Love beyond Time, a Christmas story

   It is extremely cold and I ask myself why I gave in to my own hideous plan to explore the house in the middle of the forest.

   Of course I am dressed properly: a thick warm coat, warm boots with thermo-socks, gloves, a comfortable hood to keep my ears from freezing and even my photo bag is protected against the icy cold. Hopefully my camera isn't going to freeze. I know from experience that an empty abandoned villa is colder inside than the temperature outside indicates.

   I often thought about this phenomenon and the only answer I can think of, is that there is not only no heating but also the souls of the former inhabitants are gone. Even if there are warm memories, you can't feel it any more.

   This is my first visit to the house, I discovered it accidentally and are still surprised nobody ever mentioned it, nor have I ever seen photo's taken by fellow explorers. I am, to say the least, very curious.

  The first time I saw the house, the weather was more friendly, no snow. But I did not have the time to go inside after I discovered a door from the the stables to a hall. I hope the door from the hall to the house is unlocked, we'll see.

   At some places the snow is thick and comes above my boots but I continue my way to the villa. Meanwhile I admire the beautiful surroundings. Nothing is as quiet as a snowy forest absorbing every sound. Only occasionally you hear the quick flutter of a bird but most are gone to warmer areas. There is no wind to clear the heavy branches, sometimes you hear a soft cracking noise as if the weight of the snow is too much for the trees. But apart from that and my breathing causing little clouds, there is silence.

   Sooner then expected the house appears from between the trees, it's roof hardly visible under the weight of the snow. I do not dare to think what is going to happen when the temperatures rise, the roof must leak.
There are no footprints; I know I am on my own and for the first time since I started the expedition, I wonder if this is safe. Too late; I have to be careful and cross my fingers.
I walk to the back, enter the stables that once housed horses and carriages but now the old decaying hay and straw are the only witnesses of a more glorious time.
   The door to the hallway is still unlocked as is the door to the house. It makes a squeaking noise and in a reflex I stand still to listen. There are no other sounds, it is even too cold for the mice and rats.
I push the door further open and enter a large country style kitchen, covered in dust and cob webs but still fully equipped. Actually it looks like if the cook is going to return any moment, complaining the fires are not burning and dinner will not be ready in time. I imagine to smell the pies and cakes.
   Standing still makes me aware of this strange cold and I wrap my arms around my body. Before I am going to take photo's, I first want to explore the house. Everything will still be the same on my way back. And if the whole house is like the kitchen, I am ready for a few surprises, I can't wait.

   From the kitchen I enter a long, long hallway with many doors and I hesitate for a moment choosing one. I open the third at my right and enter a beautiful drawing room with high ceilings and large windows. The ingenious ornaments of the ceiling let go their paint although obviously reluctant to do so but the damp wins its nasty game. The grand curtains which must have cost a fortune, still wait to be closed to keep the cold out but there are no hands any more to do so. Cob webs hang down from the corners, catching flies although they too left the house.

   I walk slowly through the majestic room; the little clouds of my warm breath follow me as if they are reluctant to solve in the cold air.
The furniture is impressive and the dust can not hide the colours of the expensive upholstery and the once lovingly polished wood. The thick carpets muffle the sound of my footsteps. Despite all the glamour and beauty, the room does not look like it was used too often. At least not for cosy family gatherings.
   The enormous fireplace is black and in between the old ash from previous fires and the dirt let go by the large chimney now blocked by crow nests, there are still large logs. I feel tempted to lit them but know I will most likely set the house on fire.
In the panelling I notice a door that looks so small but is actually of a very normal size. I find it difficult to resist doors and walk towards it. The brass handle moves smoothly when I press it and the door swings open like it had been oiled yesterday. I enter a much smaller room and what I see takes my breath.

   Nothing here is dusty, I don't smell decay. On the contrary, I smell roses and a perfume that has not lost its strength. Strangely I am not frightened, it feels like coming home and although I do not understand this completely unexpected feeling, I give in to it and relax.

   The fireplace in this room is much smaller and the chimney looks very clean. I can't resist the feeling that I have been here before. Or that I belong here but decide not to think about this. The logs for the fire are stacked in a very large basket and in a reflex I put some in the hearth and light them with the matches on a small table next to a very comfortable sofa. I don't ask myself if I am doing the wrong thing or if someone outside will see the smoke coming from the chimney, there is something in this room that will protect me, I can feel this very clearly.

   It does not take long before the cold disappears, much sooner than expected it feels comfortable and warm. I take off my coat and hood and settle on the sofa, snuggled up between soft cushions that release the same scent of roses I smelled entering the room. I smile, a broad happy smile and think: “Why did it take me so long to come home?”

   I watch the flames dancing and spreading their welcoming heat and I feel my cheeks turning red. My whole body begins to glow; I take off my warm sweater; my blouse lighted by the flames. The atmosphere makes me sleepy and I doze off.

   When I open my eyes (I must have slept for only a few minutes because the fire is still burning as it did) I notice the little Christmas lights on top of the stone mantle. I am surprised but do not ask any questions. Instead I watch their soft glow in between the needles of the fresh branches of a pine-tree.

   The smell of pine is getting stronger and competes with that of the roses. I turn my head and see a beautiful very large Victorian style decorated Christmas tree which reflection in the large mirror above the mantle, had escaped my attention. Or wasn't it there before? I don't know. Everything in this room is not as I expected and I refuse to question my observations.

  
   Instead I give in to the wonderful feelings that overwhelm me. Feelings of being wanted, coming home, being loved beyond physical attraction. Never in my live have I felt so comfortable as today.

Photo: Helen Varras

   While sitting on the sofa, feeling the heat of the fire, I watch every detail of the room and everything in here is so familiar. I know the titles of all the books, I know the date of the whiskey in the crystal bottle. I know the feel of the soft materials of the cushions and curtains as if I had chosen them myself from a large variate of beautiful samples. I know how they feel against my cheek. I even know the name of the roses that spread their eternal smell and close my eyes again.

   Then I hear that beautiful voice I have been waiting for all my life; deep and warm, surrounding me, touching every nerve in my body, making me tremble. I feel the strong hands that hold me, their warmth reaches my skin through my clothes. I smell the masculine scent that matches so perfectly with that of my favourite roses.

   While I hide in the loving arms that surround me, I kiss the lips that tell me how much I am loved, that smile when they say: “What took you so long my love?”.

I smile too but do not answer, I do not need to; you read my feelings as you have always done over the past centuries. I am home, not only for Christmas but forever.

Helen

The Liberated Lady

   "Please do come in and sit down. No, not at this chair. NEVER at this chair!!”

    Her sharp voice at the end of her sentence, frightened me a little. Just a little and not enough to leave her house so I sat down at the nearest available chair and looked in astonishment to the one I was not allowed to sit at.

    “Well my dear, you are definitely one of the very view that stay but not the only one with that same look on your face. And I am not going to apologize for the state the house is in.”

    Her voice lost the sharp edges of a minute ago and now sounded very thin, I almost expected it to disappear but she spoke again: “I hope you brought your own beverage, I do not want to poison you with the left tea leaves or coffee beans, let alone offering you a piece of cake!”

    The way she said it, caused me a few negative goose bumps but I did not show it to her, afraid she was going to take advantage of my sudden fear. I said that I indeed had a water bottle in my rucksack but not being thirsty at the moment. She nodded in agreement and watched me; my eyes wandering off to that particular chair next to the old fireplace that once had a bright yellow colour.

    “I know what you are thinking... you ask yourself what that thing is doing here in the kitchen” and I knew she was not talking about the chair. I could only agree but the word 'yes' got stuck in my throat. She noticed this and suddenly laughed. A laugh that scared me almost to death and it was difficult not to move, to hold on to my chair or even run as fast as I could. I am not known to be scared easily but right now I was.

    As suddenly as her laugh started, it stopped and she moved through the room. I watched her and hoped she kept in sight.

“Don't be scared, I am not going to hurt or kill you. It is not your time yet.”
I was not sure if this was a reassurance and did not dare to ask when it was my time, afraid for the answer.

    “Let me tell you a story, please relax.”, she said and stopped moving right in front of me but without reach although I did not have the desire to touch her.

I tried to relax and listened to the following story:

    “I was born in a time and family were women needed to be very slim and beautiful. We were taught manners, how to have intelligent conversations, learned to dance and to serve tea. My father was a rich man and a wool merchandiser. He bought a large estate and although the many restrictions, I had a very pleasant childhood. We travelled to other countries and I went to a school in Switzerland to become a real lady. And this was the time I got my first Corset. I had seen one in Mummy's bedroom and knew it was used to shape her body but never knew it also was a torture to wear it; Mummy never complained.

    In those days you did not complain, at least not openly and not in front of your children. Of course I don't know if Mummy ever complained to Daddy in the thrifty moments he stayed in her bedroom. And you need to know that Corsets were highly fashionable those days. It was only until I got married that I learned that men thought of the torture garment as being very sexy. That is why I understood the black and white photo's I found in a secretly hidden box in the wardrobe after Daddy passed away. No, I was not shocked, I am not an old spinster!”

    Her voice faded when she recalled these memories and I had difficulties understanding her. I moved a little to attract her attention. I agree being very curious; this was a women who did not mind talking about the more intimate details and I was more than willing to learn a little history first hand. I watched the smile on her face when she noticed my curiosity.

    “I like you” she said. “I really like you and continue my story before I decide to let you go or take you with me. I know I said it is not your time yet but I can change my mind, can't I?” She laughed; a shivering high sound that died in sudden stillness. I did not dare to move again.

   “I married at the age of 20 with a man who at the time, was also attracted by my dowry and status. Fortunately for him I was beautiful and I was happy he was quite handsome but also knew about his reputation with women, something my parents preferred to neglect.

    Of course I heard stories about the wedding night and they varied in emotions from 'disgusting', 'a duty not a pleasure' to 'heavenly' and 'exciting'.

I have to give all credits to the experienced skills of my husband that my wedding night was the latter. And it was the first exciting night of many to follow. He taught me to feel and to be sexy. He bought me flowers and presents, he openly showed his deep affection for me and herewith upset the women he made love to in the past.

    These women who were at first kind to me as if they felt sorry, now tried to patronize me and some got very rude, spreading rumours about my husband being unfaithful.

He and I laughed about it, we knew much better. We spent all nights in the same bed and sleeping was not the only thing we did!”

    The smile on her face was a surprise and I almost forgot that horrible laugh I heard earlier. I now saw the young women that was deeply in love with her husband and who was treasured and loved by him in return. Her whole face changed and her eyes, first as cold and sharp as icicles, shone bright and warm.

    “And you know what was our favourite garment? Of course you know, you are an intelligent girl. Indeed, it was the Corset. But not the one my mother bought me. No, he bought me very beautiful ones in different colours; red with black lace, or white with pink lace. Even completely black, almost like leather. Instead of being tortured by tight strings and baleens, I was spoiled with soft materials that more became a toy than a necessity to be in line with the current fashion.”

    Her voice faded again and she looked up to the ceiling. I sat very still, I wanted to know the ending. She turned her eyes to me. Her smile was nice and warm which caused a glow round her whole body.

   “I lived in a time that the word 'emancipation' was not a descent word or even existed. You modern women think that we were slavish and unobtrusive but this we had in our owns hands. I learned to handle it and above all to use it. What looks like a Corset in life is not always what you think it is. It is your choice to pull the strings as tight as possible or to loosen them and to form the baleens your way.

    I can say in all honesty the Corset was my liberation form the Victorian rules and traditions. And therefore I keep my very first one in sight, at the chair near the fireplace. Two symbols of the flames in my marriage and freedom!!”

Photo: @lotjeurbex (Instagram)

    Liberation!!! Liberation.......
I clearly heard the words, loud and out of place in a house that was decaying. Suddenly the words were gone as was the old lady.
When I entered the abandoned villa, it was very cold and I could feel the cold right through my thick quilted coat and warm gloves. The smell of decay was very present and the chaos covered in dust enormous.

    But now it felt warm and comfortable as if there was a little flame burning inside me. The items around me suddenly had a meaning and I realized more than ever that they once belonged to a living person who knew love, who lived a real life.

   I smiled, took my rucksack, blew a kiss to the ghost of the old lady and walked out the door.

Word of thanks: the photo of @lotjeurbex (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 Lieselotte!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram Account of @lotjeurbex and her impressive Facebook Account.

Note: 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