Tall Chimneys: A British Family Saga Spanning 100 Years

by Allie Cresswell

  Then, the path levels out, the forest falls back and I am there.

  The place where I am standing is where he - my grandfather - must have stood to make his pictures. I have seen the angle, the light and shadow, the perspective of what lies before me already today, in his sketch book. But it is as though some hooligan hand has vandalised his vision. The house has been decimated, it is a ruined shadow of its former self and I cry out as the horror of it hits me, as my romantic dream shatters.

  Home? What had I been thinking?

  The house is all-but roofless, its walls weathered and compromised; here leaning perilously inwards, there bulging out. The topmost stones are blackened and crumbling, the bottom ones crusted with yellow lichen or eroded by frost. At some points it seems only the strangle-hold of ivy keeps the structure intact. Mullioned windows stare out blindly, their glass long gone. Creepers snake over their sills and into the desolate rooms. A single chimney remains, balancing precariously atop a teetering chimney stack attached to the end gable of the house. It is a lone spire pointing to the sky, its bricks frost-damaged and corroded, impossibly tall - frankly, a rather ridiculous addendum. A spindly shrub sprouts from the flashing where the chimney meets the pot and as I stare up at it, a large black bird alights, then disappears into the chimney; I can hear it cawing from within. I am conscious of a piercing arrow of sadness in my heart. Whatever hope, whatever bubble of expectation has been enlarging and buoying me in the run-up to this moment bursts instantly and my utter deflation is so strong I want to collapse under the weight of it. I feel the trickle of tears down my cheeks and because there is no one there to see, I let them flow unchecked.

  Presently, with a heart so heavy just putting one foot in front of the other seems like a terrible effort, I push through the undergrowth of what must at one time have been a stately drive, towards the front door. I feel gravel beneath my feet but it is infested with every kind of weed, matted and tufted by years of unchecked growth and decay, woven through by thorny vines. A few shallow steps lead me to the entrance; they are slimy and green. To one side, half buried by undergrowth and some pieces of a broken urn lies an official sign. ‘Warning,’ it says. ‘Unstable masonry. Unsafe structure. No admittance.’

  The door is weighty, hundreds of years old, I guess, its ancient wood pitted by centuries of lashing rains and UV light. It isn’t locked, and opens at my push.

  Within, the place has been ransacked, raped of every valuable fixture. It isn’t even possible to wander through the rooms. Floorboards have been torn up revealing the damp hollow of the original foundations hazardous with unstable rubble and broken glass. The fire surrounds are gone, hauled away for sale on eBay, I suppose, likewise the panelling which must once have adorned the walls of the hall and stairway. The stairs have also gone, and I can only look up into the void of what must once have been an elegant landing, imagine the chandeliers and the formal artworks and speculate about the design of the Jacobean balustrade and spindles. The plaster has disintegrated, revealing the bare stone of the house’s construction; mould, lichen, moss and weeds proliferate. Above me I can hear birds amongst the charred rafters, the eerie moan of the breeze through some lofty aperture. The smell is a cocktail of dampness, animals, mould spores and something else I can’t identify - just age, I guess.

  I place a tentative hand on the oozing wall, and close my eyes, partly to support myself while I try to get a foothold and partly in the vain hope I can kindle some connection. What am I expecting to hear, to feel? Some tremor of a long-dead forebear’s ghost, a whisper from beyond the grave? Or something even less tangible? I wait for something; a reciprocal throb, the house answering back the hammer of my heart, some telepathic communication of flesh and ancestral stone. And what I feel is an overwhelming sense of sadness, of neglect and abandonment, and it does reflect so uncannily my own mental state it brings an odd kind of comfort and, almost, of empathy. Perhaps, I think now, this is what my aunt Evelyn had meant when she said I would feel it too - this is the kindred state she meant. This is how I feel when my kids walk past me without saying hello. This is how I felt last night, when Tammy didn’t answer my call, and how I feel every time she turns away from me in bed. This is how I feel when I sit in my boardroom and look at my empty desk while others carry on the business of producing and processing and selling oil; I am not needed, I am utterly superfluous, but I must - I must - persevere with it because it is what my grandma and grandpa started and what my daddy carried on and for their sakes it must continue. This is what Evelyn feels - left behind by a trajectory of destiny which has veered wildly off course and left her marooned and yet bound - compelled - to soldier on. I understand, now what she meant when she said the house would not let her go.

  Unconsciously, I raise my hand to my collarbone. I feel it there - where Evelyn felt it - forlornness like a little hollow over my heart encased by a shell of responsibility and, yes, a feeling of being indelibly connected I have not felt with Tammy ever or, recently, with the children either. I feel more in tune here than in the expensive downtown Dallas penthouse apartment I inhabit during the week or in the ranch-house where the family gathers at weekends. I am myself, as I am not in the office or shouting over the din of the drilling rig but the ‘me’ I only ever find rising up from that inner place when I have a pencil or a paintbrush in my hand.

  Outside, across what must have at one time been a manicured lawn but is now a rank meadow, I find the stone bowl of a defunct fountain. It is choked with decomposed leaves, weeds and moss, but it is a sunny spot and I instinctively know there will be a seat nearby. I find it, all-but buried in foliage, and sit. The sun is warm, the wind funnels down to me through the trees and smells fresh, of sap, of spring, and in fact I can see, from here, bursts of exuberant blossom on fruit trees behind the house and herbaceous plants struggling through the thickets of invading weeds which will soon be in glorious flower.

  I reach for my backpack, thinking I will open the Thermos Evelyn made for me, and get out my sketchbook. But what I find in the bag makes me forget both those things.

  It is a book, thick, with a scarred leather cover, its pages laboriously hand-written. Evelyn’s book, I realise, the one she told me about.

  I open it, and begin to read.

  It takes me about a week to read Evelyn’s memoir. In between I visit with her every day, but we agree not to discuss what’s in the book until I’ve gotten to the end. While I am with her I do my best to fix the place up, but discreetly - she is proud and independent. I stand on a stool and wash the windows for her and fix the shelves in her kitchen so the saucepans and dishes can be put away. I saw logs in the yard and arrange for a new hen coop to be delivered. She is ridiculously pleased by this, declaring it ‘as good as Kenneth ever built,’ which I take to be praise indeed. Her pleasure pleases me, and I get a sense of satisfaction from the little improvements out of all proportion to the effort or the cost. My new best buddy is the man at the quaint little hardware store in town, who supplies me with tools and timber and delivers the hencoop.

  Every time I visit Evelyn I take food with me, which we share while we talk. I tell myself that, with the additional meals and the stimulation of someone’s company, she is improved in health; she seems brighter to me, anyway.

  Sometimes we sit outside on her garden seat, and occasionally we tour her yard while she tells me the names of the plants and how they crop or fruit. Mostly we sit indoors; the weather is changeable - rain one minute, sun the next. I become familiar with the place and I feel comfortable there. I feel comfortable with Evelyn and find myself telling her my troubles; she is a good listener.

  Most afternoons Evelyn takes a nap, and that’s when I walk down to Tall Chimneys, getting used to the obstacles and taking a scythe to the nettles and some secateurs to the brambles.

  Often it is there, on the stone seat near the fountain, where I read her story, and when I look up from the pages it is not the derelict shell I see but the house as it used to be - whole an
d sound. I can imagine the ministry men strolling on the terrace, my mind’s eye pictures the children building snowmen on the lawn and, beyond the refracted glass of the window, I think I glimpse the shade of Evelyn herself, watching them play.

  Of course I explore the house, defying the warning signs and breaking down barricades to find the kitchen where she spent so much of her time. In a tiny room off a narrow corridor is the place they used as Awan’s nursery, and some of John Cressing’s artwork is still visible amongst the patches of mould and broken plaster. The colours, even today, are vivid - lush and exuberant. I take some shots with my cell phone and then trace his brush strokes with my hand, standing where he must have stood. Having my feet in his footprints and my hand on his art makes me feel complete in a way I haven’t done since Daddy passed, and when I move on to the room where John died, I am overwhelmed by grief. I couldn’t cry at Daddy’s funeral but I cry now, sinking down onto the filthy floor and letting it take me. I cry for my daddy and for John Cressing and also for myself; I am so miserable in my marriage, in my home and my work. I wish I could ask their advice, but I guess they’d each give me different counsel.

  At night, in my dreams, I return to the house. It is restored - the roof is fixed, the chimneys tower - or perhaps I have gone back in time to when the house was in its prime. Either way, it is mine - I am in sole possession of it and wander at will from room to beautiful room, my hands stroking the rich window fabrics and the smooth patina of the Jacobean panelling. I sink amongst the deep cushions of antique sofas and my grandpapa’s paintings smile down on me from the walls. Outside, the trees in the orchard are in glorious blossom, the petals showering like confetti at a wedding, I brush them from my face in my sleep. Once I am up on a narrow walkway that skirts the steeply sloping roof and gives access to the ornate brickwork of the chimneys. From here I can see the whole bowl of my domain, the neatly laid-out gardens, the industrious working areas behind, the slope of the lush plantation which protects me from the world at large. Waking from that splendour into the blandness of my motel room is a daily bereavement. I can’t wait to get showered and dressed and grab some groceries before heading back out there.

  As the days progress something quite dangerous begins to happen. I am looking at the house in two different directions: backwards, and forwards. As much as I am picturing Evelyn’s history amongst the fallen stones and creeper-infested gardens, I am also projecting into the future; what could it be like? How might it work? My business-head hypothesises possible commercial uses for the buildings - a health retreat, a rehabilitation centre, a conference venue - but my selfish head wants it all for me. This room could be my study, that space would make a great gym. I know it’s a pipe-dream, but it’s one I can’t shake.

  One night I stay up to Skype Tammy with the idea that I might broach the subject with her. It is 8pm her time, the time she usually retreats to the sofa to catch up on the day’s soap operas, glass of wine in hand. Even as she listens to me, I can see her eyes sliding from her iPad to the television screen. I labour on with my story - the house, Evelyn, my grandfather, his painting. It is like force-feeding a child with greens; she has no interest, no taste for what I am offering.

  At last I hear the theme tune for the closing credits, and she leans forward to switch off the TV with the remote. ‘How much longer are you going stay out there?’

  ‘A couple more weeks,’ I reply. ‘Haven’t you heard what I’ve been telling you?’

  ‘Well,’ she tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear and turns her head slightly to inspect a blemish. She is looking at her own image in the thumbnail, I realise, not at me.

  ‘Tammy?’ I say, ‘pay attention, will you? It’s 2.45am here. I waited up to talk to you.’

  She looks taken aback. ‘Did you? You didn’t need to.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you. To tell you all about it. I hoped - I hoped you’d be interested.’

  ‘Well,’ she says again. ‘So you’ve found the old house and an old aunt. Did you take pictures?’

  ‘Oh Tammy,’ I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand. ‘This isn’t a tourist trip.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘No, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. This is - I know it’s corny - it feels sort of like fate.’

  I have her attention now. She looks really spooked. ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘I know it sounds crazy…’

  ‘No, it doesn’t sound crazy, John, it is crazy. For Christ’s sake! You go on a trip down memory lane to look up a few places your grandma used to talk about and now you think that some kind of providence has been guiding you? Like this is your destiny? Get real, John! You’re being like Martha was when we took her to Disneyland and she thought she could move in with Princess Aurora! Wake up! Grow up! You have responsibilities here, you have family, here!’

  ‘Chas is copying me in on all the emails. Work is doing just fine without me.’ My cousin Chas is Vice-President of the company. It comes natural to him. He’s a tough negotiator and people respect him. He’s good with the riggers too - at home amongst the rednecks like I never was. It was only an accident of age that handed me the President’s desk. He wanted it more than I did, and that’s the truth. ‘And as for the family,’ I conclude, bitterly, ‘well I wouldn’t know about that. I haven’t heard a word from any of you since I left. Not one word.’

