coped. No one grumbled about having to take on the tasks of the young men who had been called to arms, nor did the children cry for more than they were given.
She looked up from her desk to see her own children playing a game of tag. Peter, Annie and Jack’s eldest, had just turned thirteen. A teenager was what he liked to be called, a name she thinks might be American like bubble gum, cookies and gee whiz. She smiles at how much life has changed over the years, yet marvelled why certain traditions continued to live on.
Her music had also changed. She wrote to a faster tempo but her lyrics remained attached to the sea and to those who spent their working lives on it. Salt was in her veins, and in that of her husband Jack. Like his forefathers, he is a sailor, though it isn’t fish he catches but spends weeks away exploring the oceans for oil.
It was on a balmy September evening when the children were doing their homework that Jack returned home a day before he was due. The house erupted with joy, schoolwork forgotten, and with everyone trying to get a word in edgeways, Jack shouted above the racket,
“Listen to me. I was able to come home early because someone gave me a lift.”
Ownership of a car was unusual, especially in Annie and Jack’s little village; those with vehicles owned tractors to pull in the boat trailers or trucks to fill with fish.
“So?” enquired Annie as she strained to look out of the window, “where is your mysterious driver and what has he done with his car?”
“He’s staying at the Anchor. I walked from there so that I could surprise you.”
Standing on tiptoe she kissed him long and slow and whispered,
“And a lovely surprise it is.”
The youngest boy put a finger down his throat and went,
“Yuk.”
His sister gave him a sharp jab with her elbow. Peter ruffled his brother’s hair and gave a nod for them to leave mum and dad and go for a walk.
The sun was setting behind the hills that hugged the tiny inlet. Men were pushing their boats out ready for a night’s fishing and some preparing their creels with bait hoping for a good catch of crab or lobster. In every aspect, it was a normal evening except for the fact that a car stood outside the entrance to the pub.
Jack was telling Annie how he met the driver.
“All I know is that his name is Dave, and he owns one of those recording studios. It was your name that brought him to me.”
“My name?”
“Yes, his people were in Portsmouth recording songs from the gigs performed by the local groups when he heard some of your music. He made enquiries, and they pointed him to my ship. There is a song you wrote that is of particular interest to him.”
“Which one?”
“Sorry, don’t know.”
“Oh really Jack – I might become famous at last and you don’t know how. Flipping typical.”
“Yes,” he held his hands in defence, “but you write so many songs, I’ve lost count. But the upshot is,” he pulled her close, “he wants to meet you. So come on, he’s a huge fan. He’s talked about your work all the way home.”
“Really? Well then, in that case, I’d better smarten myself up.”
The next day Annie took Dave to the church and showed him where the parachute had been lovingly stored by the parishioners. With care, he examined the edges, looking with more detail at the cords until he found a tag.
“There, I knew it. Can you see?”
“I often wondered what that was.”
“It’s a coded mark. This parachute belonged to my father.”
Tears filled his eyes as his fingers gently stroked the shot silk label with its secret mark disguised within the grain.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“No,” turning to her he whispered, “please don’t get the wrong idea, these tears are for joy. My father accomplished his deed.”
Several years later, when Annie and Jack’s daughter married, she did have a bridal gown made from the silk of the parachute. The years rolled by, and Jack retired from the sea, but Annie continued to write songs, though not with the same zest of her youth.
Their two granddaughters also walked down the aisle in the handed-down heirloom, which had been tucked in to fit its new model or let out as the case may be.
Annie sat at her desk and pushed aside her wireless keyboard to browse the photo album.
She stared at the soft folds of her granddaughter’s gown.
Who would believe, she mused, you were once a little worm living your life on a mulberry tree, and after many incarnations, you have been unpicked and refashioned and worn again.
© 2024 Pat Barnett
SEO Page Description
“Heirloom” by Pat Barnett is a deeply touching generational story of a silk parachute’s journey—from war to love, loss, and tradition. This beautifully woven tale explores themes of resilience, family legacy, and how history is passed down through cherished objects.
