Home is Just a Feeling

by Lesley Hudnott

  ~~~

  On the Tuesday morning I was surprised, to put it mildly, to receive a letter from Merry.

  “Cassie,

  I don’t know why I’m writing this, like you’re going to care or even be interested. Still, since you’re my sister and you know the whole story, I’m in hospital and the baby’s gone. In fact, how I’m still alive is beyond me. I couldn’t get their favourite brand of vodka, about three weeks ago. Well, you know what they’re like and anything sets them off these days. Who am I kidding, the pair of them have run on very short fuses for a long time now.”

  So, Merry was obviously unaware that we were not sisters. That said, I still found myself feeling so very sorry for her. Maybe part of it was that it could so easily have been me in her situation. I continued reading.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it but, when they’d woken me from this induced coma and sorted me out a bit, they asked if I wanted to contact anyone. There’s only you, so here I am. I’m still black and blue but out of Craig’s and dad’s clutches now, hopefully for ever! One of the neighbours reported the hell of a din from our place, apparently the noise was ruining their telly programme! When I finally came to in here, I saw my chance and seized it. I told one of the nurses the whole story, all the years of abuse, everything. So, here’s hoping those two buggers rot in hell for eternity.”

  My eyes widened in amazement; so, the worm had finally turned. I read on.

  “Cass, I’m being shown a different way. I’m having counselling and all sorts of help, even visits from some of the neighbours! They’d had no idea what was happening, they thought I was just some miserable bitch who’d found herself knocked up and was taking it out on everyone else. Physically, I’m going to be knackered for quite a while yet, but that aside, I’m walking on air. Of course, I’m sorry for the kid, but it should never have been conceived in the first place. It was rape, pure and simple, and the swine would never use a condom or let me go on the pill.

  Uncle Albert hasn’t visited, mind you I wouldn’t expect that miserable old git to show up. He’s in a home now, did I tell you this already? Quite frail he is, someone else has taken over his house, and he’s at Shangri-La. You must remember the old coffin-dodgers’ place? We used to play in the gardens when we were kids and annoy the hell out of the old ghouls. Well, Craig and I did, anyway. Don’t remember you there, come to think of it. Hey, perhaps you were stuffing your face with your ill-gotten bakery gains!

  I did visit him once, didn’t get much sense from him though. That was a couple of years back. I remember him going on about some letter he’d sent you when Aunt Ivy pegged out. Frankly, I doubt mum would have passed it on, she couldn’t stand you for some reason. Perhaps it’s one of those in with that pig-ugly bear I managed to give you. Oh, and Uncle Albert was droning on about how it wasn’t your fault about Sandra. Wasn’t she their daughter? Dunno what that’s all about. Didn’t she die young? Anyway, I’d better be going now; they’ve got to do some more tests, don’t ask why, I haven’t got a clue. See ya, sis.”

  Some letters are joyful and uplifting, some friendly and newsy, and some just drain the reader. Merry’s letter exhausted me. Glad as I was that things were finally “on the up” for her, she still managed to retain the bitchiness of our earlier years. I decided to send flowers, that would acknowledge receipt of her letter. Thankfully, I did not have to sign the card “Sis”.

  ELEVEN

  Elfie and I ate cottage pie, one of her favourites, at my kitchen table. Used to sociable banter, we were now each on our guard; me, because I had questions I needed her to answer and Elfie, because she knew yet desperately did not want to answer them. Not one to skirt around issues, I nevertheless knew I had to play this gently.

  “What do you make of this? It arrived yesterday.” Elfie read Merry’s letter and handed it back.

