I should have known better. A man doesn’t climb the ranks of barristers or own racehorses without a touch of common sense, but apparently, mine decided to take the day off. Yes, I am not afraid to admit that I am an impulsive fool. As I sat in our drawing room, clutching a newspaper as though it might shield me, my dear wife, Mrs. Chubb, loomed over me like an emerald-clad judge. She was a vision, yes, but at this moment, she was more “executioner” than “dream.”
“Cecil,” she began, her voice sweetly dangerous, like honey laced with arsenic. “Where. Are. The. Curtains?”
Ah, the curtains. Damask. Plum. Sophisticated. She had been very specific. And here I was, a grown man, bracing for the verbal hurricane about to hit.
“It’s funny you should ask…” I started, hoping humor might deflect the inevitable. Her eyebrow shot up. Not a good sign.
“Funny?” she said, her tone sharpening. “Do tell, Cecil. How exactly is the absence of my plum curtains amusing?”
I could feel beads of sweat forming. “Well, my love, it’s a rather unusual story…”
She folded her arms, emerald dress shimmering ominously in the firelight. This was not going to be easy.
It all began with an innocent enough errand. She wanted curtains. I agreed to fetch them. Simple. Foolproof. And then, I made the fatal error of stopping at the auction house.
In my defense, the auctioneer was a showman of the highest order. His voice boomed through the
room, each word painting vivid pictures of grandeur and importance. I had no intention of buying anything. Really, I didn’t. But then he said it: “Lot 15—Stonehenge - A unique piece of British History.”
The room went quiet, and my heart, dear reader, skipped a beat. Stonehenge? THE Stonehenge?
I sat forward in my chair as the auctioneer waxed lyrical about heritage, history, and patriotism. My blood boiled. Rumors in the papers spoke of Americans—brash, nouveau riche Americans—snatching up British treasures like souvenirs from a gift shop. Imagine Stonehenge, our Stonehenge, turned into some sideshow spectacle across the Atlantic. Unthinkable!
Before I knew it, my arm shot up. “Six thousand pounds!” I blurted, surprising even myself. A gasp rippled through the room.
The auctioneer grinned, hammer in hand. “Going once… going twice… SOLD! To the gentleman with a clear sense of national duty!”
The hammer fell. The room erupted into applause. I, Cecil Chubb, had just bought Stonehenge. For the first ten seconds, I felt like a hero. For the next ten, I felt like an idiot. Curtains? What curtains?
“So,” Mrs. Chubb said, her tone frigid enough to chill my tea. “You mean to tell me that instead of curtains, you bought a… landmark?”
I swallowed hard. “Not just any landmark, my dear. It’s iconic. Timeless. British.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Can I hang plum curtains on it?”
“Well… not exactly.”
“Then what, pray tell, am I supposed to do with it?”
Good question. I had no answer. “Think of it as… an investment?” I ventured weakly.
kind of laughter one hears before a villain reveals their dastardly plan. “Cecil Chubb,” she said, shaking her head. “You truly are incorrigible. Where is it?”
The drive to Wiltshire was long and silent. Mrs. Chubb had insisted on seeing “this Stonehenge” for herself, and I, resigned to my fate, drove like a man headed to the gallows.
When we arrived, the sight of the ancient stones took my breath away. The way they stood against the rolling hills of Salisbury Plain—majestic, mysterious, utterly British. I turned to gauge Mrs. Chubb’s reaction, bracing for impact.
She stepped out of the car, her face an unreadable mask. Then, to my utter shock, she began to laugh. Properly laugh, this time.
“Oh, Cecil,” she said between giggles. “You absolute fool. You bought this? You actually bought Stonehenge?”
I scratched my head. “Well… yes.”
She doubled over, laughing so hard tears streamed down her cheeks. It was infectious. I found myself chuckling too, more out of relief than amusement. The absurdity of it all was undeniable.
Of course, the laughter didn’t last long. Reality hit like a lead weight. Stonehenge, it turns out, is not the most practical of purchases. The maintenance alone was enough to make my head spin. And then there was the question of what to do with it.
“You could charge admission,” Mrs. Chubb suggested one evening. “If you’re going to own a prehistoric monument, you might as well make it pay for itself.”
It was a sound idea, but charging people to see a piece of their own heritage felt… wrong. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hadn’t bought Stonehenge to profit; I’d bought it to protect it from landing in the hands of some rich uncouth American from across the pond.
For three years, I bore the weight of my impulsive decision. The newspapers had a field day, dubbing me “the man who bought Stonehenge.” Friends alternated between congratulating me and questioning my sanity. Mrs. Chubb, to her credit, stood by me, though she never missed an opportunity to remind me of the plum curtains.
Then, on October 26, 1918, I made a decision that surprised even myself. I donated Stonehenge to the British government. No fanfare, no demands—just a simple gesture to ensure that this ancient monument would remain in British hands forever. Public access guaranteed forever.
When I broke the news to Mrs. Chubb, she sighed, a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Well,” she said, “at least you’ve ensured no brash American will claim it. But next time, Cecil, stick to curtains.”
And that, dear reader, is the tale of how I became the accidental steward of Stonehenge. It remains a source of mild embarrassment, an occasional topic of dinner-party banter, and a constant reminder of the perils of impulsive bidding. Mrs. Chubb got her plum curtains in the end, of course. As for me? I got a unique place in history—and a firm promise to never, ever stray from the shopping list again.
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| Cecil & Mary Chubb |
Note: This is a fictional retelling from my perspective on a story I read about the history of Stonehenge many years back. Cecil Chubb is credited for saving Stonehenge and ensuring it costs a shilling to visit forever. In return for his generosity, he was conferred with a knighthood
