The Last Breakfast (short story)

    Françoise cried, she did not know where Philippe was. She took her large red handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and blew her nose, the sound scared her. One of those other things she did not like; being afraid of sounds, even silly noises as blowing her own nose or closing a door.

She put the handkerchief which had known better days, back in her pocket and folded her hands, waiting for Philippe.

   The farm was their life; they gave everything to it and received so much in return. They never wanted to leave it. No holidays, apart from not interested in travelling to places where you needed to spend money to have fun, who was taking care of the cows, geese, goat and chickens? And their loyal horse that did not listen to orders from strangers?

    No, the world outside their farm and fields was not interesting enough. Since they bought a tv, the world entered their house and she was not too happy with it. Too confusing but Philippe loved it. He bought it to watch Farmer's News on the Sunday's but she knew that he also loved watching other programs with a preference for discussions. She thought of all the voices being very confusing and went to bed on her own, knowing Philippe would follow soon; tomorrow was another early day.

   Françoise unfolded her hands and ate her breakfast. How silly she thought, to lay the table for 4 people. She could not remember any more when she did this. The time that they had two boys working at their farm, had long gone.

It was not easy to keep the farm going on her own and she wondered how long it would take for her body to give up. Since Philippe died there was not much left to live for. He passed away not long after their 56^th wedding anniversary; a day as usual. Though life was very unusual afterwards. No one to cook for, no one to talk to and no one to keep her warm during the cold Winter nights when the wind blew through the cracks round the windows and in the roof. Philippe never managed to repair them and she was too tired. And did they have money to spend on repairs?

   While she finished her breakfast, she pondered over the savings. It confused her not to know any more where they left the money. She remembered their agreement about saving as much as they could for the bad times. It was something they were brought up with being children of farmers. The house needed a few repairs and Philippe was too old to do it himself. Oh yes, she knew he did not want to listen, he was as stubborn as the bull they had. As soon as she finished the dishes, she was going to ask Philippe about the money they had hidden somewhere. She smiled; it must be hidden in a very safe place... if she could not remember any more where it was, how could a burglar find it??

   She stood behind her chair with her forefinger against the top of her nose and frowned her eyebrows. What on earth was she going to do right now? Ah, yes, milking the cows and churning butter. Or did she churn butter yesterday? It was so confusing not to know which day it was today... or yesterday. And was it Wednesday tomorrow? Or Saturday when the few left customers were going to collect the butter? The best there was in the village.

    The best thing to do was walking to the barn to milk the cows and then check on the butter. Suddenly she got angry, why did Philippe die? He was not ill, he was as healthy as could be for a man of his age. In her memory he always remained the tall and broad shouldered Frenchman that carried her over the threshold; a smile that curled his moustache and a twinkle in his dark brown eyes that fascinated her from the moment he laid eyes on her. And now he was gone.

   She shook her head to clear the mist that blurred her memories. She could not remember any more why Philippe died. Was it his heart? No, no... he fell off the ladder when he tried to repair the roof of the barn. That is why she was so angry. He did not listen to her! He never listened, he said he was like a cat with 9 lives but it turned out he had just one!! “Philippe....!!!” she cried in her handkerchief, “Philippe.....”

   Coffee, she needed a cup of very strong coffee. There was definitely something wrong with her emotions; here she stood without knowing why she cried. It was a relief that Philippe was in the stables, it would have worried him to see her crying. She sniffed her nose and straightened her back: “Silly old woman! Smile and go on with your work!” she told herself. There was so much to do: the dishes, the cows, the butter. Philippe could not do it all by himself. They promised each other to run the farm together. She too walked behind the plough and drove their first second hand tractor. She was never ill and together with Philippe she could handle the whole world.

    There was one thing she cold not give Philippe; they never had children but both did not complain. They were happy together. The downside was that there was nobody to inherit the farm. Did she and Philippe discuss this before? She could not remember. Was it a good idea to start this subject during coffee?

Coffee..... she forgot all about it and she did not want that wonderful husband of hers to come and look for his coffee. That never happened in their marriage, she always called him when it was ready.

   Françoise walked to the stable which was so empty with only two cows to look after instead of the twenty they had before. So much changed since Philippe died. She cried when she sold 8 cows although she knew she could not milk them all. She simply could not take care of the farm as it used to be all on her own. Yes, the neighbours offered help but you can not always rely on them, can you? No, she had to minimize the work, she was not as young and fit as she was 30 year ago. The death of Philippe broke her energy and the will to continue. Life without him was empty, very empty.

   She passed the ladder that still lay in the hay. The ladder that killed Philippe. No one removed it after he was taken into hospital by doctors telling her they would do everything to save his life. Nonsense she thought. Her heart told her he was dead, gone, not coming back alive. And her heart was always right. While the ambulance disappeared in the far distance, she knew that part of her heart disappeared as well. Gone, forever. But not her love for Philippe!

