The Dress (short story)

-1-

2006

My grandchild! My joy! 

   Of course you are so much younger but look at your face and posture! 
You are so like me, if there were not two generations in between, you could easily be my twin sister. The way you move your head, the colours of your eyes. The way you hold your hand on your knee or the railing of the stairs. It is as if I look into a mirror. 

   If you could look into that same mirror, you would see you but much older and the mirror showing many cracks; not just mine but the cracks in the silver lining that reflects you. 
The mirror I used to admire my own reflection with the beautiful dress for my first evening out with your grandfather as a married woman. 
We were so in love and so excited that we almost left too late. You see my blushes by this memory? The modern youth does not blush, you will perfectly understand that naughty moment. 
I asked your grandfather to button the back of my dress but the touch of my skin made his hands dwell under my dress which made me giggle and my breathing changed. 

   Let's not go further on this but let me explain how and where I found that dress. Indeed 'found', your grandfather nor anybody else, bought it for me.
In my younger days, round the age of 10, I had a friend – Gwlithen - who lived with her family on a large estate. Very different from the house I lived in with my father and mother (your great grandparents). Our house was definitely a villa but so much smaller that the grant Hall of the Cadwallader-Joneses, a very distinguished family and the 10^th generation living in the Hall.
   My father was the much appreciated and respected solicitor and adviser of Sir Henry and they became very good friends. Lady Charlotte and my mother both loved tea parties and that is why I was a regular visitor and the friend of Gwlithen .

   During the Summer we walked and played in the large garden while our mothers drank tea, discussing evening outs and what to wear for the next ball. At the time, I am talking about the 30's, the skirts were almost indecent short, partly covering the calves. 
No corsets like our grandmothers still wore or even our own mothers when they were in their early twenties. The modern dresses were straight with a low waistline and made from soft and shiny materials. Long pearl chains were in fashion and women smoked cigarettes in long small pipes of beautiful materials like emerald or ivory. The hats were so much smaller than in the old days, more like little pots with arty feather arrangements. That is how our mother's were dressed sipping their tea under parasols to shelter their delicate skins against the sun. 

   During the Winters we played in the nursery under the watchful eye of the family's governess who was very old and often falling asleep above her book. 
It was then that we escaped to the glorious attic that covered the whole Hall. Part of it was for the bedrooms of the servants but the largest part was filled with old furniture and large trunks; Aladdin's cave! The trunks contained curtains, yards of cloth once meant for dresses and last but not least, clothes of many generations. We loved to dress up and imagining organizing our own tea parties, sitting on old chairs and sofa's, grouped against the wall. 

   Wonderful memories of a very careless time that very sudden came to a halt when we were 13. 
Looking back I now know why my father looked worried during the summer of 1939 but almost everybody looked worried and talked about the war. How did I know it wasn't the war that concerned him but instead the wellness of the Cadwallader-Jones'? And particularly the financial wellness? 
   At one day my father arrived home in shock and disappeared with my mother to the office. They stayed away for a while and coming back they took me apart. I had to sit down in between them and Mummy was holding me in her arms while Daddy told me that Gwlithen and her parents had moved but that they did not have a new address. It was most likely that I was never going to see nor hear from her again. I cried, feeling very upset. Then I cried feeling angry because she disappeared without saying goodbye. So many mixed feelings that lasted for many years. I promised myself never to return to the Hall. It felt being betrayed seeing other people in that beautiful home.

   The years past by and the Hall remained empty. The Cadwallader-Jones never returned and new owners never arrived. At the age of 17 I was old enough to understand that Gwlithen might not have known she left the house for good and therefore never said goodbye to me.

I often wondered where they lived and under what circumstances. Did she still remember me as I did her? Did she still remember our secret tea parties at the attic? 
   It was if the attic called me. I wanted to resist the call but I could not. So on a very rainy day in Autumn, the year after the war, I put my raincoat on and with my feet tucked away in warm Wellie's I walked to the Hall. The road and driveway were covered in weed, bushes and thick layers of leaves fallen down from the large Oak trees over the past 7 years. Autumn is my favourite season, like for you, but that particular day the heavy smell of wet leaves and fungi, depressed me. The heavy rain that was now pouring down, did not make me feel better.

   The once so grand Hall stared at me with it's large empty eyes that once reflected the sunshine or showed the cosy lights inside. Nothing of it all today. 
   I walked to the back and to my astonishment the backdoor was not locked. I pushed it open and walked through the kitchen to the hall with the large staircase. I looked around in a totally empty house and could not remember my father or anyone else mentioning the furniture being removed. 
   I looked up the stairs and although I did not want to explore the house, my feet were disobedient and walked me upstairs and to the back of the corridor where I opened the door to the attic. 
I arrived at this large attic and passed the doors of the servant's rooms.
   Then I stepped into the empty space once our playground and in the middle of it stood one large trunk. It looked smaller in my memory and smaller because it was surrounded by emptiness but it was still very big. 

   The first minutes I did not move. I stared at the trunk and listened to the rain that ruffled its song on the roof. Finally I stepped forward and opened the large case. In the shimmer of the attic I had to look twice before I discovered the one and only object at the bottom. A grey shadow until I carefully lifted it. The rustling lace released the smell of Lily of the Valle, a vague familiar scent that almost made me cry. I held the silk dress with the lace skirt against my cheek and suddenly remembered Gwlithen's mother wearing it at a party in The Hall. 

   A little voice in my head told me to put the dress back but another voice told me the dress had been waiting for me and I could not argue with it. It felt if I had to find it, if it was left here to be found, to be restored to its former glory and to be treasured.

Photo: @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram)

And that my dear granddaughter, was the dress I wore to the first party I went to as a married woman. The dress your grandfather loved so much that he never allowed it to leave the house: “You are my angel in that dress.”

   That dress dear child, is waiting for you in my own attic. I know you did not know I was your grandmother until my letter that you are reading now. Don't blame your mother for running off with her love and never returning. Her husband, the son of Gwlithen, never allowed her to return for still unknown reasons. But I have always known who you are. The address and the key of my house is now yours. It will be dusty and smelly after so many years being empty and forgotten. So hurry my love the dress is waiting for you. 


Word of thanks: the photo of @glory.of.disrepair (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 Mathias! 

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of Mathias Mahling

Note: this is the 1st story of 5 that are connected. The story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen