The Hall (short story)

-5-

2006

    Gwyland Mureall MacQuilken set down with in her hand the letter of the grandmother she never met and who was never talked about. One of those many family secrets she never understood.

    Being the only daughter of two people who loved each other and her but who had a very strange approach to live. They were no hermits but avoided socializing and lived in a fairly remote area. She never had friends from school at home and was also never invited as if the other children knew there was something strange with her family.

    With no brothers and sister to play with, she often felt very lonely and was happy with the company of their animals. The poor cat was dressed like a doll but did not mind. The dogs were her best friends and when older, she made long rides on her horse.

    This was the stage in life she started to question their way of living. Questioning why she never received answers asking after her grandparents from both sides.

She did not know where they lived and if they were still alive. Was she named after one of her grandmothers? And why there were no letters or phone calls from them.

   Her father, a freelance photographer, had an Australian accent but not her mother, after all those years she still had a British accent. Gwyland learned not to ask questions any more but that did not mean she did not have them.

   She more or less escaped from home at the age of 19 and lived with a good friend until she found a job in Sydney as an assistant bookkeeper and telephonist with a solicitor. Her employer was very happy with her and it did not take long before she was a full time bookkeeper, she definitely had a good eye for numbers.

    Although she loved the job and the people she worked for, there was in the background always that strange feeling that she belonged elsewhere. Australia was beautiful and the people were nice but sometimes she felt homesick to a more enclosed and traditional area without knowing why.

    She was not very good in relationships outside the office and saved as much as possible money for her one wish: leaving Australia to find at least the roots from mother's side in the UK. She did not know where to start but hoped backpacking in a country so much smaller than where she was born, was going to reveal where she felt home. This was for Gwyland not a question but a certainty.

   At the age of 24 she told her employer about her plans. He was very sorry to see her going but he knew already for some time she did not feel at home in this country. He gave her a large bonus and his blessings, hoping to hear from her in the near future. And if she ever needed a recommendation, he was more than happy to write one.

    Gwyland left and travelled to her parents with whom she had little contact. If they were surprised to see her, they did not tell. And they did not show any emotions when she told them she was going to Europe. Maybe a little curiosity when they asked where in Europe but Gwyland replied she was going to Spain and would get in touch by e-mail. Her intuition told her not to tell them she booked a flight to London. She stayed for two days and then left, no one shed a tear still she felt hurt and did not understand she was their daughter. She never doubted she was, there were too many similarities in the features of her and her parents. But her emotions and heart must be inherited from a more emotional ancestor and she was going to find out who.

   All this passed her mind after reading the letter of her grandmother Rhiennon Mureall Rhydderch nee Abernathy, born and bred in Crickcelyn in Wales and wife of the local solicitor Emrys Rhydderch.

Nothing happens without a reason; when Gwyland ran out of savings she heard about a solicitor looking for a bookkeeper. As soon as she arrived in Wales, she knew she was at home and as soon as she entered the office, she felt like stepping into comfortable shoes. She arrived home without understanding why.

    Her employer too understood nothing was happening without a reason after his father told him Gwyland was the spitting image of the wife of his old employer back in the 50's.

He dug up the old file that he found in the desk of the secretary (granddaughter of the first solicitor) that worked here but who suddenly disappeared in 1977. Back then he was too young to remember but the whole village talked about it for years and years. He did however remember the many visits from the farmer called Old Ed who died at a very high age in the 90's, though he never understood where his father and Old Ed talked about as they did have so little in common.

The file was still sealed and according to his father it had to remain sealed until Gwyland was willing to receive her inheritance after reading the letter of her grandmother.

    Gwyland still unknown about the file and still renting a room in the local Inn while looking for a house to rent, went to the pub for a drink; she needed it, she also hoped for some company to distract her thoughts from the letter; she was not ready to let it sink in and to go to the office to talk about it.