    She loved him so much so how could she walk here in the empty stable without calling him for his coffee? And where had the cows gone?

And why was there a bright light in the otherwise dark stable? Where did it come from? The light spread it's beams on the floor until the hay shone like pure gold.

Gold she wanted to touch and she reached out to the light.

In astonishment she watched the light crawling up her arm, covering her head, her whole body. She looked up to it's source and there was Philippe how she remembered him: the twinkle in his beautiful dark eyes, his deep voice asking where his coffee was.........

   

Photo: @forgottenheritage (Instagram)

   The coat of Françoise still hangs at the door, she forgot to put it on when she walked to the barn. The table is still laid for 4, she never had time to do the dishes. Not even if she had remembered it. Philippe's death disturbed her life, her brains. The dust in her head that covered the day to day thoughts and duties is now visible in her abandoned house. It covers everting she was so proud of. But she is not aware of it any more. Maybe she looks upon it from above and does not care. Maybe she smiles when people are taking photo's of the farm. Photo's that will survive the house, catching the memories in an everlasting frame.

Word of thanks: the photo of @forgottenheritage (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 Matt!

Link: the beautiful book Forgotten Heritage by Matthew Emmett and his Facebook Page

Note: the story is pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!

Helen

The Reader (short story)

He always loved reading. He read books and newspapers even before his governess was supposed to teach him reading and writing.
His parents were so proud of him and his father loved to tell everyone who showed even a little interest, how intelligent his son was. Yes, 'his' son. It was only 'their' son if the little boy did not live up the expectation of his father who also wanted to teach him horse riding, hunting and mathematics because, one day he was going to be the Monarch of the Glen. The grand estate and Loch Locherty was going to be his, long after everyone else had gone. Therefore the father was hoping for male offspring of his son and decided who the boy was going to marry long before he could read. As said before, this was at a very young age.

The father introduced his son to the visitors, standing near the enormous fireplace in the cold and dark hallway with in the middle a pompous staircase that led to the first floor, surrounded by hunting trophies and portraits of proud and grim looking ancestors.
Waving with one of his costly cigars made of the finest tobacco, his round belly pushed forward like a display for the golden watch chain, he exposed his young child as the 'natural equivalent' of his own bright and well developed brains which of course his whole pedigree was well known for.
The child learned at a young age that he was more a subject of proud presentation than a son of flesh and blood with emotions and feelings.
His books rescued him from the harsh and cruel world within the boundaries of his existence in the Scottish Highlands with no one else than his father, a mother with a long lasting migraine, a governess who was not known for her exceptional beauty and a long row of servants he was not allowed to talk to: "They will not add anything valuable to your intelligence."

Maybe this was one of the reasons he started to read books at such a young age. His governess was more than willing to teach him the alphabet and to help him to decrypt the symbols called letters.
The children books given to him were soon not satisfying enough and he silently slipped into the library to hide a book or two under his silk blouse to read them in the nursery.

It took a few years before the father heavily disappointed, discovered that all his son could do was reading. Of course he blamed his wife - still suffering from headaches - who had little interest in her son. But to no avail.
The governess was blamed but was not fired because she kept his Lordship's bed warm during lonely nights and she was good at it.

The boy grew up without love but with the wonderful stories in all the books of the library of Bramhall Castle. He read and read and read. And after his father passed away and the governess became the nurse of his mother, he openly sat in a chair near the roaring fire in the library. The servants brought him food and drinks and kept the fire burning all year round.

The boy became a man who's mother passed away. The governess stayed but was seldom seen; her old rheumatic feet could not walk the stairs any more. And when she finally died followed by a modest funeral, the Reader did not even notice it.
Surrounded by his books, he never felt lonely. Not even when all the servants left the house and he had to take care of his own. He survived a long time on little food and water. While he sat in his straight chair behind the old folding table covered in books, the castle crumbled down around him. Ceilings gave up and caused an extra layer of dust on top of the books in the library. And on top of the reader with his long white beard and hair, his skin tightly leathered around his bones.

Photo: @forgottenheritage (Instagram)

This is what the brave adventurist saw when he explored the long forgotten castle, embedded in large bramble bushes, ferns, trees and so many varieties of weed he never saw before.
The silence in the library, the old man in the chair who still held a book in his mummified hands, he would never forget this.
The police came and said they were going to investigate the 'suspicious' death of the man everybody had forgotten about.

The adventurist returned to the castle shortly after the body was removed and took a photo. The chair as shiny as 30 years ago; shielded by the body of the Reader against thick layers of dust.

Helen

Word of thanks: the photo of @forgottenheritage (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. "I am a great admirer of the photo's of your Instagram account!"

Link: the beautiful book Forgotten Heritage by Matthew Emmett

Note: the story is pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!