  Tammy passes over that. ‘I had lunch with Chas today,’ she tells me. ‘We both think you need therapy.’ She looks directly at me for the first time. ‘You’re sick, aren’t you?’

  ‘My heart…’ I begin.

  But she cuts me off. ‘Not in your heart,’ she says, ‘in your head. You’re having some kind of breakdown. When you get home, I’m going to book you in somewhere, a rehab facility. Chas says he knows of one near Austin.’

  ‘You’ve been discussing this with Chas?’

  ‘Who else do I have?’

  We finish the call and I turn out the light. I know Tammy is right. I’m chasing rainbows here. Crazy rainbows.

  The next day I don’t go to Tall Chimneys at all but back to London where I visit the Portland Gallery, the place where John’s works are exhibited and sold.[21] At the gallery I drink in the pictures’ style, their execution, their variety. I recognise some of them from the sketch books - particularly the dark studies of the moor. They replicate views which are so familiar to me now I can almost hear the wind through the scrub, the flap of Evelyn’s laundry on the line. Eventually the concierge approaches me and asks if she can help.

  ‘I’m John Cressing’s grandson,’ I tell her.

  She gives me a quizzical look, ‘Really?’

  I nod, and turn back to the canvas. I don’t want to explain it to her. ‘Yes, really.’

  Behind me, I hear muted conversation. An older colleague makes an entirely unnecessary visit to a neighbouring work to remove an invisible dust mote. As he does so, he gives me a frank appraisal.

  When I approach the desk, a brochure is open to a page with a photograph of my grandfather. I point at it and then at my face. ‘See?’ I say.

  They both make obsequious gestures, and these increase when I tell them in a loud voice that I wish to make a substantial purchase.

  On the return train, I finish Evelyn’s book, and close the cover gently, almost reverently, because it is precious and personal. I like how she separates herself at last from the house; it was dragging her down. It was the right thing to do and it took guts.

  And I wonder if I’ll have the guts to do the same.

  When I get to the gatehouse the following day, Evelyn is not there. There’s a small automobile parked on the grass outside the gatehouse and a woman doing something practical at the sink. At first I mistake her for a housemaid or a care-giver - at last, I think, someone has come to supervise Evelyn’s well-being. At the same time I am mad - I had wanted to talk to Evelyn about her story, I want the loose ends tied up, and now I won’t be able to do it.

  I give a little cough to
announce myself, and the woman turns and steps out of the gloom of the kitchen into the sun. She has blonde, curly hair and I know immediately that this is Awan’s daughter. She is perhaps two or three years older than me - which puts her in her mid- to late-thirties - and she is a fine looking woman. Her jeans and a sweat-top are casual, but they look good on her. She gives me a warm, genuine smile revealing white teeth and a cute dimple, and reaches for a towel to dry her hands.

  ‘Cousin John,’ she says, shaking my hand warmly. ‘I’m Emma. Granny sent a letter. I’ve been summoned to look you over.’

  ‘Oh my,’ I make a grimace. ‘I hope I pass inspection!’

  ‘I say cousins,’ she makes an impatient ‘over it’ type of gesture, ‘but many times removed. Let’s not be so boring as to work out the exact genealogy.’

  ‘Kissing cousins?’ I suggest, and then wish I hadn’t.

  ‘What does it matter?’ she brushes over my gaffe. ‘We’re related and, apart from Granny, I have nobody else in the whole world.’ That tells me that Awan is dead. I am sorry for it - I would have liked to have met her. In fact I am eager to meet all the participants in Evelyn’s story. Their stories, their epilogues are, really, what I have come for, today. It is time to tie up all the loose ends, and go home.

  Emma’s hand is still in mine, small but strong. I glance at the other hand, which still clutches the dish towel. No wedding ring.