   It wasn't busy in the pub, just a few local people and a stranger who was looked at if he was an exotic insect although his accent was very British and his blond hair and blue eyes everything but exotic.
   His name was Henry Cavendish and he watched Gwyland when she walked with a scotch in her hand to a table in the corner near the window. Even without thinking he looked at her hands and did not see an engagement or wedding ring. He looked at her face and agreed to himself that she was a beautiful woman. Her classic and almost aristocratic features were out of place in this pub. He felt the need to meet her but did not want to disturb her thoughts. He recognized the way she looked inside her head.

   Gwyland had the feeling she was watched and when she looked up, her eyes met two blue ones behind the table at the other end of the Pub. Neither the owner nor she blinked when their eyes met, it did not feel uncomfortable. Reason for the blond and very tall visitor to raise from his chair to introduce himself to Gwyland who in return, raised and shook hands. It did not take long before they had an animated conversation exchanging professions. Henry was an architect involved in a large project in the nearest town where he stayed in a hotel but not being happy with the 24 hours noise of a town. He preferred the countryside and had just booked a room in the local Inn.

    They had a very pleasant evening and felt reluctant to part. But Gwyland was tired and needed her sleep before she had to go back to the office the next morning, knowing her employer wanted to talk to her first.

   The next day was one never to forget. She got a day off to let it sink in and to visit the house of her grandmother that had not be lived in for a long time but was now hers; she inherited it. She was very curious in what state it was because she was very determined to make it liveable. A house of her own and not just 'a' house but the house of the woman who's twin sister she could be if there were not two generations in between.

And then there was the file her boss showed her, the file she was only allowed to open in his presence and that of his father. This afternoon at 4 PM.

   Gwyland noticed the exterior of the house was well looked after. The paint was in good condition like the roof, the windows and the lawn. She wondered if her grandmother left orders in her will to maintain the house.

Inside it was dusty but not too bad. It was still furnished and definitely needed proper cleaning and probably also new curtains and upholstery but that was something she could do herself.

    After viewing the downstairs, she finally reached the room upstairs with the dress from the letter.

She touched the lace and for a moment she thought she smelled Lilly of the Valley but then it was gone. She held the lace against her cheek, like her grandmother did when she found it. And finally came the tears. Tears she never shed in her whole life. Tears of sadness for the past and tears of happiness for her future. She did nothing to stop them, even if she had wanted so, she could not.

   When Gwyland arrived at the office at 4 PM, father and son both noticed her swollen eyes but did not mention it. They could only guess about her childhood and understood the emotions the letter caused.

    Now it was time for the file and not even the old solicitor knew what was in it, there were only instructions in an old will of the former owner of The Hall, to open it when they found his legitimate offspring. And there was also the will of Rhiennon Rhydderch nee Abernathy who was not only leaving her house to Gwyland but also a fortune.

    As well as father and son as Gwyland, could never have guessed that she not only inherited her grandmother's house and fortune but also The Hall with all the furniture that in 1939 was transported to a large barn not far from here. A barn that belonged to Old Ed who left it to the son of Elgar who knew exactly it's history and what to do as soon as the solicitors contacted him.

    It was very late at night when Gwyland returned to the Inn after being assured to take the rest of the week off to come to terms with her inheritance and to visit The Hall.

   The weeks passed by before the whole story was told and all the paperwork was done with Gwyland being emotional ready to step back in time. To meet her roots, to step in the footprints of her ancestors.

    She wanted to know if The Hall was in a condition to be restored with the money left to her by her grandmother. If so they could open it to the public to receive money in return. For the restoration part she needed a professional advice and who else could do this better than Henry who became a very dear friend. For the time being she did not want to admit she felt more for him than friendship.

    And Henry was delighted to support her when she set foot in The Hall for the very first time in her life. He felt honoured and emotional but of course he had fallen in love with Gwyland head over heals but did not dare to mention it yet.

Photo: @riposta7 (Instagram)

    

    Charlotte, Rhiennon and Gwlithen, both long gone but after their death reunited, watched the two young people walking through the gate of the Hall. And looking into the future they smiled, knowing it would not take long before the beautiful dress with the lace skirt was going to serve as a wedding dress.

