My mother’s gold. Two bracelets she was given at her wedding in 1968. Her mother’s chain. Three rings, one of which she wore every day for forty years and which came off her hand in the hospital in 2019 and was put in a small plastic bag and given to me.
I took all of it to a shop on Bridge Street on a Wednesday morning in the September and stood there while a man weighed it on a scale.
Eleven hundred pounds.
And I gave nine hundred of it to a man with a website and a clinic abroad, who I now know was taking money from about forty families at once, and who has since been arrested in a different country.
And two hundred on a taxi and a hotel, so that Cian could have a second opinion from a professor who spent nineteen minutes with him and told us, kindly and correctly, exactly what the first three had.
