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

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!

One of those days

It is one of those days today.

A day full of all sorts of emotions and one of them is feeling homesick. Strange though as I am at home! And I do feel at home at home! I blogged about homesickness in my Dutch Blog (translation button available) so are not dwelling on that subject here.

The first emotion is my drive to write. The chapters in my new book are adding up nicely. I love the subject and hopefully find Dutch proofreaders to bring me back down to earth as I might be too lyrical at times. Please contact me if you like to volunteer.
When I am writing and need to stop because it is dinner time for the ZOO and me, it feels like I want to take my book to bed and read more and more before falling asleep. But there isn't 'more and more' yet as I still need to write it. That is how I feel about the book, the characters and the development of the story.
I once read: "Just write what you know and invent the rest" and this is so applicable for this book. One of my own fantasies dating from 2002 is going to be fulfilled in the book. Word count today: 22.000

And all of this I write at home. When I look up from my laptop, I see a green garden, yellow sweet smelling roses, lazy dogs enjoying sunshine (finally after a few dark rainy days), I hear the wind in the trees and adorable baby birds yelling for food.
The table in the kitchen is my writing desk. In the corner of the work surface near the oven, is my beloved Slow Cooker sending lovely smells of Thai Chicken Curry
my way. Next to the laptop my favourite Wiener Melange (my only sin). Parrot Rose is saying funny things sitting comfortably on her perch.

This morning my dear friend Elizabeth was here and we had a lovely time, as always.
I am looking forward to the visit of a second cousin - well, in this case a 12th or so cousin as we share the same great great etc grandfather in 1600 - next Saturday. I promised him (the cousin) a Slow Cooker meal, of course British as we both love the UK and Scotland.

Life is good. I know that and that is how it feels and still there is that indefinable feeling that came over me a few days ago and that refuses to leave me.

Photo: Helen Varras

Maybe it is indeed a little bit homesickness as my thoughts often wander off to Yorkshire.
No, I was not born in Yorkshire but ever since I visit it since 1979, I do feel at home. The Dales, the Moors, the lovely villages, the sound of the Grouse, sheep and their lambs. Even the bad weather - often 4 seasons in 1 day - is appealing. And last but not least, the Yorkshire people with their wonderful sense of humour which you don't find anywhere else (Scotland, yes).
Wonderful and wicked. They play with words in a way that makes me laugh and it challenges me to reply which I do without thinking too much. It comes naturally. And the humour keeps your mind sharp.

Yes, I know, even in Yorkshire you need to work for a living; life in the UK does not come cheap. I understand the people who move to Spain or France.
Still, nothing beats the beautiful scenery and the sense of humour of my most beloved Yorkshire.

Dear readers, I close my eyes and allow myself to cross the North Sea.
Fantasy and imagination; two beautiful gifts.

Helen