Word of thanks: the photo of @riposta7 on 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 Mariusz!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @riposta7

Note: this is the last story of a series of 5. The Story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

The Gate (short story)

-4-

1977

    She loved early Spring; the night frost changed the countryside into a beautiful landscape. The soft green colours in the trees and in the fields, were miraculously transformed in soft white tones.

   Elenydd was very happy to have a day off instead of sitting behind her desk in the office that had not changed much since her grandfather Arnall Mealon Rhydderc arrived in the village to become Crickcelyn's very first solicitor. At the time Arnall was a very young man who married the beautiful and elegant girl Bronwyn, daughter of the local doctor Merrick. It was a happy marriage and Elenydd, only child, had a very happy childhood.

Because she never studied law and did not have a brother (there was no successor), the practice was sold to the solicitor that started his career with her grandfather and he was more than happy to offer her a job; she knew everyone in the village and was an excellent secretary.

   The past few weeks she went through all the old records and long closed cases disappeared to the large attic of the practice. Not a job she looked forward to when she started; all these files gathered so much dust over the years. Of course she did not read them all but there were a few that brought a smile to her face because she remembered the people and their history. The job was almost done, still a few to go and one of them was a file she found almost hidden in the back of the filing cabinet. It was sealed and the only information written on it was '1946/CHRCJ'. A bit odd as all other files had far more information and were easy accessible. The initials CHRCJ rang a bell with Elenydd but she told herself to think it over when the job was done. She put the file in a safe place to look at it another day, her instinct told her not put it away in the attic.

   While she walked down the hill she thought about this file and the written initials. She could not remember anyone who's name fitted to it but why was it so familiar? And why didn't she ask her parents? If it was indeed about one of the old villagers, her mother was the one to answer her questions but a little voice in her head told her not to bring up the subject. And Elenydd, gifted with the famous Celtic intuition, was determined to investigate on her own.

   When she left for her long walk, fully packed with sandwiches and a Thermos flask with tea, she did not have a destination in mind and was more or less surprised she stood on top of the hill that looked down on the Vale of Garhowy. She loved the beautiful view and particularly in this time of the year.

Elenydd sat down on a flat stone, got her Thermos and a cup and drank her tea; her hands folded round the warm cup. Little clouds bristled from the hot liquid and disappeared in the cold air. Apart from the calling sheep in the valley and an occasional pheasant, it was quiet. There was no wind and the sun tried to gain strength. It was going to be a perfect day and she felt very happy. “Who needed a husband to be happy?” she thought with a smile?

    She knew that she was a very pretty looking girl and the bachelors in the village competed for her attention. Of course there were a few she liked more than others but she never fell in love and managed very well to stay single at the age of only 22. “Many years to go before I marry some one. If I ever do”. In this modern world in 1977, people also lived together instead of being officially married. Not that it was a common thing in the village, on the contrary, but it was more and more accepted thanks to flower power era.

   Elenydd did not think of herself as being emancipated, modern yes, but still very feminine and enjoying being treated like a woman. She was brought up with men keeping the door open for women or not sitting down before their wife or host sat down and call her old fashioned, she valued these manners. At the same time she felt too young to step into any relationship and first wanted to travel. Her secretary job was not something she wanted to do for the rest of her life but it made it possible to save money for a long trip; Elenydd wanted to see more of the world.

   She took a handful of brown last year's bracken to dry her tea cup which she put in her bag, together with the Thermos.

Time to continue her walk. Once more she looked down on the valley and decided to go where her feet took her.

There were not many people about, only a local sheep farmer who greeted her by raising his cap. For the locals she was still the granddaughter of the old solicitor, nothing would change this.

    In the distance she noticed a bowed figure that slowly walked her way and she smiled. She recognized one of the best clients of the local Pub, an old farmer who was also one of the best gossipers in the village. Some one once said “Old Ed loves to curl his tongue around other people's gossip”.

    But Elenydd liked the man, he indeed thought he knew everything about everybody, feeling the need to exchange all this knowledge with everyone who showed interest – these were seldom people from the village – but he was not a bad man. He was very lonely after his wife died a long time ago; he never remarried. Instead he spent all his free time in the Pub where he met Elgar and they became almost a local attraction. Together they loved to play little mind games with visitors, examining them as if they were not there. And nothing the Landlord could do about it. Not that he wanted, Elgar and Old Ed were good drinkers and always paid their bills. No one dared to ask where the money came from, Old Ed protected his private life as fiercely as he talked about that of others!

   “Morning geneth, day off?” asked Old Ed. 

“Yes Ed, the weather is too good to spend a day in a dusty office!” the 'geneth' replied, used to never called by her name by Ed who agreed that it was a perfect day for a walk.

Instead of walking up hill, Old Ed stood still and looked if he wanted to ask something. Elenydd waited and nodded to encourage him. She was curious what he wanted because he knew she did not want to listen to gossips.

    The old farmer pushed his cap a little backwards, wriggled his old crooked fingers underneath it and scratched his head while his watery eyes glared at Elenydd: “Does the geneth knows about the visitor?” And when she looked puzzled, he continued: “The bachgen from Australia, that country where they sent all the thieves and murderers who never spoke proper English. They still don't.”

    Elenydd told Old Ed she did not know about a visitor from Australia. When did he arrive and did he stay at the Inn? Old Ed smiled, happy he knew something before Elenydd did and said: “ I am not going to tell, the geneth has to find out herself. But I'll tell you, the bachgen is mighty interesting!” He pushed his cap in the right place, nodded and walked off.

   She watched him going up hill and wondered why the Australian visitor was so special that Old Ed got exited. She shrugged her shoulders and followed the path to the valley and was not very surprised her feet took her to The Hall. But she was surprised about the strange feeling she had approaching the long lane and gate. She did not feel alone. She stood still and looked around but there was no one else and no sounds apart from the birds.
It was not a frightening feeling and she did not feel watched. She could simply not explain why she was almost drawn to The Hall, as if it opened its arms, calling her.

    It was a long time ago she was here. The Hall was often talked about but no one in the village knew what happened to its owners and why it was never sold. And the ones that still might know, like her mother, grandparents and Old Ed, were very skilled in avoiding answers to questions about The Hall!

    It never bothered Elenydd, every village had it's secrets; she never knew the owners. Of course she never understood why no one bought The Hall. It was decaying but not yet beyond the point that it could not be restored any more. Actually it was in a much better state than you expected after being abandoned for so long. As if he house did not want to give up, as if it was still waiting for the former owners to return.

   This was an interesting thought. Does a house have a soul? She thought about it walking the lane. “If walls could talk”.... And stories about ghosts, spirits that were left, that could not escape? Wales, Scotland and England were famous for their ghost stories so some of these must be true.

Was there a ghost in The Hall? Was this the reason no one lived there? No.... if there was one, she should know. Ghost stories were not something to hide.

But what if someone had been murdered in the house? And for what reason? Was the village protecting the murderer because the victim was a ruthless Lord, hated by one person too many?

   She shook her head telling herself not to think this way, there was no reason to do so. “Be brave, you walked here many times in the past and nothing happened!”

True, she never had strange feelings walking here but why today? It was a silent voice that called her to The Hall, that forced her to go there.

    She hesitated when she found the gate pushed open and this happened very recently, she could tell because of the vegetation.

Photo: @riposta7 (Instagram)

Carefully she passed the gate, walked halfway the lane and stopped. First she looked around, then looked to the roof, her eyes scanning the windows. There was one window that needed her attention, at least that is how it felt. She could not take her eyes off the filthy glass. Suddenly she knew there was some one upstairs, some one she needed to call.

    Although she did not know a name and did not know why this was happening to her, her heart called out for that other heart in the attic. And she was not surprised seeing a hand cleaning the window before the face of a man appeared. A face she had never seen before yet so very familiar.

