Faint Whisper

   They asked him to trust them. And to be very, very quiet, even more quiet than a mouse.

   He knew mice always wandered around. In the middle of the night when he could not sleep, he heard their little feet on the wooden floors or scratching the burlap to which the wallpaper was glued. He got used to their soft squeaks when they quarrelled or calling each other. And now they kept him company in his hiding place.

   He pulled his knees up as high as he could and rested his chin on them. Before he wrapped his arms round his legs to keep warm, he first pulled the blanket over his ears, thinking that if he did not hear them, they would not hear him. The old pillow his head rested on, smelled mouldy but he did not care, it was only for one or two days and nights they told him. Not that the pillow at his bed smelled much better. It was only every other month that the bed linen was refreshed. The amount of starch that was used made the linen crack as soon as you turned or moved but after a few nights it felt softer and the noises were gone.
    He hated the smell of starch. Some of the children said it smelled fresh like the wind blowing over the fields but they probably did not know the smell of Lavender.

    He blinked his eyes, he did not want to cry but the thought of Lavender, the smell from home, caused emotions he had almost forgotten about.

He was only 6 and did not remember any more why he was here and when he arrived. He did not remember the face of his mother but he remembered the smell of Lavender that always surrounded her.

   He pulled his arms tighter around his legs and imagined it were the warm and comfortable arms of her, the woman that held him when he had scary dreams or when he hurt himself when he fell. Or just because it was so nice to be in each others arms.
   He tried to remember her voice to expel the deafening silence in his hideaway.

Suddenly he remembered a few words of a poem that always made him laugh: '.... eating a Christmas pie. He put in his thumb....!'

    His brains worked hard to remember the whole song and in his head he started again: '.... sat in the corner....'

Little Jack!! He remembered again because that is what his mother called him... 'little Jack, my little Jack'.... Was this his real name? Where he lived now he was called Boy and the number of his bed at the large ward where he slept with numerous other boys his age. Here he was 'Boy Twelve Stroke Three', which meant that his bed was number 12 in the 3^rd row.
Suddenly he knew the whole song: Little Jack Horner sat in the corner, eating a Christmas pie. He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum and said: “What a good boy am I!”'

    His name must be Jack, there were too many similarities. Why should he otherwise lay in a corner right now? A corner in a very dark space with walls so tight that he could not even see a glimpse of the candles that moved through all the rooms. He could hear the people holding the candles walking and whispering but there was no light at all.

   He held his breath when footsteps came his way. It sounded as if a hand stroke the panels behind he was hiding. Then there was a long silence in which he thought he could not much longer hold his breath and it was a relieve when the footsteps finally moved away from him. But still he did not dare to move. He kept his promise to the people who told him they were coming back to take him home.

    Although the dark space was big enough for two or three children, he was on his own and wondered if there were more hidden spaces like his. Hiding other children and if they too were told to be patient and of course very, very quiet.

    Because the sound of feet and whispers faded, he dared to breath normal again but he did not dare to move although his muscles cramped a little. He noticed how tight he held his arms around his legs and carefully loosened his grip.

    He was thirsty but wanted to wait till all the sounds in the large house were gone. He knew too that drinking the water they gave him, would cause him to go to the loo and he could of course, not go downstairs to the outbuilding where the dark and smelly buckets were.

    Being very tired, he had difficulties keeping his eyes open. He did not notice he fumbled a corner of the blanket in his little skinny fist, stroking his face with the tip in a slow and steady rhythm. He asked himself where the thought of a soft toy came from. A toy with brown eyes, fluffy ears and large feet. He did not know the name of the soft fluffy creature but he remembered it was always with him. He did not remember where it was now and if another child took it to bed or talked to it. He hoped so for the toy which must be cold an lonely without him. The same feelings he had now; cold and lonely.... cold and lonely....

    He woke up from a strange sound. It frightened him being so very afraid of them, the people with the candles and the whispering voices of which he knew that they were not the same people that hid him here. He listened but again the silence was of the same density as the darkness. He carefully stroke his face and noticed his cheeks were wet. He realized it was his crying that woke him up and all of a sudden he could not hold his tears any more.

   He cried and cried; his fist pushed into his wide open mouth to damp the sound of his desperate hiccups. He pushed his knees together not to pee in his pants, afraid of the painful punishments that always followed when it accidentally happened. But he failed.

    When he finally calmed down, he did not know for how long he was sitting there. His skin started to itch where his wet pants touched it but he did not dare to scratch. He wanted to be a good brave boy because, what if his mother came to collect him? He wanted to tell her he wasn't afraid in the dark. Not even for a few seconds. He was big enough to look after his mother, to earn money to buy food, and flowers that smelled like lavender.

    He was going to buy a beautiful house with large windows where the sun could shine through. And with a large garden with a pond with coloured fish he was going to feed together with his mother.

And in the bedrooms nice beds with shiny white sheets and soft blankets and heaps of pillows they could rest their heads on. And boxes full of fluffy toys.....

Photo: @daftintin_official (Instagram)

   
   The large estate is still standing in its dark grounds, surrounded by centuries old trees that keep the sunshine from reaching the windows. The crumbling outbuildings do not release their terrible smell any more; even the rats left it.

   The silence in the large house is still deafening and only occasionally disturbed by a few people that can not resist exploring it but who leave very quickly after a visit to the large hallway with the numerous doors.

   Only the brave look behind the doors but there is one they never open. They can not explain why they walk pass it as quickly as possible. Is it the sound of a soft cry? The smell of Lavender or the sinister faint whisper of a child's voice repeating a poem?

Word of thanks: the photo of @daftinitin_official (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!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @daftintin_official and visit his impressive YouTube Channel.

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

Helen

Little Doors (short story)

"Are you like me? Orderly, introvert, tidy, easy going, laid back?
Oh, and not to forget handsome, rich, well dressed, wealthy! Idyllically the perfect son in law!

You might think I am exaggerating; thinking too much of myself. You will say: "Nobody is all that...."
But my dear, I am all that! I really am....
Your next question will be: "Than you are already taken....". No sweetheart, I am not.
Yes, I know, you are astonished aren't you? No one can be all that and still not taken.
Well, I am your living example, it is possible. I have to admit that it is not my free choice, I met many women I wanted to share my life with but although I have so much and beyond to offer, they never wanted to share their lives with me. Strange isn't it?

As soon as I invited them home, the relationship changed. Yes, I have a home, quite big really. I am not telling you secrets if I say it is a very, very big Estate with woodlands, fields and a long drive way with a gate guarded by big statues of lions. And of course a gate keeper as I prefer to keep the gates locked as often as possible. Maybe this scares my female visitors off? Being locked up? Why would they if they have all my money to spend, an Estate, the most handsome man on earth and many servants?
Indeed, if you and I will get along and marry, you will have servants; people who keep the Estate in good order, who look after you. I even have doctors and nurses, a bookkeeper, gardeners.
You look surprised.... this is not what you expected, isn't it?And they are all yours.

Of course I am wealthy enough to pay all the staff, I just told you that. And do you know that I know them all by name? Each one of them. And they appreciate that, they respect me, you can tell by the way they talk to me, with low voices, kind and patient. They know that they should not upset me, not to make me angry. Am I a violent person you ask me? No, I am not. I am always kind and calm.
No no, this is not true. I agree I can be upset if the bookkeeping is not in good order, I hate disorderly paperwork. Oh yes, this can annoy me so very much!!! But please keep this as a secret.

I think I am going to tell you another secret, are you ready for it? And will you promise me not to leave me?
Promise!!! Yes... good girl!

All the staff I just mentioned; there are not as many as I want you to believe. Somehow they don't stay here for long. I replace them for others but sometimes, when I stayed in my room for too long, again staff members left. And lately I can't find new members as easily as I used to. And the new ones are often not as polite as the ones of who I thought were loyal to me.
Do you think they are jealous? Jealous of my status, my money, my good looks?

Another secret is that I do not trust my new staff any more. I think they are betraying me.
In what way, you ask me? I suspect them to add pills to my food. Not that I need pills of course, but I am almost certain they try to poison me! Yes, that frightens you too, doesn't it? Poisoning, mind you!!!
And they avoid me as well, I see less and less people walking around. They don't talk to me as they did before, they avoid me. Now I come to think of it, yes, they avoid me!! How dare they!! I pay them very good wages and want to be obeyed!!

Oooohhh.... now I am getting angry, very angry!!
Are you listening to me? Where are you? You walked away from me, come back!! Come back I tell you!!
Where is everybody? Where are you? Where is the other staff? Why am I on my own? Nobody told me that they were going to leave the Estate, to leave me....

Photo: @glory.of.dispair

Did you leave a note? Whatever note? Are your notes in the cupboard? The large cupboard down the hall?
The one with all the little doors, doors that thrive me sick....... little doors that remind me of all the little doors in my head. Doors with hidden thoughts that disappear every time I open one.
I want to know what is behind those doors, I want to understand but all I see is paper, sheets, files, prescriptions, names of other people..... I am angry, I do not want papers, I want my thoughts back....!!"


        The lamp dangling from the ceiling didn't shed a light any more at the enormous chaos, found by a visitor of a long forgotten Estate.
The man looked around, his hand protecting his nose against the damp smell. His eyes watched the chaos of passed times and he tried to get his head around the memories of hundreds of spirits that never followed their troubled owners who left the Estate for good.


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 @glory.of.disrepair

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

Helen

The Chamber Pot (short story)

First of all, my memory is not what it used to be so if I am not accurate in my descriptions, it be so.
Secondly, a chamber pot does not live a life any of you would desire. True, I have seen things others don't see but I can assure you the things I have seen have always been a bit.... uhm... smelly.

If a chamber pot still exists, it would probably be cleaned after every use, but not in my days, oh no. We were on guard the whole night and were only emptied in the mornings.
I should not complain though! Some chamber pots lived in less pleasant environments than I.
My life started in a pottery (how applicable...) together with more pots of my kind and a few very posh pots.
We were the majority because the Estate that placed the order had more servants than family members; not an unusual thing in those days. And long term guests often brought their own pots because they were used to the size. And there are many different sizes to fit a bum!

Did you know that the difference in position already started in the pottery? You are wrong thinking we were all made of the same clay. No, we are made of far less delicate raw materials than our fellow posh pots; we are stoneware and they are porcelain. And it is not only the raw materials, it is also the look: the posh pots are often painted with beautiful flowers and other decorations in soft colours and the common pots are not.
I am happy to be a middle class pot (that is how I think of myself), the lower classes are often brown or greyish white without any decoration. I am also taller than most pots and this is because I served both the Lady's maid and the Coachman which broadened my view on people. And I have stripes. Well, that is enough about me.

Chamber pots in general need to be emptied and cleaned on a daily base but I am not sure this happened to all pots, in that respect I was lucky. It was the duty of the scullery maid to collect the content of all potties in the house. She gathered the contents in large white enamelled buckets with a lid. The poor girl had to walk a lot of stairs with those heavy buckets full of human waste (posh and common mixed) and believe me, the smell was terrible. Due to her other duties the rest of the day, she had to hurry but in the meantime being careful not to fall.... The second scullery girl collected the empty pots to clean them in a special built outhouse.

Servants are known for their gossiping and you can't blame them. There was much to talk about, as well as upstairs as downstairs. The more people the more gossip. But let me tell you that their gossiping was nothing comparing to what we had to tell!! After cleaning we rested upside down on iron racks until we were dry and ready for a new night shift. As soon as the scullery maid left the outhouse, we told each other the stories of the past night. When I first stood there amongst more experienced pots, I tried not to keep up with them in terms of gossiping because I was middle class.
But when I noticed that the posh' and the commons participated and that it was more or less 'daily news' instead of 'backbite' (which is a far more appropriate word for us to use...), I heartily joined the party.

I know you are curious now and want to hear about the affairs of his Lordship or even the chauffeur, or the secrets discussed between the daughter of his Lordship and her Lady's maid. Or the complains of the Butler and the Housekeeper about the lower servants but I am not going to tell you these stories now. Maybe some other time as I will most likely still be here for the next couple of years.

I never thought I would retire, I always thought that if not cracked, I would move on to a younger generation of servants but alas, it did not happen.
Tragical really, that the Coachman was the only one who stayed in the house after the family moved when the British economy changed after the second world war.
Servants moved to industrial and much better paid jobs, agricultural prices went through the roof and farmers wanted a better payment. And that did not change during the 50's and 60's. It was called progress.
In the meantime the Estate was only a shell with on the top floor the rooms of the Coachman who did not dare to move to one of the grand rooms, still loyal to his Lordship and well aware of his own manners which became a habit after so many years of serving.

The Lady's Maid left the Coachman for a, in my opinion, conman who was not only charming but also had a better income and a more modern house than the rooms on the top floor.
Now I only had to serve one bum and the older the bum got, the less clean it was as you will imagine.
I was loyal to this single bum but often felt home sick to the days of gossiping in the outhouse. Life was, to say the least, boring.

Photo: @soul_mining (Instgram)

But than the day came that the Coachman never returned from his house inspection, carrying a double-barreled shotgun to chase unwanted visitors. I still don't know what happened to him. He might have fallen down the stairs (in that case he was lucky not to carry me), the animals in the forest might have witnessed his final breath. Or maybe he just walked away, tired of living in a room where several layers of wall paper curl down the damp walls. Tired of watching his own face every day in the mirror on top of the chest of drawers and smelling the perfume - still left in the bottle next to the mirror - of his unfaithful Lady's maid. Or tired of carrying me up and down the stairs which is a risky job when your hands start shaking at the older age.
I don't know and I assume I will never know.

Quentin Crisp once said: "After the first four years the dirt doesn't get any worse". And he was right.
As well on the subject of dust and the content of me. One day you might find me and even have the courage to clean me and to adopt me. Please don't. Please leave me where I belong; under the bed of a long forgotten Coachman at the floor of long forgotten servants.


Word of thanks: the photo of @soul_mining (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 Dan!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @soul_mining

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

Helen