A Flint Fossil

It sits on the shelf in my study and can fit in the palm of my hand. A common piece of flint, with a treasure wrapped inside. One side of the stone is familiar to any walker on chalky cliffs, it is curved, plain and grey, but the other side has sharp edges and raw flakes of flint. It holds a smoky fossil fish with scales, a fin and face.

‘Flint don’t trap fish or molluscs,’ said the man at the fossil shop, when I told him of my treasure at home. My wife had taken me to Lyme Regus for my 58th birthday and I wanted to buy a sharp-edged hammer for the nearby cliffs. I have always meant to return and show him my stone.

Ruth had given it to me. She had found it when walking on the South Downs, and she was curious about the shadow within it. My room is full of things that Ruth has given me. Without warning she had died eleven years ago, and I think of her every day. She belonged to a group of women who would meet for tea. They called themselves the fossil club.