The Girl in the Attic

by Wendy Reakes

  After finishing every drop of the hot tea and as the day wore on and the sun dropped away from my side of the house, I found myself shivering up there in the attic. I would probably have the light for just two more hours, so I knew it was essential to use it to my advantage while I still had it.

  I worked my way through the furniture to the section near the entrance and offered a passing glance to the door down the steps, locked now and holding me prisoner. From the gentleman’s dresser, I removed a big hand-knitted cream coloured woollen. I pulled it over my head and secured the button at the top, laughing as I caught my appearance in the mirror of the armoire. I looked down and saw the woollen cover my hips down to my knees, leaving the rest of my skirt below and my cold, naked feet peeping out. I wondered about something to cover them. The gentleman’s shoes were much too big and clumpy…but perhaps the gloves! I found a warm pair and pulled them over my feet. The snugness made me sigh with contentment since I’d almost forgotten the discomfort I felt without shoes. Going shoeless was all right for the summer when I was running in the meadows, but there, as winter approached, it was sending chills up my legs to the rest of my body. The fingers of the gloves were flapping in front of my feet and I worried about tripping on them as I made my way back, so I removed them and put the gloves in the pocket of the woollen for now.

  I decided to pull out the gentleman’s box once more and have a better look at what I could use. I hadn’t notice on first inspection it had a drawer below. I pulled it out by a tiny knob at the front. Inside was a pen and bottle of ink, a letter opener, a pair of scissors, and a brass circular tube-shaped item I couldn’t identify. At its top was a small wheel and a sprig of severed string like the wick of a candle. It was a curious gadget and I wondered what it was used for. I unscrewed the bottom and as it came loose I saw it was stuffed with gauze. I gave it a sniff and detected some sort of fuel, like the smell of Kerosene oil used for lamps. I looked again to the box and removed a bottle with liquid inside. I unscrewed the top and took a sniff. It was the same odour as the small contraption in my hand. Then I started to wonder…

  I poured a little of the liquid over the brown coloured gauze and closed it up, then, hoping for magic I turned the wheel on top. Nothing happened. Now, if it were not for my impatience, I probably wouldn’t have discovered the true nature of the item. As it was, when I gave it an ill-tempered flick, a spark arose and ignited the wick into a single burning, beautiful flame.

  Chapter 7

  After a restless night’s sleep, as my stomach growled, I waited for my little cup of water to boil. I thought about Celia and when she would be back. I thought about the train I would catch to take me to Taunton, to family there, and I thought about Brent and uncle and how they were faring without me to feed them or to wash their clothes and clean the house.

  My uncle had raised me and my brother after our dear mam had died of consumption when she was nineteen-years-old. We never knew our father. ‘A gambling man,’ Mam had said, ‘He ran off when I was having our Marley, typical of the miserable wretch he was.’

  The memory of my mother had been provided by my brother, Brent, since I’d been too young to remember anything of worth. Many times, he’d told me the story of how our mam had sang to him when he’d been frightened of a spider running along the top of his bed. He’d howled and howled -he told me years later- and when mam had gone running in to see what he’d been howling about, his stricken eyes peered over the bottom of his bed to the other end where a spider as big as a cockerel sat, just staring him down. Mam, without howling herself, picked up a cup from the floor at the side of the bed, went to him at the bottom and made him drink all the water up. Then, after she stroked his head and kissed him, she took that cup and planted it firmly over the cockerel spider. She worked it off the pillow and when it was about to go over the edge, mam placed her hand under the cup and trapped it inside. Brent told me she’d given him a swift nod of her head, allowing him to follow her out to the door. When she released the spider onto the doorstep, Brent had hung onto her skirts and watched the spider scuttle off into a nearby tuft of grass. Then he tugged her hand and pulled her back inside, slamming the door behind that dastardly arachnid. While mam watched, Brent propped himself up against the closed door and ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Phew’ he’d said. ‘That was a close shave.’

  He’d related the story with a beaming smile, telling me how our mam had laughed and laughed and she didn’t stop laughing until he was safely tucked up in bed once more. That’s when she sang him a song that sounded as enchanting as a meadow full of flowers.

  It was the only thing he could remember about her, but how I enjoyed it when he told me that story. I was only two-years-old when the cockerel spider came visiting, so he doubted if I would recall much about that big event in our young lives.

  When our mam died, without anyone else to take us in, uncle’s wife had laid claim to us since she had no children of her own. She was happy to adopt ‘her little waifs and strays’ as she affectionately called us but after only three years raising us in uncle's house, she took a bad fall off a horse while taking the ‘bloody nag’, as my uncle called it, over to the horse fair in Frome. ‘Her leg is all shot,’ uncle told us the next day, ‘they’ll probably have to whip it off.’ Well, they did whip it off six hours later, but she died on the doctor’s parlour table after bleeding to death while the kettle was boiling for a nice cup of tea. She never did get hers! After that, we got left with our uncle who didn't have much to do with us other than getting us working to earn our keep.

  After I finished my drink, wishing I’d had some cow’s milk to soften the bitterness of the tealeaves, I filled the cup with water once more and put it back on the tripod over the fire. Inside, I placed a single potato from my food supply. I’d peeled it and cut it up with the cheese knife and then added a piece of the salami sausage to give it flavour. The meal would be a delicious treat. As I sat waiting for the food to cook, in my hand I held the tubular contraption that had provided me with a flame to ignite my fire. The smoke coming from the small stack beneath the tripod was minimal, so I rested easy on that matter. What little smoke it made had wafted through the attic windows and dispersed evenly, so I was grateful the remnants of my fire wouldn’t be seen by the groundsman from below. But what of the smell? Would the odour of my delicious meal alert him to come once more to my secret abode? I decided to cut the process short and extinguish the flames. The potato was only half cooked, but still I drank the liquor flavoured with salami as if it were soup, while using my fingers to scoop out the potato and stuff it into my hungry mouth. Since I was so famished, the potato tasted just as good half raw as it would have tasted when cooked to perfection.

  My repast complete, I went out to the terrace to get some fresh air. The weather wasn’t as bright as it had been the day before, with the sun hardly visible behind the dark clouds as a cooling wind swept in from the north. Autumn would soon arrive, turning the leaves on the trees all colours of reds, golds and coppers, promising a spectacular view from the terrace. In the far distance, over rolling hills I could see a croft of trees looking like an oasis in a desert of green. There was nothing else to mar my vision of Mells’ beautiful countryside; no houses, nor farms and no roads. I wondered though, if the leaves fell from that cluster of trees to the west, would I then see the entrance to the drive leading up to the house? For now, it was out of sight and I was glad of that, since the thought of seeing uncle drive down the road with his horse and cart was distasteful to say the least.

  I was still dressed in the woollen after I’d slept in it to keep out the chill, and now thinking about my uncle, I was made to hide my hands up the sleeves as a chill swept through my spine as if it were covered in shuddering pins all the way up to my neck.

  Seeking refuge in my attic, I went back inside. I was to go hunting again.

  I recalled seeing some old sea chests in the second section, three of them running along the far wall behind some dusty chairs.
That was where I would go today and intrude upon memories and discarded remnants of previous lives.

  I had to scramble over the chairs, some turned upwards with their legs erect. Two of them only had three legs, which was perhaps why the set had been abandoned up there. The legs were of scrolling design, arching and rolling to the seat, where below the cushions a layer of sacking stretched across it in a square. I noted the sacking would be ideal to light my fire, reminding myself to come back and tear off a piece or two with my newly acquired razor and scissors.

  I wondered if the sea chests were filled with treasure as the memory of a story I’d once read; The Coral Island by R.M Ballantyne. I recall it being about a boy called Ralph with two friends who had survived a treacherous storm in the Pacific, landing on a coral reef with only a broken knife and a telescope. They were forced to live off the land and were happy until cannibals and a terrible murderous pirate arrived. I linked the story to my own predicament, albeit I had been shipwrecked at the top of a house. A lofty island.

  Making myself comfortable on the floor, I opened the trunk on the left. I was only briefly disappointed to discover more old sheets and blankets inside. I flicked through the layers of folded linen. From the middle, I pulled out a small white fringed blanket displaying a blue rocking horse embroidered in one corner alongside the name William. I put it up to my face and felt the softness of the thread, smelling that familiar odour of baby’s cream and soap. Then I put it back. It was much too precious for me to use up there in that dusty old attic. No, better it be kept for those memories of family long gone.

  The chest in the middle was filled to the brim with old children’s books and small wooden toys. I removed a small silver rattle with bells that made the sweetest sound and then some building blocks covered in paper illustrated with letters of the alphabet. I smiled as I remember enjoying the same sort of toy when the retired teacher in our village taught me the letters and how to spell. The flashback was brief, but it left me with a wonderful feeling of joy as I relived that special moment with someone who cared. I dug deeper and found some old pictures, some illustrated in ink, and one where a baby laid on a cushion next to a puppy. “What happened to you, William?” I said aloud. “Are you now grown up and your childhood memories stored away for another day?”

  As I closed the lid of the chest, with the intention of moving on to the next, my hand touched an object wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It felt like a picture frame and it was lodged between the two chests, standing upright. I pulled it out and went to untie the string. But then I stopped. What was I doing? What right did I have to look among these private things? What a wretch I had become. What business was it of mine? “God protect me from my inquisitive self,” I whispered.

  I pushed the picture back in between the chests and stood up. My behaviour had made me sick. I forced myself to ignore the churning of nausea. I needed the food in my stomach, and any disgust I felt for myself would have to, for now, be held at bay.

  If I am asked one day about how I survived up there in that attic, it was with earnest I pray that no one would ask how I’d conducted my toilet. It was embarrassing enough to empty my bladder out on the terrace and wash it away through the turrets with a container of water, but my stools…well, let’s just say the two red buckets filled with sand sitting near the entrance in case of a fire suited my needs. Beyond that, I needed to discuss it nor contemplate it further.