  “Wow, looks like your sister’s had a really hard time of it, Cass. Still, it seems like she’s on the mend now. Good luck to her.”

  Usually, Elfie Patterson would have pored over such a letter, with plenty of questions to follow. Today she sat opposite me, her face impassive and her arms folded in an unyielding manner. I had made my opening gambit. After a few seconds that felt like hours, Elfie unfolded her arms and smiled. “Look, Cassie, I don’t know what you want from me. Well, I suspect you want to know what business necessitates my going away every other weekend. I could tell you, after all, it’s nothing illegal. The trouble is, then I’d have to tell you other stuff which would lead to other questions.”

  I smiled back. Time to bring out the big guns. Observing my friend closely as she browsed through the pictures of The Lion on my laptop, the wistful look on her face was difficult to miss as she scrolled again and again to the same few shots. Elfie’s voice took on a gentler tone as she said how beautiful the photos were. Playing to her vulnerability, I placed my arm around her shoulders, offering again to upload them to her laptop.

  A friendlier footing restored, I opened the brass snuff box, apologising lightly for not having shown her before now. Elfie’s gasp of amazement was suitably impressive; it came, however, on sight of the piece of fabric enfolding the sizeable jewel within. “Lovely piece of cloth, isn’t it?” I gently teased. “Surely not as impressive as that, though?” I nodded to the extravagantly large pear-cut, yellow diamond now adorning Elfie’s finger. Surrounded by small white diamonds, the whole piece used every glimmer of light to its advantage. Eventually handing the ring back, she quickly glanced again at its fabric wrapping. I said nothing. Your move, Elfie…

  “What was that bit in your sister’s letter about you stuffing your face with your ill-gotten bakery gains?”

  I very briefly explained about my treatment at home. “I don’t quite know why, but gorging on all that sweet stodge gave some kind of comfort. Daft really, since I grew to resemble a small whale. Still, most of it dropped off again when I moved out. It was all fresh that day, they just used to put any unsold cakes and pastries out in the back yard; a local farmer used to drop by and have them for his pigs. I bet his pigs grew even fatter when I stopped pinching stuff.”

  Smiling quickly at my attempt at humour, Elfie rose to leave. Curiously, I have always found that when someone needs to explain something away, that seems to be when there is something to hide.

  “That fabric, in the snuff box, seems to be identical to a framed square I have. I picked it up years ago, can’t quite recall where.” I smiled, knowing she was waiting to discover whether or not Lucy had mentioned it. I kept quiet.

  We hugged and, unable to resist a little mischief, I mentioned the mirror in Elfie’s garden shed. “I stumbled, returning a trowel and fork, and almost dragged the old blanket right off it. It’s a dead ringer for the one that was in my bathroom. We must have very similar tastes.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Cass,” came the guarded reply. “By the way, not that I mean to pry, did you open those letters that you found in your bedroom?”

  “One of them, so far. It turns out that I was adopted as a baby. Still, at least it means that the family from hell are not actually mine, thankfully!”

  “Oh! Good news, then. Did… Did it say who your real parents are?”

  “Well, not really.” Then, noticing a look of pure relief on her face, I felt impelled to continue, “embroidering” a little as I did so. “One or two hints, Elfie. I’m definitely on the right track, but I couldn’t possibly say as yet. I’m sure you understand. Mind you, I’ve yet to open the other one.”

  Watching my friend shuffle across the village green, her purposeful stride no more, I knew that something connected us, but what? If only I knew where that blasted fabric came from.

