The Chest

"Thank you, Jane," Mother said, "Gran would've liked your help sorting her effects."

"I didn't want you doing this alone, Mum," Jane said, "And Polly's ready to pop."

"Any day now," Mother chuckled, turning into Gran's driveway.

"Shame Gran won't see Polly's baby," Jane whispered, "Or my 25th birthday tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's in an hour, love. Gran's watching."

"I suppose so," Jane brightened, "she's with Pops?"

"Together forever, dear," Mother patted her hand, leaving the car.

Mother opened Gran's front door.

"The hall's cleared," Jane blinked in the light, "Strange not to have Gran's ginger cat rubbing around my legs."

"Dad and Graham cleared everything after the funeral," Mother said, "One task left, Jane."

Jane was almost in tears, filled with childhood memories.

"Time you had a man in your life, Jane."

"I know," Jane agreed, "It's impossible. You, Gran and Polly were lucky, with Dad, Pops and Polly's Graham. They're all wow! Nobody similar wants Plain Jane."

"Nonsense," scolded Mother, "You're a sweet girl and talented chef. Tell me your idea of the Perfect Man, like you told Gran."

"Pops was tall and kind, lovely. He taught me reading and how to ride a horse. Dad's good at everything. Graham's a marvellous father to both little girls and adores Polly. Any man like them."

"Graham's great," Mother agreed, "Your Dad's a natural, and your grandfather an educated man," as they moved into the living room.

Jane noticed the comfortable settee was gone; she'd always loved this room.

All it contained were two kitchen chairs, each one facing a strange antique chest with a rounded top.

Mother indicated one chair for Jane, then sat opposite.

"This is the last task, dear. Now, tell me exactly your ideal dream man, starting with: how good-looking?"

"Muuuum!" Jane squirmed, "He shouldn't be too handsome, I'd be forever fighting off beautiful women."

"Honey," Mother clucked, "Your man will be completely faithful ... provided you are, too."

"Mum! How could you think? I'd never cheat, You'd never?"

"Never, absolutely," Mother leaned across the chest and squeezed Jane's knees in assurance, "The women and men in our family are always loyal, for eternity. I'd never doubt you or your man."

"I wish I was as sure."

"Your wish is granted, Jane," Mother smiled, "Now, what about hair colour, build, profession?"

"Well," Jane smiled, dimpling her reddening cheeks, warming to the novelty conversation, "No particular colouring, tall would be nice but ..."

"But?" Mother pressed.

"I'd like him to be a chef," Jane said, "French-trained, someone that I could work with, to introduce French cuisine to all our hotel restaurants."

"Isn't our food good enough?" Mother asked, with raised eyebrows.

"Our food's wonderful, but I'd like him to improve our family business," Jane asserted, "Like our menfolk have."

"Agreed. My grandfather opened our first hotel in Brighton. Your Pops transferred his wartime flying experience to pioneer package holidays," Mother ticked off on her fingers, "Your golf professional Dad excels at golfing breaks. Graham's logistics expertise overhauled our excursion tours."

"Yes," Jane laughed, "Problem is, when I studied cuisine in Paris, all the guys looked down their noses at me."

"They didn't recognise your qualities and beauty. Maybe," Mother smiled, laying both Jane's hands on the chest, "None of them were your Dream Man."

"No, they weren't!" laughed Jane, "They were beastly to me!"

"So, what do you have in mind?" Mother asked.

"Someone sensitive, joyful about food and love, without excess."

"Naturally," agreed Mother.

"A superb chef, but practical. A good father to our children, content with family life."

"Family comes first, Jane," Mother murmured, "That all?"

Jane bit her lip, "Yes!"

"It's midnight, Jane," Mother released the catch to the large chest, the lid opening towards Jane. "Let's see what your Gran's left you."

Jane rose, the rounded lid of the chest swung around, revealing the contents, covered by a richly-embroidered brocade blanket. Mother lifted the blanket, revealing a sleeping young man, tall, slim, with a shock of red hair, wearing a starched white chef's jacket.

The man's eyelids blinked and his eyes opened. He saw Jane, sat up and gently grasped both her hands in his warm dry ones.

"Bonjour, Jane, it's be'er 'oldin' your 'and than rubbin' the back of your legs, no? But ... maybe I like both," he smiled.

Jane sat back in the chair, "Not ... ginger tom?"

"Tomas, s'il vous plaît, ma cheri."

Jane looked imploringly at her mother.

"Magic, Jane," Mother said smoothly, "The real family business is ... witchcraft."