  Near the buckets of sand, I had found a good collection of old bottles, copper pans and utensils, no doubt discarded by the kitchen in favour of more modern equipment. At least that was how I fancied the story to be. The bottles with corks were extremely handy. I’d filled them with water and lined them up near the windows aside my little fabricated kitchen. It wasn’t much to boast about, but I did experience a small amount of pleasure having all my effects in one place. I’d been fortunate to find some small baskets, once used in the kitchens for something or other. I wasn’t sure what! Inside, I stored my ever-decreasing supply of food, just in case mice were roaming about, waiting for an opportunity to pilfer them.

  When I went back to the middle attic section to open the third treasure chest, on the way, I stepped upon two piles of extremely large leather-bound books, as if I was stepping upon boulders traversing a shallow stream. I leaned down and picked one up. Encyclopaedias. A complete set. Now they would be good reading if I had to stay there a couple more nights. The illustrations were glorious, some of them etched in ink and others painted with subtle hue watercolours. I took up the first and placed it on an occasional table with twisted legs. I would collect it on the way back from my expedition.

  The third chest was a curious thing. I hadn’t realised when I opened the first two that it was padlocked. I wondered where the key was and then admonished myself for being so inquisitive. The chest was clearly meant to remain secure, away from prying eyes. For now, I was content to let it remain so.

  Thus, when I left in a few days, I could at least say there was one part of the attic I hadn’t intruded upon. A small saving grace.

  Chapter 8

  The days rolled into each other like long slow blinks of an eye and suddenly winter had descended upon my home in the attic. Over the countryside, autumn had long spread its wings and dropped colour upon every tree, and then, when frost and rain and bitter winds weighed heavily upon the leaves, the colours fell to the ground and littered the fields. The view was magnificent, especially in the evening when the sun dropped over the hills.

  The family had yet to return from abroad even though September and October had passed. It was a quandary I deliberated each day; wondering where they were; why they hadn’t come back; and when that was likely to happen. While I waited, I had also contemplated breaking free of my confines and making my own way to Taunton, on foot if need be. However, to my sad misfortune, I was detained temporarily when I took a small sprain to my foot after a floor board came loose just behind a small partition next to the second section. When I stepped on it, suddenly my whole leg had disappeared all the way up to my thigh, until I was eventually on the floor, practically flat on my face. The pain in my foot had been acute, but it wasn’t the worst I’d ever felt. I pulled it out using the muscles in my thighs and by pushing down on my arms and when my leg eventually appeared, a graze the size of a mutton of lamb ran from my knee to my foot. It wasn’t bleeding, but the skin had shaved off, making my leg look pink and raw. As I massaged the part above my foot where my toes and my ankle met, I presumed I had pulled a muscle or I’d tore a tendon. Whatever it was, I assured myself that if I bandaged it tightly and rested it as much as I could, it would heal soon enough.

  The good part was finding the space under the floor.

  I had taken the light I’d made weeks ago after I’d found a small box of candles near the entrance. There were twelve of them, all used, but they were still serviceable with good long wicks, so I made a small lantern from a ceramic bowl and a cracked glass lampshade on top. My little invention allowed me to carry the lamp without burning myself, nor from having the flame snuffed out by a draught along the way. When I placed my light down where my leg had vanished that day, I found a space below the floorboards of about four-feet high and decided there and then, it would be my emergency hiding place, should someone come into the attic to move things around, or whatever normally happened in an attic of a grand house like Wilbury House.

  I had taken pains to remove three more pieces of boards and when they were free, using a hammer and nails, I attached two more bits of old wood placed the other way. I’d been blessed with discovering the tools in an old battered wooden box, shoved away in a makeshift cupboard in the first section near the door. After I’d used them, I put them back, just in case someone came looking for them. But no one ever did!

  When my floor door became one whole piece and I had cleaned out the mouse droppings and spider webs, I tried my small bolt hole by placing my body underneath and closing the hatch behind me. It was dark, of cours
e, but I could still keep a light going, if and when the occasion arose I would be under there longer than anticipated. Yes, it was a good little hiding place, one I hoped would serve me well until Celia came back from abroad.

  With my foot strapped up tight in one of the gentleman’s old vests, I used the time wisely and sewed myself a new frock. The other one which Mrs Franklin had given me to wear to the fair was so tattered and worn, (and too big for me now since I’d shed some weight), that if I hadn’t have made a new one, I would surely have walked around naked, or worse, had no choice but to wear the gentleman’s clothes.

  The dressmakers dummy had given me the idea. It had stood there looking at me all those weeks I’d been hiding, and sometimes (even though I’d never admit to it), I had often talked to it as if it were an old friend. The bolts of fabric had been propped against the wall near my water supply so they were a little damp. One was an emerald green chiffon, not suitable at all and the other was a roll of cream-coloured calico, having no worth to me in that dusty old attic. The third was a plain dyed dark blue cotton and that was the one I’d stolen to make my dress.

  I had long ago looked inside that third treasure chest. My curiosity, my spiritual downfall I called it, got the better of me only two days after I’d decided to leave it alone. The tool box had provided me with a small saw and it was with that I’d cut the padlock.