My maternal grandfather was the sort of chap who carried a pen knife, as we used to call any slip joint folding knife, and he and my grandmother once brought me back an exquisite little knife with engraved handles, from their travels. I remember thinking the handle was black and gold, but of course it was black and brass!
I dropped it in the woods by their house one summer, and I searched for days and days. Every time I’d visit them in Scotland, right up to a few years ago when my grandmother died and we sold the house and land, I would keep an eye out in the woods for that knife. Thirty five years later. I suppose I must resign myself to it being enjoyed by the faeries.
My grandmother was very unsentimental, so much of my grandfather’s possessions were thrown away. I guess I am the one who will be passing knives down to my three children: lots of knives!