The Attic (short story)

-2-

1951

    It was a very cold day in October, the icy wind touched my face.
I stood near the grave of my parents and realized I never received an answer to my question. Not sure why I thought about it today, the question wasn't very important; not any more but when I was still a young girl, the question occupied my thoughts.

   My parents died far too young, in a car crash and today was their funeral.

I stood alone near the grave, my husband Braigh waited for me near the entrance, he knew I needed some time alone to say goodbye. With my hands folded around my belly where our baby was growing, I told my father and mother that I would return but not knowing when. And that I would never forget them, what ever happened in the past. It was not their fault and I knew that although I had a different opinion when it happened.

   My hand in the black lace glove wiped the tears from my cheeks before I blew a kiss in the direction of both graves. “Mummy, Daddy, I love you. Goodbye....”.

I turned round and looked at Braigh, my handsome patient Scotsman, my love and the father of my child. He met me half way the path to the gate, folded his arms around me and held me tight to his broad and comfortable chest. I did not have to explain my feelings, I never had to. He always understood my emotions and was there to comfort me when ever I needed him.

It was like this before I told him the story and grew stronger afterwards.

   We said goodbye to the the master of ceremonies who was going to stay in touch with our solicitor for the gravestone and the payments of the bills. It surprised me that my parents took care of that a very long time ago, as soon as they arrived here in Scotland.
   Today only my husband and the solicitor knew my real surname, everybody else knew me by my alias or since my marriage the name of my husband and with the latter we were going to emigrate to Australia in 2 weeks time. But first we planned a visit to the south of Wales to visit for the very last time, the house that was my home during the first 13 years f my life. A house I could hardly remember. A house where I hoped to find the answer to that one and only question which was never answered.

   Braigh drove me to the solicitor to talk through the last necessary arrangements. It took an hour before we said goodbye but not before he handed me an envelope with my name on it, written by my mother. I recognized her elegant and pointy handwriting. “Your mother asked me to tell you not to open this envelope before you are back at The Hall”, the voice of the solicitor interrupted my thoughts: “Will you please promise me that?” I nodded, put the letter in my handbag and shook hands.

   Finally we left the small town I lived in for 12 years. A small town tucked away in the most northern parts of Scotland, miles and miles away from Wales, a town where “nobody is going to look for us, everybody expects us to be abroad” according my father. I never recalled this before but as soon as we left the town behind us, I heard his voice saying these words. And he proved to be right; we were never found and thanks to the love of my parents, I had a happy youth and soon forgot about our sudden move from the house I loved so much. I forgot about my dear friend Elsa, about her parents being close friends with mine, about our wonderful garden and the nursery. But I never forgot that one and only place in the house I had one single question about. And that part of the house I wanted to visit again.

   Braigh was concerned about my health and our baby and booked hotels on our way to Wales. The roads were windy and long and not as today all motorways. It almost felt like a holiday but I knew it was not. My visit to the house was most likely a goodbye for ever. Australia was a long way from home and with no one to return to, it was going to be a one way journey.

   The hotels were very comfortable and the food was excellent; we arrived refreshed at the gates of The Hall I was brought up until we all of a sudden and without any explanations, left in the middle of a dark and windy night where the stars and moon were hidden behind thick black clouds.

   Braigh held my hand when I stared at the large iron gate with the initials CJ at one side and a family coat of arms at the other side but that part of the gate stood wide open. It was rusty and hung in its enormous hinges, the large chain with the padlock was broken and partly disappeared in the long grass and weed that covered the lane.

I could not move, I just sat there and tried to remember how it looked like 12 years ago but I failed.

    We left the car behind and walked through the gate, it was only a short walk to the house. The whole garden was overgrown; we crossed the lawn to the entrance of the Hall and the large stairs leading to the front door with the prominent pillars on each side, once majestic and white, now grey and filthy. We walked through a heap of old leaves and I tried the doorknob but it was firmly closed. Or rusted.

   Hand in hand we walked around the Hall which was so much bigger than in my memories but with each step, memories returned. Today was windy and cloudy but I felt the sun and recognized the gardener, leaning on his rake and padding his sweaty forehead. I almost waved at him but knew he was a only a friendly ghost from the past.

    When we entered the back door which was closed but not locked, a smell of damp and decay and a total silence greeted us. It was shimmery and cold in the once warm and active kitchen that always smelled of delicious pastries and cakes. I could not help smiling when I suddenly remembered myself and Elsa sitting on top of the large wooden table, tasting the little cakes that Cook baked us. She always spoilt us.

   Braigh held me in his arms as if he understood my memories and then asked where I wanted to go next.

I wanted to go upstairs but first walked through all the empty rooms downstairs where dust and damp had taken over since there was no one any more to keep the large fires burning. I looked at all the cobwebs that covered the carved ceilings and corners, gathering the flakes from the decaying paint.

    I was surprised not to feel depressed, this empty house did not at all look like the warm and cosy house I remembered from my childhood. Without the beautiful furniture (where did that go?) it was only an empty shell. Still, when I laid my hand on the railing of the grand stairs walking upstairs, I thought I heard the voice of a young girl; laughing and calling my name. I looked up and thought I saw two girls running to the old nursery, hand in hand but their images disappeared near the entrance to the attic.

    My plan was to visit the nursery but instead I walked to the door that lead to the stairs to the attic and the rooms of the servants. This door was open and I climbed the stairs.

Braigh, who noticed I had forgotten he was still there, followed me and walked behind me passing the many doors to the servant rooms until we reached the large attic.

Photo: @_baksteen (Instagram)

   
   The windows were filthy and dimmed the light. Again I heard the voice of the young girl and finally realized it was Rhiannons voice. “Let's play 'Tea'” she said and I saw the vague misty figurers of two young girls sitting on old chairs and sofa grouped against a wall of the attic where forgotten people on old photo's looked down on them.

    I stretched my hand to accept the cup of 'tea' that was given to me but I only touched air and the girls were gone.
There was only a very large trunk.

It was if the trunk called me, a call I could not resist and I opened it. But even in the dim light I saw there was nothing in it. It was completely empty. My hand followed it's lining but touched nothing else than beautiful decorated paper, the colours protected from fading by the heavy closed lid.

   Suddenly I heard the voice of my mother: “My letter to you....”. My fingers folded around the envelope and I took it from my pocket. I broke the seal with the same coat of arms, unfolded the letter and to share it's content with Braigh, I read out loud:

   “My lovely daughter, my one and only child. You thought I had forgotten about the question that bothered you the first years after we left. The question I never answered nor wanted to answer because back then, you would not have understood my reason.

    I am well aware that you might not understand it right now but hope you will forgive me for what I did leaving it behind in the house, knowing it will come back in the family, one way or another.

I believe it might not be in the trunk any more and if so, my Welsh gift of seeing the future, was right. If so my darling daughter, I can tell you that the precious silk dress with the long lace skirt I left behind will be worn again by the granddaughter of you and Rhiannon the day she marries. And you, Rhiannon and I will watch her, giving her our blessing.

   Remember your father and I always loved you, even more than our own life's.
God Bless you my lovely Gwlithen!”

Word of thanks: the photo of @_baksteen (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @_Baksteen and his impressive website Baksteen Productions

Note: this is the 2nd story of 5 that are connected. The story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen