Without a Trace

   “Dear Herbert, everything I own I leave to you. Since it is your responsibility now, it is up to you what you are going to do with it. Don't feel embarrassed when you go through the letters in the safe, actually I want you to read them. I want you to know what I wasn't able to talk about. Not even with you. God bless you, you have always been like a son to me.” And enclosed the key of the safe.

    The man who wrote me this letter and whom I called 'uncle', was dead. From the moment on he heard that he was not going to recover from what he thought was a cold, it only lasted two weeks before I had to say goodbye to him for ever.

He was not my uncle, people who did not know us mistook us often for father and son, but we were not related; he was a friend of the family and I knew him all my life.

    The relationship struggled when I was a teenager but this was also the case at home with my parents who passed away a few years ago and who I loved. The bond with uncle Martin grew stronger and stronger and his loss hurts me more than I expected. That he left me all his belongings, means more to me than I can and will explain. Yet it will be strange to go through it.

    Although we shared emotions, we were both also introvert and the private emotions were us. It is strange that he wanted me to read the letters.

   It was 8 PM and a very cold night when I closed the curtains to keep the dark world outside. I added logs to the fire, poured myself a whiskey and sat down in what had always been 'my chair' and which was never reupholstered; it felt like a good old friend that embraced me.

The large box with the letters stood on the floor next to me. All bound with a string and on top a list with numbers that corresponded with those at the envelopes; he catalogued them all with dates.

    I hesitated to open the first one, it felt uncomfortable. I did not know what their content was, if it were personal letters to him and from whom. There were no stamps, someone must have delivered them. Right then I did not even notice that the handwriting looked familiar.

Staring at the envelopes did not reveal much and after a deep breath I started reading.

    The early morning light peeped through the curtains. I kept the fire burning all night until the last log and the last letter dated May 1995.

Fifty years of letters, one every month, that makes 600 letters. Each envelope contained one sheet of paper, written both sides and I read it all during a night I was not even aware of the time. I was more than surprised when I finished the last that it was 8 AM in the morning. The content was so fascinating and yet so odd and questionable, that I forgot all about time, even where I was. Or to finish my first Whiskey and I stared at the little bit that was left in the glass.

I rested my head against the back of the chair, closed my eyes and thought about what I read and if I was able to understand it.

    This was all a month ago and it is today that I am ready to tell you something about it and still this is not going to be easy. First of all I need to mention that the letters my uncle left me, were not written by someone else; it were his own letters to himself. His address at the envelopes was in his own handwriting. How odd you will think and you are probably right until you understand that it was his way to write a diary. Still a strange way to do it; the average diary writer would start with “Dear Diary”. Not uncle Herbert, he started with “Dear Herbert” and ended with “For ever yours”. No, this is not funny, actually it is very tragic, as well the content as the writing to his own address. And I have to admit that after reading the letters I doubt very much if the story that started in 1944, is true.

    In 1944 uncle Herbert was stationed in France where he fell in love with (his words) a beautiful French girl named Marie. She answered his love and promised to move with him to his country but they were young and there was a war going on although it looked like Hitler was going to loose. But their love for each other grew stronger and stronger and when France got liberated, Herbert moved with his infantry to Holland. The night before he left was their first intimate night. It were very passionate hours; as if they knew they were never going to see each other again. In the very early hours of the day of departure, Herbert left Marie with the promise to come back to marry her. Tears were shed on both sides and than one long kiss before he disappeared in the fog that lay as a blanket at the fields and the ruined houses.

    In 1945 Herbert returned home and never talked about what happened during the war. He never mentioned the horrible fightings, the death of his comrades, the liberation of France and Holland and never mentioned Marie.

Of all the letters he wrote, he wrote one to Marie but never received a reply.

I know now he sent her his address and promised her to go to the station every day, hoping to see her arriving by train.

    He kept his promise and spent much time at the small local station famous for it's candy pink colour that somehow beautifully blended with the natural colours of the countryside. Unfortunately it closed in the early 70's and is now surrounded by woodland.

    The only time Martin wasn't there was when he was taken into hospital with a pneumonia 2 months after he arrived home from the war.

A busy time for my parents who worried about Herbert's health while my mother also gave birth to me; their one and only child. This was also the time Herbert started his strange diary in which he not only expressed his deep love for Marie (if she ever existed) but also his love for me as if I was his own child.

   Maybe it was the chaotic and dramatic period just after the war that a new life of a baby, although it was the son of his best friends, made him aware of the future and the love in his heart, not killed by the terrible things he saw. Or maybe indeed his love for Marie.

    I am now at the end of Martin's story that may not look spectacular to you but which revealed more about his character to me. Because he was introvert, I never got to know what his real feelings were. He trusted these feelings to paper and than passed them on to me. Please understand that I can not go deeper into this, I am introvert as well.

    Yet he left me with a few questions. For instance why did he stop writing after 50 years? Is this because it was an important mark after the war? These 50 years of freedom were celebrated in Europe with veterans visiting the countries they fought for everyone's freedom. Where so many gave their lives.

Photo: @gioboretti (Instagram)

    And why was there an empty envelope at the bottom of the large box? An envelope with a different handwriting and a large safety pin with a blue ribbon?

And the strange address with only the name of the village and “Martin at the pink train station”???

    One day I will read the letters again, maybe I will find the answers.

Word of thanks: the photo of @gioboretti (Instgram) 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 Gio!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram Account of Gio Boretti and listen to his beautiful guitar compositions at his YouTube account.

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

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 Diva

   The cacophony in his head was the deafening opposite of the stillness around him. Her voice, loud en clear, overruled everything. Something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

   He sat at the red comfortable chair with the soft lining which was designed for his needs. And this indeed, was very expensive. Each chair on it's own was £ 1500. Ridiculous amount of money, fortunately it were only 6 and not a whole theatre. But even then he had been more than willing to pay for them.

    While leaning backwards, he modified the chair to his own comfort and allowed his thoughts to wander off, hoping that thinking about her might also reduce the noise that swirled round and round with false tones.

    He recalled her face and hoped this time it would be calm although he knew the main feature of it was her mouth and that was never calm. How stupid to have fallen in love with that same mouth which was at the time her attraction, particularly to him being a bachelor who lived on his own for too long.

    He met her at the birthday party of his best friend. He never meant to go but this was friend's 40^th birthday and a 'Bal Masqué'. He liked that, he did not often appear in public and definitely not at parties but this way he was going to be slightly incognito. Not that he was easily recognized because he was famous (which he wasn't) but he just did not like large crowds.

And one other thing was that he was extremely rich and women, particularly single women, had a nose for money. They smelled it and immediately behaved like cats in heat, something he hated! It made him immune for the female species. But with a masque he would be fairly safe.

    Blame the masque that he fell for her mouth. Of course it was the most visible part of her face apart from her chin which revealed a determined character but that is not what he noticed. No, it was her mouth as beautiful as a rose in full bloom. He wasn't a poet but the phrase 'a rose in the morning dew' crossed his mind. He watched it from a distance and could not take his eyes of it.

    Her lips were so fascinating that the world around him disappeared. He stood in the middle of a universe without sounds and people. The space was empty and in this emptiness floated her mouth with the moving lips like wings as if they weren't attached to her.

    The thin air around him wasn't cold but warm and comfortable. He couldn't remember if her mouth made his blood boil or the warm thin air. Or both, he did remember he fell in love, deeply in love, without being introduced to her.

    The mist dissolved and very slowly the sounds of tinkling champagne glasses laughter and conversations returned.

A male voice next to him asked him if he was alright and without turning round to the man he said he was fine and added: “thank you for asking.”

    He shook his head an realized he must look like a fool although the beautiful mouth smiled and moved towards him. It was then when he noticed it belonged to a woman almost as tall as he was. He looked into green eyes behind a very simple but expensive masque. A warm voice said: “I don't think we met before”. When he agreed, they exchanged names and started a conversation. He needed all his willpower to listen to her words (which were many) and not to fix his eyes on her lips. Although he had relationships before with women he went to bed with, he never had the desire to kiss them the very first moments of their first meetings but now he only wanted one thing: kissing her. And not a social kiss, or a kiss between two friends no, he wanted to press his lips against hers until she opened her mouth to welcome him. He wanted his tongue to dance with hers in an erotic rhythm and he did not care he was at the birthday party!

    With these memories he moved in his chair, a little restless because his emotions balanced between relief and grief and he did not feel comfortable with both. Why did he marry her so soon? He surprised family, friends and society. Even the newspapers that never wrote about him before, headlined “Most desired bachelor found his Eva” (why on earth did his parents name him Adam...)

    She did not only have a beautiful mouth but also brains and organisation talents. In no time she organized their wedding and sent out numerous invitations to people he had never heard of before and who she called 'colleagues' or friends. If he had not been so very much in love at the time, inviting these people who were mainly in the showbizz, must have set off numerous alarm bells. But the bells kept quiet and only rang when it was far too late.

    It did not take her long after the marriage to convince him of her many talents like performing, singing and being an actress of high level. Well, not discovered yet but with his help (read; money and status, after all he did not only have a double barrelled name, no, he had three names and a long forgotten title) she was finally going to break through.

    Strangely enough he never heard her singing (not even in the shower but this might have been because the always showered together), nor seen her performing. And when it finally happened, in full public in the music room in his Manor, he was shocked. Not just a little bit but deeply shocked. At first he could not believe how a beautiful mouth and a warm sensual voice like hers, produced a noise that could only be described as an old unmaintained unidentifiable agricultural machine that tried to plough it's way through sticky clay.

    It was awful, terrible, shocking and above all embarrassing because she did not stop! She went on and on, looking over the heads of the poor spectators that were too polite to cover their ears wit their hands.

He wanted to crawl under his chair, fly to the ceiling, dissolve in thin air (maybe not a wise thing to do), everything to move away from her singing as far as possible. And by the look of their guests, every body had the same idea. And even so more the so called 'colleagues and friends' from their wedding party.

    Even after all those years his cheeks turned red in embarrassment. And what ever he tried to stop her, to convince her to search for other talents (she must have at least one he hoped), she kept believing she was The Star the world was waiting for. He sighed and was the producer that organized her first official concert, still thankful. Agreed, they planned it together to make her see that the large audience wasn't at all polite enough to let her go on. People who paid for her performance were most likely going to shout and whistle.

    Fortunately for her, it never happened. Yes, she was going to perform, people were waiting for her to enter the stage but when she did, her high healed shoe got strangled in her enormous dress of which the skirt was made of numerous layers of lace. Before someone could offer help, she fell off the platform in between the people of the orchestra and indeed, broke her neck.

Her audience still wanted their money back but not before the next day because they thought it was part of her act and applauded and laughed.......

Photo: @marshallubx (Instagram)

   

   In the old abandoned and forgotten Manor his now fading and decaying private theatre with the red chairs and curtains (the colour of her mouth) the blue walls and the large mirror instead of a scene decoration is the only witnesses of his desire to stare at the reflections of an empty stage, empty chairs and to absorb the valuable and admirable stillness.

Word of thanks: the photo of @marshallubx (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 Marshall!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @marshallubx

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

Helen

The Other Door (short story)

    The bond with her great-great-great-grandfather Walwyn Randal Norvin Kenrick (well chosen first names) was very strong.
Most likely because they shared a strong will and stubborn and brave character, something that had been missing for generations of offspring; not my words but those of Walwyn. Yet I agree with him, I served many generations of this family whose history goes back to the Vikings.

   This great-great-great-granddaughter was the first female descendant of the old Walwyn and I expected him to be disappointed it was a girl who inherited his warrior genes. But he wasn't, he was over the moon when he saw her soft blond hair with the red glow. He almost howled like the wolf in his coat of arms. He ran through the castle, kissed every female (who still wonder where the light touch came from) he passed and returned to the nursery where he looked in great admiration to mother and child. He loved the mother from the moment she set foot in the castle. Unfortunately he could not pet himself on the shoulder for arranging this marriage – it was outside his restrictions – but someone somewhere must have arranged it from above. One day he was going to thank this Angel.

   And now this useless, lazy, ignorant great-great-grandson and his wife produced a female copy of him. And lo and behold, one of the names of the child was the female version of his own Randal: she was named Edrea Randall Bedelia.

Little Edrea and old Walwyn developed a bond from the very first moment; even before she saw him, the little child was aware of his existence. Her mother knew there was something in the nursery where her daughter reacted to but it did not feel bad and with her Welsh roots, she knew there was more between heaven and earth.

   The father who was mentally not fit to cope with the character of his wife, let alone that of his daughter, spent more and more time elsewhere; hunting, gambling and drinking with his friends. His wife who tried everything to keep her husband at home and who learned to hate his lifestyle, gave all her love to her daughter and it was no surprise to everyone in the castle that there were no other babies.

   It was a very strange household: the mother with her beautiful child and enough staff to serve 10 times more people. Life centred in a few rooms, all others were closed until the guests for the annual hunting games arrived; the one and only time his lordship was at home.

    When Edrea (who was a curious and studios girl) grew up, she explored the castle.
A few rooms were closed and in others the furniture was covered in white sheets against the dust. Her interest in the previous use of the rooms was touching, it was as if the history made her blood boil. Holding her favourite doll tightly in her arms, she told it she was going to bring the castle back to its original glory but that her father had to die first as Mummy once cried that he was spending all the money and if there came no end to it, they would be poor as a church mouse in no time. Not that Edrea ever saw a church mouse but with Mummy being so very sad, it must be extremely poor.

   The little girl did not know what she was thinking and wishing, yet her wish was fulfilled when she was 10 years old and riding her pony during the hunting event. For the first time her father showed some interest in his daughter who looked so self assured in her riding outfit. Everybody who looked at her saw what a beautiful woman she was going to be. Father and daughter guided their horses in a slightly different direction than most of the hunters. No one could tell why they did it, who's idea it was because after the accident Edrea did not say a word about what happened.
   She came back alone, a straight back and no emotions when she told one of the footman to get some help while she was going to see her mother to tell her “father was thrown of his horse and not breathing any more”.

   Edrea nor her mother cried a tear about the loss. They never spoke about it either, at least not in front of other people. The mother took over the finances and after a year of sleepless nights, paying creditors and talking to all staff members she managed to save the castle from it's downfall. We all admired her for her effort and our loyalty to her was stronger than ever.

    It was around this time that I decided it was the right moment to arrange a meeting between Walwyn and Edrea. Yes, you are right, they knew each other already but they never met in his world.

    At one day Edrea found the door of one of the rooms that was always closed, open. You might think it was odd that she never asked why it was closed, to whom it belonged or what was in it. She only tried the doorknob once and never again in the following 6 years. But today she walked into the room as if she knew it was open and waiting for her. In a sense it was, I arranged it.

    She looked round and walked to the large chest that stood open. She closed the lid and sat down on it; her feet crossed and her hands folded. Very much at ease she absorbed the atmosphere in the room where the family stored old belongings that were not used any more. She looked at her pram and smiled raising her hand if she wanted to touch it but she was to far away.

   “Hello grandfather Walwyn”, she spoke. “I am glad it is time to meet you. Will you guide me?” Walwyn smiled, opened his arms and looked at me for approval. I nodded, it was indeed the right moment.

    The two people with so many generations in between but so alike, walked hand in hand in my direction. I opened Edrea's eyes and the door and bowed when they passed me. I carefully shot the door and waited for their return.

   The old man dressed in a purple velvet jacket, a white blouse with lace collar and sleeves, trousers just over his knees, white stockings and shiny black shoes with silver buckles, his long grey hair held together with a beautiful purple ribbon, watched the young girl that looked like a little princes in her white dress with also a purple ribbon at the back. He was so proud of her and made a promise that the man who would hurt her was going to have a miserable and timely death; he did not hesitate a year ago and he would not hesitate doing it again. Particularly with this precious descendent at his side; they proved to be a good team.......


   I stand here in reflection, my heart full of melancholy.

When I think of Edrea I have to admit I fell in love with her. She was not only beautiful but also kind and generous. The people who were honest to her, knew they found a very loyal friend. She was never tired of looking after them in any way she could think of. They were always welcome in the castle and there was always food and a bed available to those who made a long journey to see her.

Photo: @marshallubx (Instagram)

  
   She did keep her promise to restore the castle to it's former glory. I can not tell you how she did it but somehow it happened, probably with the help of Walwyn who knew the castle so well and who revealed all it's secrets to her.
   Walwyn kept his promise to protect Edrea who's marriage only lasted a few months before her husband died. There were no children.
  
   Edrea moved permanently to Walwyn's world a very long time ago. And to you it might look if the caste is abandoned but you can be very mistaken. Maybe you are related to the two people I loved most in my life, who knows. I hope so!

   Try.... stand in front of me and tell me if you too see in me the light behind the other door to the other world.....

Word of thanks: the photo of @marshallubx (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 Marshall!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @marshallubx

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

Helen

Wired (short story)

    She was good at it. Very, very good!! Not just one of the best but THE best in her county. Of course her employer did not want to let her go and paid her more and more each year until his bookkeeper told him to stop raising her salary because it would bankrupt the company.

And then he married her. With her agreement her income remained the same for the rest of her life which was a very clever thing to do of him.

    Let's go deeper into this: he saved the company and if he was going to die first, she would have her own savings that no one else could touch. Plus she inherited her part of his money which was almost all apart from a donation to the Local Bug Protection Trust.

    You might never have heard of the LBPT but for the small city it was quite important. Let me explain: in medieval times there was a plague of a very rare type of bug. They were quite large and beautiful coloured. The shields, or rather wings, were golden yellow with purple stripes. Their bodies dark brown with long yellow legs.

    They used their wings to fly and to hop, rather silly thing to watch but they arrived where they wanted to be. They did not eat plants or wood (fortunately with only wooden houses in town), no, they ate – please skip this when you are a bit picky – all manure they could lay their legs on, even that of humans.

    I don't know how much you read about medieval times but at the time they did not have a loo. They used buckets and chamberpots (the latter only for the wealthy) and the content was just thrown out of the window or in the rivers.

With this in mind you understand how happy everyone was with the bugs.
    Goldsmiths tried to copy them as broaches and they were sold well. People even kept them as pets but this was forbidden as soon as the Pope declared the bug holy. You must surely have heard of Saint Bug. The disturbing problems in computers are named after them, you did not know that do you?

    To protect the bug, the LBPT was founded in 1530 and is now known as the one and only eldest Trust throughout the whole empire. And her employer (now husband) was the chairman of the Trust and therefore it was only reasonable he mentioned it in his will.

    But, if she was going to die first, he knew that the money he invested in her, was coming back into his account. You see how clever he was. Not even the bookkeeper thought of that, let alone suggested it. No, it was all his own idea, brilliant!!!

    Although he used to be in love with her voice and not herself (like numerous other people) his feelings changed during the marriage. And when he closed his eyes when she talked, he imagined a beautiful sexy woman. That is why he also kept his eyes closed when they made love. Of course he wanted her to whisper sexy words in his ears which she did. It worked both ways; he loved her voice and she loved the way he made love to her. Sounds complicated but it wasn't.

    The company thrived well, so did their income and lifestyle but instead of spending money they saved it fanatically. New employees were added and the very old ones replaced. And although the phones rang more and more, they never added a second, third or fourth telephonist. Not that they could not find one with a correct and pleasant voice but she did not want it and told him she could handle it all on her own.

    Another excuse was that she was too busy to teach a new telephonist the ins and outs of the company. No, she knew every customer, all their needs, all their voices; never could she leave this to someone else.

    She arrived at the company when she was 18 and just left school; a shy young girl who never travelled any further than the bus stop near the school and the one near the company. Wrong, she once went to a caravan park near the coast but at the time she was too young to remember it and therefore never asked her parents why they never went there again.

    When she applied for the job, she never believed that someone wanted her to work for them and was almost disappointed when they told her she could start the same day.

    She still remembered the day; sitting on a plastic chair (bright orange it was) with her bag on her lap, knees decently pressed against one an other, the feet with the flat shoes firmly on the beige tiles of the corridor.

    As soon as the director laid an eye on her, she saw the same expression on his face she noticed by many people before him: shock and empathy. But he asked her in, shook hands and asked the first questions.

    Though when he heard her voice, the look in his eyes changed and without references, he told her she was their new telephonist. She stared at him in disbelieve but he was very serious. He took her coat, let her ring her parents and together with his manager, he explained her how her job was going to be. And she was clever, very clever. In no time she could not be missed any more. The only downside the first couple of weeks was that people rang more often, just to hear her voice.

    Not long after they celebrated her 45 years with the company and 35 years of marriage, the bookkeeper noticed a slightly odd behaviour with her but blamed the overload of work for it. Still he spoke to his boss about an assistant for his wife. At the age of 63, she should not do it all on her own. But the boss, still content with her in all ways, said that the bookkeeper worried too much and all was fine.

Instead of identifying the problem and trying to talk to her, he bought a few extra telephones; after all it was and remained important that customers could reach them and too often the existing lines were engaged.

   

   Understanding very well that this was the way to stay the one and only telephonist, she accepted the extra phones as if he gave her a platinum ring with the largest diamond in the world. She worked harder and harder, afraid of being replaced by someone with a more beautiful voice and therefore afraid for the end of her marriage. To her he was still the very handsome man she married: tall, blond slim and muscular. She did not see how he changed over the years. She did not see his round belly, the bags under his eyes, the hair that turned grey and thin and his feet becoming more and more flat. Of course he knew it and also knew that how beautiful a new voice was going to be, they were all too young to fall in love with him. Now you understand why he bought the extra telephones.

    And more telephones were added; so many that she also worked during the evenings. And not just phones but also large wooden cable rolls to keep all the wires separated. All he could do in return was cooking her meals and make sure she was comfortable tucked in on the sofa for the so much needed rest.

    But one evening she did not come home at all. He rang her but all the lines were engaged which slightly worried him. He waited an extra hour and rang the bookkeeper at home, knowing he was always the last one leaving the office.

The bookkeeper assured him she was fine when he left but indeed very very busy!

    Although he believed the bookkeeper, he got more and more worried and at 10 PM left home to hurry his car to the company where all the lights were still on.

He entered the hallway and called her name. The silence that followed was most alarming. It gave him very unpleasant feelings; the hair in his neck stood straight up, his heart beat changed dramatically and although he was scared to death, he ran upstairs........

    The Local Bug Protection Trust survived, even without the man that was their chairman for so long. All members thought it was best for him to take his rest and not to return for a while. He never returned, his whole life was upside down after the gruesome find. Within a few minutes he turned into a very old man that lost interest in everything. Not just the LBPT but also his company which is left abandoned for many years now.

Photo: @acfotografie92 (Instagram)

   The company lost too many clients after the beautiful voice was gone and closed within a year. And he blamed himself for everything: the unemployment of all those hard working people, the loss of clients but above all the purchase of so many telephones. How on earth could he know that she, his very ugly wife but with the voice of a Siren, got strangled by all those different wires.....

Word of thanks: the photo of @acfotografie92 (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 Adrian!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of Adrian Chaventre and his impressive website.

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

Helen

Father Josephus (short story)

    “God bless you my dear friend. I will miss you tremendously but will see you soon again. Even I don't live in eternity!”

   Father Josephus kissed the forehead of his life long companion Father Lubertus before the undertaker closed the lid of the coffin.

    How long did they stay here together in the Monastery? Brethren for much longer than he remembered; and he made the sign of the cross.

With his hands folded in front of his chest, his thin lips murmured a prayer, then he took his walking stick and followed the coffin. The porters walked very slowly which wasn't an easy task; the diseased was until his death, a very big and heavy man. But Father Josephus who was very old, refused with great certainty the wheel chair some caring soul brought him and they did not want him to lose his balance.

    They crossed the large and impressive chapel where a few ladies from the village sang Latin prayers. Their voices faded on their way to the high vaults where the angels folded their wings round the sound to carry it to Heaven.

The beautifully decorated brass chandeliers that glowed like pure gold and once carried large candles, moved softly when the procession walked by, as if they paid their respect to Father Lubertus and in a promise to look after Father Josephus as long as needed.

   The very few people in the procession pretended not to see the tears that softly ran down the old Brother's cheeks following the many fine lines in his face until they dripped on his habit which turned over the years from bright white to a soft equal grey. The large cross and the rosary at his belt moved with each irregular step. A lady from the village wanted to support Father Josephus and took his trembling hand but he waved her away; this was his very last walk with his friend and he wanted to do it all on his own. The day that he was going to need help, was rapidly approaching, he knew that very well. But now he walked.

   The service at the grave was very simple. After a long life dedicated to the Catholic church with all it's rituals, prayers and hymns, the incense and candles, both Brethren - the only two left in the Monastery that once was home to 200 of their colleagues - decided long ago that if one of them was going to stay behind the service for the other had to be minimalistic.

    The tears of Father Josephus were not minimalistic and he did not care. Everybody was allowed to see his sadness about the loss of his friend. He knew that his age also allowed him to cry, elderly people were more emotional than younger ones. Never could he explain nor wanted he to, the pain in his heart.

   He raised his hand with the blue vanes which shone through the almost translucent skin with the brown liver spots, to sign the porters it was time to lower the coffin to lay Father Lubertus in his final resting place amongst all those Brethren that went before him.

    He tried to raise his voice when he thanked every one for being here and if they did not mind to leave him alone. And yes he would be careful on his way back to the chapel.

The people left one by one, taking their human sounds like coughing, voices and footsteps with them until there was total silence in the graveyard. Even the birds did not sing. Bees and butterflies sat on stones and flowers without moving.

    Father Josephus put his stick against a gravestone behind him before he held the stone next to the grave of his friend with both hands. Then he kneeled, ignoring the pain in his joints and not knowing if he was able to rise again without help. But he needed to do this, he needed to sit next to the open grave in the soft fresh earth that was dug and that now besmirched his habit. But in his grief he did not notice it.

   Very slowly he lifted his hands from the gravestone and folded them in his lap. His restless fingers looked for the rosary, a custom he wasn't aware off, and touched each bead one by one. His lips moved but not in a prayer; all prayers were said over and over again. Prayers from a book, prayers that were the same for all Brethren; no personal words to God and today was not the right day.

    Today, Father Lubertus thought, was the day to look back on a long, very long life with the man he loved and who was more than a brother to him.

Was it a forbidden love? He thought so but could not remember it well. It was as with a long marriage: passion became friendship but in a very special way. You knew each others customs, you knew you could rely on your partner. You knew his words before he spoke them and recognized every emotion. Every step and every move became yours. You breathed the same air and the beat of two hearts was one. If that was forbidden love then the answer was yes.

   A love never to be spoken out loud let alone practised. Both men could say in all honesty that they never sinned against the will of the Catholic church.

But was this also the will of God? He discussed this with Father Lubertus who was like himself, brought up in a Catholic family which offered at least one son or daughter to the Monasteries, something that was never questioned. Not by the parents, nor the children, nor the Prior or Prioress. The children seldom arrived without a lot of money donated by their rich parents. Father Lubertus and Father Josephus were no exception.

   When they were in their twenties with the feelings of healthy young men, they asked each other for the very fist time if celibacy was indeed the will of God instead of the church. The discussions went on for years but became less important with ageing. These were the times you did not leave the Monastery to go back to the world outside; leaving was a disgrace for church ánd family.

    But when the years went by and brethren died and no new young men joined the order, it was if their earlier doubts were confirmed. The world changed, they even heard of Catholic priests being married and how furious the Pope was about this sin. Still, it was too late. Too late to leave the Monastery, too late to speak out loud their love for each other and too late to return home because there was no home any more. Both were extremely old, almost a century!

With all their best will and energy they lived the lives they always lived in an empty cold and deserted building where even their footsteps were not heard any more.

   

  

Photo: @abandonment_issuez (Instagram)

Father Josephus still sat near the grave when the gravedigger arrived.

The hands still folded but the fingers did not touch the beads any more. The translucent skin was white and the blue vanes frozen in a black colour.

The tears of the days before dried and the soft ground from the grave was turned into sand that blew in the wind with the same pace of the grey old habit......

   The wind and rain are also in control of the Monastery which grandeur is fading like the voices that once sang their religious songs and that stopped when the angels folded their wings round the soul of Father Josephus.

Word of thanks: the photo of @abandonment_issuez (Istagram) 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 Ricky!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @abandonment_issuez and his YouTube Account

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

Helen