Word of thanks: the photo of @riposta7 on 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 Mariusz!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @riposta7

Note: this is the 4^th story of 5 that are connected. The Story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

The Voice (short story)

-3-

1977

    Cliamain MacQuilken, a 25 year old free lance photographer, left the local Inn by foot; a long walk would do him good. The bright sky promised a beautiful day with the night frost that covered the houses and fields in a hazy fairytale white, melting as soon as the sun would gain in strength.

   In Australia where he was born and where he lived, he had never seen frosty fields. He once planned to travel all the way to Snowy Mountains also called 'The Snowies'; he never made it to New South Wales but he would after this photo shoot. First he travelled to South Wales Great Britain, much further from home!

    As soon as he left the village behind, he stood still and with his hands deep down his pockets, the collar of his coat pulled up till his ears, he breathed deep. The cold penetrated his lungs and it was a pretty feeling. The path he followed meandered over a steep hill and down to the Vale of Garhowy.

The view was breath taking and he took his time to let it sink in before he got his camera from his rucksack for the first photo's for the 'New South Wales Magazine'.
   The green hills and fields, the trees with the soft tender Spring leaves; he sensed the promise of Spring as he had never sensed it before. In the far distance he saw the chimneys of his goal and he knew he would not arrive there in the first hour.

   He walked down the path and laughed about the rabbits that hastily sought shelter in the hedgerows to hide for the unknown man. The sheep in the fields blew little clouds like he did with every breath and step. He was glad he was used to climbing hills so his calves were not going to hurt tomorrow.

    One hour after he left the Inn he arrived at the rusty gate that lost most of its glory, hanging in its half broken hinges. Green ivy curled between dead grass and brown ferns up into the iron fences.

Despite the sad look of decay, the professional photographer Cliamain (Clem for his family and friends) also saw the beauty of it and took photo's from different angles.

   He tried to push the gates further open but failed. First he laid his rucksack at the other side, next he pushed himself through the gap. Suddenly the gate gave way and opened as if it welcomed a long forgotten friend. The manoeuvre stretched the ivy and towed the ferns and the grass to the corners behind the majestic stone pillars with on top the large acorns covered in green moss.

    The stretched Ivy revealed vaguely the initials 'CJ', Clem knew it were the initials of the family name of former occupants who left the Hall long ago. Therefore he knew what to expect: a derelict house that craved for restoration, if still possible after all those years.

   When he saw the house at the other end of the lawn, he was surprised by the state of it. Of course there were one or two tiles missing from the roof but it wasn't as bad as he expected. For a moment he wished he had the money to restore it, it was magnificent. He did not understand why the family left it and did not believe the many rumours he heard in the Pub last night. But if some of the rumours were true – the family was in financial trouble and had many debts – it was plausible that they never returned and that the house never came up for sale. Somewhere there must still be a descendant to claim the ownership. But who and where?

    Clem thought of it as an intriguing puzzle some one had to solve, but it was not going to be him; he did not have time enough before he returned to Australia. He felt sorry; for himself, the house and the current owner or heir.

   His evening in the local Pub was a surprise. Soon after he ordered his first beer, an old farmer who kept looking at him since he walked through the door, sat down on the stool next to him and to the inconvenience of Clem, kept glaring at him. Clem smiled, hoping it would bring a smile on the farmers face too. But the farmer looked behind him and shouted, winking with his hand: “Elgar, come here!” And Elgar climbed the stool at the other side of Clem. “Take a good look at the bachgen, a very good look and tell me what you think!” Elgar's little watery eyes between at least as many wrinkles as with the first farmer, looked and looked and said: “La.... Nag oes a similarity” and both farmers nodded and nodded while they drank their beer. The 'bachgen' felt uncomfortable with two people discussing him as if was an object instead of a human being.
   After he offered them another Pint, the farmers became more talkative and although Clem did not know all the Welsh words, he soon understood he looked like someone who lived here before. In fact he looked like the Lord of The Hall who's family suddenly left the house in the dark of the night. No one knew where they went to or what became of them.

