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 Stethoscope (short story)

   Once upon a time…

Do not all fairy tales begin with this phrase? I don’t know if I tell you a fairy tale, it is up to you to decide.

   Once upon a time I left the Fine Medical Instruments Workshop as a stethoscope. Although we were not a very rare breed there were fewer doctors those days than in the modern medical world of today.
I was fortunate to be bought by a very young doctor who just finished his medical study at the university. I did not know of course what the expectations of my duties were and this way we were able to grow together.

   I still remember the very first patient, it scared me to death. I was held against the chest of a man covered in thick black bushy hair and I was pushed in between it. I made a strange sound which worried the doctor who took me out of his ears, shook me and held me again to the heart of his patient. This time I was prepared and the doctor could listen to the heart which wasn't well even without my extra noise.

Fortunately the diagnosis was correct and the patient recovered with the right medication.

   My doctor was a very shy and humble man and started a practice in a small village in Devon.

He could have become a rich doctor in a city but preferred the village with hard working people who could not always afford tot pay their bills. But he did not mind. Curing diseases and comforting was his main goal.

   At first the villagers did not trust the new doctor but they did not have a choice; the former doctor died of old age, still doing his work.

The practice was old but apart from a new stethoscope, everything was still useful , including all the pots, bottles, ointments and liquids with their typical smell which I learned to love.

It did not take long before the new doctor was accepted and appreciated.

   He got used to the sturdy people and their beautiful but often very difficult to understand accent. We both learned to love it.

We also learned about the characters of the patients who came in various sorts and sizes. Let me name a few:

   The Librarian, a tall and very skinny spinster with a long and thin nose with on top a pince-nez, in my opinion held in place by a thick hair. I could not think of any other reason why she did not remove the hair... Through the glasses of her pince-nez she looked at the doctor as if he was a strange book from her library, wondering who put it there without her permission. My doctor always felt uncomfortable with her and we both dreaded the moment he had to listen to her lungs; she always suffered from some sort of cold. The skin of her back (and probably everywhere else) was extremely wrinkly and needed to be pushed aside to allow me to come as close as possible to her lungs. And what a relief if my job was done!

   The teacher, he was a very sad person; unattractive, always in a gloomy mood, never smiling, walking with a bowed back and never looking anyone in the eyes. Of course he was not married and lived in a small room in the house of his landlady.

He did not have any control over the children of the very fist classes and these children, often from very large families, took advantage of his humourless character. Without doubt the teacher was very unhappy. That is why he often visited the doctor feeling unwell and depressed.

   I thought that he had special feelings for my also unmarried doctor, in those days a criminal offence. His eyes were always fixed on the doctor's hands and he blushed very quickly. But my doctor showed no interest and the teacher left even more gloomy than he arrived. Poor man.

   He could have lived a better life because the daughter of one of the sheep farmers, and I never understood why but the doctor said that women are never to understand, was very much in love with the teacher and took great effort to attract his attention but to no avail.

And she was so disappointed the day he did not arrive at school and his landlady found him and his scarce luggage gone.

   The midwife.... oh did I like her! She was big, round, cheerful and had a bosom like a side table! A perfect place to hold the babies she delivered. But she also loved to embrace the doctor who got smothered in this voluptuous amount of female flesh and warm heartedness.

   Her voice was deep and loud. She was never interested in other peoples opinion about her, she was who she was and was a very good midwife too! Not at all jealous if the doctor delivered a baby. “I can't do th'm all on my own!” is what she said. With very difficult births, she worked side by side with the doctor and hugged everybody in the room when a new born villager started to scream at his very tired but happy mother.

   She spread a smell of babies and cakes, the latter she often took to the practice and they were delicious according my doctor. Although he never admitted, he was extremely fond of this lovely lady that cycled in fast speed from one baby to the other, waving and smiling at at least two generations she delivered.

   All these people have long been gone, like my doctor and many other villagers.
The young ones moved to the cities for jobs with less long hours and better payments. The elderly stayed here until they passed away. The new villagers who moved from the cities to the countryside, brought there own cars and preferred their own specialists in town.

   Soon there were no patients left for my doctor and he died as poor as a church mouse but without regrets. He lived his full life as he always attended to do and I admired him for that.

Photo: @__ephemeral_6090 (Instagram)

Because there was no other doctor needed in the village and no one knew of any next of kin, the practice was never sold and nothing ever changed.

   I still hang at the wall with the stethoscope of the doctor before mine.

The pots and bottles are still here but the smell of dust and decay overtook the smell of ointments and liquids. Silence overtook the sound of all different Devonshire voices, the typical accent is never to be heard again.

   We are a forgotten era in a new modern world.

Word of thanks:  the photo of @__ephemeral_6090 (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given persmission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very gratefull. Thank you!!

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

Helen