  ~~~

  The summer, hot and glorious, seemed in no hurry to depart and I could not remember having seen so many visitors passing through Summerlea before. Most of them could be found wandering around the church and graveyard, researching their genealogy, before heading off to Summerlea West’s stunning beach.


  “Your friend Elfie, she’s not very keen on me, is she?” Honeysuckle was spending part of her summer holiday with me.

  “Oh, don’t worry, she’s usually a bit quiet with people she doesn’t know. She’s had a lot on her plate this year and it took her much longer than she expected to recover from that spell in hospital that I told you about. It quite took the wind from her sails, really. Poor old soul, she tends to shuffle around now whereas she used to stride everywhere, a bit like your good self.”

  Brenda Baxter had also noticed Elfie’s reluctance to socialise with Honeysuckle. In her kitchen, teaching us the art of Cornish pasty-making one morning, she patted Honeysuckle’s shoulder with a floury hand, jovially telling her not to be bothered. “To be honest, and I don’t mean anything nasty, Elfie’s been a bit, how shall I put it, not quite “there”, since her hospital episode. Down in Cornwall, where I come from, my mother used to say that some dear folk were a bit “Special”; needed a bit more looking out for, you might say, a bit more kindness. That’s how Elfie strikes me just now. Mother always used to make an extra bit of dinner for a dear old chap who lived across from us; he went to another neighbour’s for roast dinner every Sunday, and others pitched in with laundry and cleaning. That’s just how it was, and nobody minded. Just like a family member needing a helping hand, really.”

  As she spoke, it was clear that Brenda’s deft fingers had retained her pasty-crimping skills. “Once you “get it”, it never leaves you.” She chuckled gently, informing us that, “You two haven’t quite “got it” yet, have you, dears? Good efforts, though. Well done.”

  I drove three of us to the beach, Elfie choosing to potter in her garden. The light breeze was gentle and warm as we sat on a large tartan picnic rug to enjoy Brenda’s still-hot Cornish pasties, the delicious savoury treats then washed down with mugs of tea. After a short, companionable silence, Honeysuckle piped up, “You should open a pasty shop right here in Summerlea West, Brenda. My goodness, you’d blast the competition out of the water.”

  “Ah,” replied Brenda, grinning at us, “But I’d need a couple of assistants. Reckon you’d be up to it?”

  The afternoon passed in a haze of laughter, friendly banter, paddling, and the construction of lopsided sand castles. As ever, at the seaside, I remembered Aunt Ivy.

  Brenda came across the following morning, bearing an envelope which she proudly slapped onto the kitchen table as I made coffee.

  “Elfie’s been called away. A relative’s been taken ill. I didn’t know she had any left, did you, Cass? She hasn’t said where she’s gone or for how long. Now, I suppose I’ve been a bit naughty, but I’ve taken some snapshots of the upstairs of Elfie’s house.”

  “I know where you’re going with this, Brenda, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea. She doesn’t want me up there for a reason and I feel I should respect that.”

  “Well, I don’t have to, Brenda, if you’re willing to show me, that is. Elfie and I have no connection, and I’m off home tomorrow anyway.” Honeysuckle reached out her hand. “How did she get named “Elfie”, it’s pretty unusual, isn’t it?”

  Brenda replied that, at her birth, Elfie’s father thought she resembled a little woodland sprite. “As simple as that, Honeysuckle.”

  Honeysuckle’s jaw dropped open in amazement, especially at five of the photos. “Golly, Cass, you need to see these. I know you don’t want to and I understand why, but you really must take a look.”

  TWELVE

  Elfie checked her watch and groaned. Three a.m., and the storm showed no signs of abating as it bullied its way along, wreaking havoc. Drawing back a corner of a curtain, there was nothing to be seen, just the growls and screams of the gale to be heard in the total blackness, along with the desperate scraping of branches against the back window.

  Sitting in bed with tea and a couple of digestives, Elfie resigned herself to wakefulness. With much to ponder, she felt as though a net was closing around her. Her brother, the doctor said, was “stable” and could, with a bit of luck and a following wind, continue as he was for another few months to a year. It was best, apparently, to let him continue as he was for as long as he felt able.

  Everything had always had to accommodate him, even (especially) in their youth. While not intending bitterness or ill will the same old grievances began rearing their ugly heads. Elfie’s punishment for her youthful indiscretion was burned deeply and forever into her very soul. She had been sent away in total disgrace, effectively disowned by what had always appeared a close, loving family. George’s indiscretion, whilst certainly not celebrated, had been tolerated. Silences were bought and a six-month “business” trip to America hastily arranged. Since both societal faux-pas had occurred within a couple of months of each other, Elfie supposed her punishment was the greater because her parents had already had to cope with her brother’s situation.

  Trying to focus more on the present and future than the past was impossible for her and Elfie thought she was getting too old for all the secrecy, the deceit. So what if she made a clean breast of things, so what if George cut her off without a penny? Elfie Patterson had never spent any of her brother’s “instalments” over the years anyway; in fact, she had only agreed to take his money to stop his enjoyment of it. It had lain in a bank, thousands of pounds and the accrued interest, for more years than she cared to remember.

  Thinking of Jack and the happiness they had enjoyed, making their plans, building up a home together, all the years of love and companionship, made Elfie smile wistfully. Since his death, Elfie had built up her own business; she, Elfie Patterson, was a self-made woman. And what had her brother had for years of comfort? Bricks and mortar, just a bloody hotel. Elfie could not wait to board the train for home in five hours’ time.

  ~~~

  Brenda sat in the station café feeling guilty and miserable. She could not imagine what had possessed her to take those photos, to so betray such a loving friend as Elfie. After Honeysuckle had left for home earlier, Brenda had apologised so profusely to Cassie that both had thought the apology would never end.

  Cassie’s pointing out that she had not actually looked at the photos brought no comfort to Brenda at all, especially since Honeysuckle had spilled the beans as to their subject matter. Brenda knew that she would have to confess all to Elfie, and she was dreading it. Trying to rehearse, in her mind, what to say was fruitless since words just jumbled around in her head. Then, suddenly, in came the train, bearing a very testy Elfie.

  ~~~

  George Shepherd leaned back on his pillow with a heavy sigh. That his sister, Elfie, was hard work was undeniable; that she was correct on a point or two was equally undeniable. While not entirely surprised that she had stashed away his money, it amused him that she had only taken it so he could not enjoy it. He agreed that, in these modern times, all the subterfuge was totally unnecessary and, with the considerable benefit of hindsight, of course he and Elfie should have sorted out their family issues years ago. But, where to begin?

  Slowly dressing himself and observing his painfully thin frame in the mirror, George knew that, for him, time was quickly running out. His medication beginning to take effect, he put the proverbial best foot forward, descending The Lion’s stairs with the most panache he could muster. Greeting the hotel’s new deputy manager, Robbie, George made his way to his office to partake of a late breakfast; orange juice and thin slices of buttered bread sufficed these days. Time was when George Shepherd would breakfast heartily in the restaurant, laughing and joking with the guests. Those days were but happy memories now. Leaning back in his chair, he thought what a decent chap Robbie was; top qualifications, cheery and helpful, and nicely turned out.

  Robbie was not, however, who George envisaged eventually running The Lion. His sister had already left for Summerlea and he was relieved, knowing he was not up to another “discussion”, as Elfie called their mercifully infrequent altercations. George smiled, remembering the parties of his and Elfie’s youth. Brother a
nd sister were close friends then, dancing many nights away with various partners.

  That the hotel was haunted was common knowledge; that George and Elfie had found a portal of sorts accessing ghostly goings-on was not. Never having told anyone else, simply because they would not have been believed, Elfie and George started out enjoying tea parties with numerous spirit children. As they grew up so did the spirits, the young adults’ parties now starting much later and carrying on until the early hours.

  Pondering his failure to realise then how precious time was, but knowing now how little of it remained for him, George took from his desk drawer a pad of thick, cream writing paper and, uncapping the fountain pen given one Christmas by his grandfather, he slowly began to write.

  “Come in!” Honeysuckle entered and placed a tray on George’s desk. Eyeing his favourite consommé and the plate of wafer-thin bread and butter, he thanked Honeysuckle warmly. Chatting for a few minutes about her visit with Cassie, Honeysuckle then lightly placed her hand on her employer’s bony shoulder, gently urging him to tuck in.

  George Shepherd was very fond of Honeysuckle Ellis. Even with her considerable workload, she made fresh consommé and a small loaf of the lightest, tastiest soft white bread he had ever enjoyed, especially for him, every day. He smiled as he remembered her first day at The Lion; vastly overweight, peppered with acne, and so afraid of getting everything wrong. Her adoptive parents had been so touchingly grateful that she had been given a chance in life. Then again, sixteen years or so prior to that, the Shepherds had been equally grateful…

  ~~~

  Being prepared for possible battle whilst maintaining a light, cheery façade is, I believe, an art form. Glad as I was to see Elfie striding purposefully once more across the village green, I could not help but wonder if today would reveal whether or not I had mastered it.