Soon all the men in the Pub talked about it and he was advised to visit the abandoned Hall before he left for home.

   And here he stood near the steps of The Hall looking at the front door still firmly closed as he noticed pushing it. He walked a few yards back and observed the once so beautiful house and tried to imagine people living here; walking, talking, maybe children playing and laughing. The garden, now completely overgrown, must have been beautiful, like the long driveway. The large windows, now dark and unwelcoming, must have looked inviting with soft light illuminating the facade.

    Clem could not hold his curiosity and walked round The Hall till he found a large door at the back. He pushed the handle and to his surprise he did not need much power to open the door.

He entered a corridor where in the old days hung coats. Boots and shoes stood in the old racks that were now grey with dust and cobwebs. The corridor lead to a large empty kitchen, once the busy heart of the house and full of smells of food and cakes. He imagined an overheated cook with read cheeks, running from one oven to the other and shouting instructions at the young maids.

But there were no other smells than that of dust. And there were no sounds at all, it was the wrong season for the flutter of flies and butterflies.

   From the kitchen he entered a long hallway and arrived at the grand staircase in the middle of a beautiful hall with carved ceilings, now covered in thousands of grey nets, woven by many generations of spiders. Flakes of painted hanging from the ceilings and caught by the cobwebs.

    His shoes left vague prints in the dust, paint and chalk on the tiled floor.

He spent an hour inspecting the ground floor which was empty; there was no furniture. He wondered where it went because the story was the owners left in the dark of the night. He would ask the farmers during his next visit to the Pub. They were old enough to remember.

   While he walked around he was surprised by the strange feeling that although he had never been here before, it somehow felt familiar. A voice not to be heard, called him upstairs. He wanted to obey the voice, it felt as an adventure and he was curious where it would end.

Photo: kelly_jean_urbex_photograpy (Instagram)

    He walked the stairs and explored the large bedrooms and old bathrooms without hearing the voice. Until he reached the door to the attic. He opened the door, climbed the stairs, walked through the corridor with the doors to the servant rooms. The people who lived here must have had many people working for them, he counted the doors. Some rooms must haven been occupied by two people. He realized there was a large gap between the owners who lived in luxury and the servants who slept in cold and dark rooms.

   Suddenly he arrived at a large attic that covered the whole house.

And here he heard the voice again, telling him to go to the large trunk that stood solely in the middle of the attic. He did not obey immediately but first looked around, observing the dirty windows with the diffuse light and hundreds of dead insects on the sills. He had the strange feeling someone was watching him and turned around, though there was nobody.

    He walked to the trunk and the feeling being watched got stronger and stronger. He opened the lid which screeched as if it did not want to reveal it's content.

Clem looked inside but did not see anything. He put his hand in the trunk and followed the paper lining and lo and behold, in one corner lay an envelope. He took it out and looked at it but could only see a vague handwriting.

He walked to a nearby window, removed the cobwebs and used his handkerchief to clean enough window to let the light in. Again he looked at the envelope; he held his breath when he saw what was written on it. His heart bounced and he felt a cold shiver going down his spine.

    Still the envelope unopened I his hand, he turned to the window and stared at the trees in the distance. His brains refused to think, his eyes did not see the trees. He stood there, not knowing what to do let alone what to think. All his emotions came to a halt until he finally noticed the girl standing in the middle of the drive way. She looked at the window where he stood and for minutes they stared in each others eyes as if there wasn't a reasonable distance in between. Was it she that caused the feeling being watched? It could not have been her voice.

Clem turned round at the same moment the girl walked to the house......

Word of thanks: the photo of @kelly_jean_urbex _photograpy 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 Kelly!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of Kelly Jean her impressive website Kelly Jean Photography and Facebook Account

Note: this is the 3^rd story of 5 that are connected. The Story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen