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 Key (short story)

"Funeral Services for Miss M. F. O. O'Byrne, 28 Arnfordstreet, Cloonaconelly, who died Tuesday, will be held Monday at 4,30 PM at the Shepherd's Mortuary.
Miss Margaret Fianoula Oonagh O'Byrne was born in Kircknacarry on May 18 - 1922 and lived in Cloonaconnelly since 1945. No occupation. Relatives of Miss O'Byrne unknown.
To whom it may concern, please contact below if you have any information about relatives of Miss O'Byrne.

Campbell Clarke and Maguire, Solicitors 
Cloonaconelly, March 23, 1962"

    The small piece of yellowed paper, cut from a newspaper, swirled down from the drawer where I looked for the archive of my ancestors. I did not know where it came from and to which file it belonged. And I would not have paid any attention to it if the name O'Byrne hadn't caused a strange stir in my stomach. A feeling I could not explain.
   I read the announcement over and over again and tried to remember where I heard the name before. Although not an uncommon surname, I never met an O'Byrne and I had never heard of the town or village Cloonaconelly. I turned to the computer next to me and Googled the town which turned out to be an old village in Northern Ireland, 300 miles from where I lived. I logged on to the telephone directory and found the solicitors, still listed with all three names. I did however, not find 'O'Byrne' which wasn't a great surprise given the fact that according the announcement, relatives were unknown.

  It was very quiet in the archive of the Genealogical Foundation, there were no other people. What I did next was against my character and the rules of the Foundation; I hid the piece of paper in my wallet, closed the drawer with the files and left for home where I spent much time studying the family tree that partly covered the wall of my study, to look for any clues. I was determined to find the cause of that strange stir and it was only logical to search within my family. But nothing at all indicated I was in some way related to Miss Margaret as I called her. Still......

   During a week of studying, thinking, reading and bad sleeping, I had a dream, a very strange dream in which a voice mentioned I was not a legitimate Kavanagh. The voice told me to go back to the archive to look for my birth certificate.
So I did, I spent hours and hours going through files in drawers and on the Internet but my birth was no where mentioned. Oh yes, I did have a birth certificate but how odd that it was never registered!!
The voice never returned but had seeded serious doubts about my origin. Were the people that I called Mum and Dad my real parents? Was my marriage that tragically ended with the sudden death of my beloved wife, legal? What was my real name? Who was I? I copied my original birth certificate and asked a friend specialised in old documents, to take a look at it.
The outcome although not unexpected, turned my whole life upside down: it was an excellent falsification.
I decided to travel to Cloonaconnelly, contacted Campbell, Clark and Maguire for an appointment with Maguire Junior who recommended the Lion Inn and booked a train.

    My visit to the solicitors was shocking. Maguire Junior, concerned about my well being, asked his secretary for sandwiches and a pot of strong tea. He also asked her to cancel his next appointments. He too understood that my history was totally rewritten by the find of the announcement.
A local newspaper from 1946, attached to the will of Miss O'Byrne told a story I had not found on the Internet. The story of the young mother that moved to a small village in Northern Ireland, in the last month of her pregnancy. She was well mannered and obviously wealthy but there was no husband. He died not long ago; he never recovered from the injuries from the Second World War, so she said. People called her Miss instead of Mrs and she never corrected them. She was a loner and became a hermit after the enormous tragedy 3 months after she gave birth to her child, a lovely boy with blond hair and blue eyes.

   When Miss O'Byrne was in the garden with doors and windows open due to the lovely warm weather, her son was stolen from his cradle. She was devastated, cried, blamed herself, searched day and night.So did the police but her child seemed to have vanished in thin air. Evil tongues spoke against her: she killed her own son and buried him in the garden. Though after she passed away in 1962, no remains were found.
She lost contact with the villagers and turned out to be dead for several days when she was found. Post mortem revealed that she died of natural courses. "A broken heart"said the kind villagers. "Of guilt" said the gossipers. The police found a letter to the solicitors who put the announcement in the newspaper but no one ever turned up.

   After numerous cups of tea and two sandwiches, Maguire Junior showed me an old photograph, a sepia portrait of a young woman. I looked at it and was shocked to see a very young and female edition of my own face and than I knew what the solicitor already understood: I was that little boy that suddenly disappeared.
We parted with an appointment for the next day, I walked to the hotel where I spent hours and hours to come to terms with my past but I failed. It was too much to take in.

   The next morning I was given an envelope with a handwritten letter and 2 keys and the address of my mother's villa. I was told to expect a derelict house after decades of neglect and to be careful stepping on wooden floors and climbing stairs.
The large key was of the front door with the rusty hinges that made a ghostly creaking sound when I firmly pushed. My feet hit a large pile of old papers that released a musty smell of decay. I carefully walked through the house, still furnished as she left it when she died. Everything was covered in thick layers of dust that danced in the light peeping through the holes of the fading curtains.
Wallpaper, once with bright roses, curled down the walls like forgotten flowers. Carpets muffled the sound of my feet. I stood still in the middle of the room and listened to noises from the past. Did she sing for me? Could I still hear her voice to which I had no memory at all? Did she walk up and down the room with me if I cried? So many questions but the only answers were silence, total deep silence.

   I looked for a door for the second key but did not find it until I was upstairs where only one door was locked. To my astonishment, nor the key or hinges made a noise, the door swung open if it hadn't been locked for so long. I wasn't prepared for what I saw and I only noticed I was crying when I tasted my salt tears. In front of me stood a cradle.
A beautiful cradle made from the finest willow branches, now touched by time, and partly covered by beautiful expensive lace, too delicate to touch. The lace that she touched with her hands, the lace that protected the baby...... me. Did she smile when she looked through the lace at my face? Did her hands carefully fold it away before she lifted me in her arms? I imagined I heard her voice, a soft whisper. Or was it the wind?

   I do not know how long I stood there till I finally noticed the newspapers scattered on the floor. The newspapers that mentioned the tragedy of the lost baby. The mingled ink and letters witnesses of her many tears. Her grief.

Photo: Darren Nisbett Fine Art Photography

Did she return to this room after she knew I would not come back? And if she did was she still, did she cry or call for me? Did she rock the empty cradle and sing?

   I finally read the letter my mother wrote to me, as if she knew one day I was going to find my true roots.
And finally I could hear her cry, loud and grieving, full of sorrow and pain.

Or was it the house that groaned under the weight of 70 lost years?


Word of thanks: the photo of @darrennisbett (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 Darren!

Link: the beautiful website Darren Nisbett Fine Art Photography

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

Helen