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 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