House of Memories

by Taylor, Alice

  “Well, I wanted so much to get into this house, but now that I’m here, I feel that somehow I might be moving into something that’s too much for me.”

  “Danny, don’t lose your nerve now and miss the wonder of the opening of this door,” Bill insisted. “You won’t get another chance to relive this great occasion.”

  With Bill’s words something clicked in Danny’s brain, and he swallowed hard in an attempt to shake the burden of the future off his shoulders. This was a momentous occasion and he shouldn’t let his fear for the future erode it.

  “You’re right, Bill,” he breathed. “I lost myself there for a few minutes.”

  “Well, it’s a big step for you,” Bill told him reassuringly, “but I wouldn’t want it to pass without you savouring it to the full. You will always look back on this day, and it shouldn’t be spoilt by worrying about other things. So come on and we’ll do the grand tour.” He opened the door into what he had already decided was the dining room and went straight over to fold back the creaking shutters of the two tall windows facing out over the garden. Light poured into the high-ceilinged room that was bare of furniture but for one long table. There was a large fireplace on the wall facing the windows. While Danny stood looking at the room in awe, Bill was down on his knees with his head under the table.

  “Oak, just as I hoped,” he announced with satisfaction, getting off his knees and heading towards the fireplace. He began scratching the dirty surface of the mantelpiece and then looked at Danny with excitement.

  “Boys, oh boys! This is marble. What more could we ask for?”

  “Bill, I can’t get over it!” Danny gasped.

  “It’s just as I had hoped it would be,” Bill declared. “When this was built they only used the best, and luckily nothing was ripped out of it, at least not in this room anyway. Come across the hall now and we’ll see how the drawing room fared.” He almost ran across the hall and eased open the door into a room which was a duplicate of the other. There was no furniture, just the another marble fireplace with a huge overmantel.

  “That mirror could be affected by the damp,” Bill said regretfully, looking up at the cobweb-covered mirror.

  Despite Bill’s reassuring word, Danny was still mesmerised by the sight of everything unfolding before him. But Bill had no such restraints. He had worked in fine old houses all his life, and when he came on a real, authentic one, it awoke the restorer in him, and so it was with a glowing face that he led Danny back to the kitchen where he almost danced with delight at the sight of a huge range and old dressers that were cloaked in dust.

  “This is like exploring an Aladdin’s cave,” he declared as he almost dragged Danny across the corridor to another room with windows overlooking the back garden. Not satisfied with folding back the shutters, Bill tried to open the windows, but there was no movement.

  “Dozed cords, but all those can be replaced,” he declared with enthusiasm. “These windows really stood the test of time, and do you know something, Danny? This place is basically sound. I have seen houses like this in London, and they were built by people who spared nothing in the building, and it paid in the long run. Come on upstairs, lad,” and he was running up the stairs ahead of Danny. Upstairs there were four large, airy bedrooms opening off a wide landing and a little boxroom at the back.

  “This is a grand house,” Bill asserted as he led Danny down the wide staircase. “We have layers of dust and cobwebs everywhere, but even though it’s been locked up with years, it’s as dry as pepper.”

  Danny had trailed around the house after Bill, content to let him do all the talking while he endeavoured to absorb the fact that he was actually walking around Nana Molly’s homeplace, the home that she had dreamed and talked about for years. As he walked after Bill, he could hear her voice describing each room. She had brought him here many times with her recollections, and when he had stood at the open door, he had been frightened that it would not be as she had described. But as they had journeyed around the house, her stories had come alive. It was exactly as she had remembered. The only difference was that she had remembered it furnished. In her old age she had forgotten that most of the furniture had been sold off. But at least now he knew how it could look if he had money. But lack of money for the farm and house was one of the nightmares that kept him awake at night.

  When Fr Brady came back later, he felt a surge of pride as he showed him around the house where Bill was already getting down to work trying to free up one of the dining room windows.

  “I’m going to need new pulley cord for all these,” he told them as they joined him after their tour of the house. “Well, what do you think of it, Tim?”

  “Wonderful, but it’s going to take some money to bring it right.” Danny did not miss the warning look that his father shot at him.

  “It’s all right, Bill,” he assured him. “I know that I’m in a deep financial hole between this and the farm, not to mention the title.”

  “I thought that I could help you about the title, but it did not work out,” Fr Brady told him regretfully.

  “How?” Danny asked in surprise.

  “You remember the letter you gave me from Rory, saying that he would sign off for five hundred pounds? Well, I thought that if I took it into old Mr Hobbs in Ross that he could get Rory to sign off by assuring him that the money was coming, and that then he could transfer the title. Then he could give you the deeds, and you could get a loan and send the money to Rory.”

  “Sometimes, Tim, I think that you came down in the last shower,” his father told him. “Sure, no self-respecting solicitor would go along with that, and old Hobbs is as set in legal concrete as they come.”

  “Well, I partly guessed ’twas a long shot,” Fr Tim smiled, “but it was worth a try.”

  “Thanks for trying anyway, Father,” Danny said appreciatively.

  Later that evening, when he had the cows milked, he came back and walked around again. He wondered if he would ever get used to the excitement of just walking around and looking at this house. It was absolutely filthy, but he could see beyond the years of neglect, and this time round he was more relaxed and took in the details. All the high ceilings were edged with intricate cornice moulding, and panelled shutters framed the tall windows. When he came into one of the front bedrooms, he noticed a picture in the corner, partly obliterated with cobwebs. He reached up and rubbed the glass, but it was pitted with grime. His curiosity was aroused, so he went over to the poke and came back armed with a damp cloth. After a lot of rubbing, the face of a young girl smiled out at him. The picture was faded, and at first he thought it was Kitty but knew that was impossible. Then he realised that it was a very young photograph of his grandmother. She was quite beautiful.

  He lifted down the picture to have a better look, and from behind it something fell to the ground. Resting the picture against the wall, he bent down to pick up what he thought was a small packet and saw that it was a small, hard-cover book. He carried it down to the front door and sat on the step to examine it. When he opened it, he was surprised to discover that it was not a book but a handwritten journal of sorts. The writing was quite faded but still legible, and he felt a flutter of excitement when he recognised his grandmother’s writing. It was much better formed than the writing on the key box but still the same writing. On the first page was written “Molly Barry 1885”.

  He made a quick calculation and worked out that it was written while she was still living here and before she married his grandfather. But the entries were mostly jottings, or so it seemed at first. “This place is so dull, it is full of old people. Mama and Father are so old and Mary in the kitchen is ancient.” Then there were pages of short entries about the goings-on in the house. But then, in underlined writing, as if to emphasis its importance, an entry read, “Someone young has come at last to Furze Hill, a lovely lovely girl called Emily, and we have become great friends. At night we sit in the kitchen and talk as she does her needlework.” A few pages further on: �
�Emily has a secret. Last night I was looking out the window and saw her come up from the river and across the garden very late. This morning I coaxed her secret out of her. She goes down to the river to meet Edward Phelan. It’s so exciting!” Then a few pages on another entry: “Emily says that Edward will bring his friend Rory to meet me. Delighted, delighted. Can’t imagine anything more exciting than creeping out late at night when everyone is asleep to meet a stranger. What will he be like?”

  Then the next entry was dated a few months later: “Emily has left. Edward and herself had a blazing row and she is gone to England. It’s terrible here without her. Only for Rory I’d die and still nobody knows that I go out at night to meet him. Mama and Father would not approve of him. Father would call him a scoundrel.” Then a lot of entries about Rory.

  Danny, in view of what had happened afterwards, felt uneasy reading of her loving enthusiasm for his grandfather. But this was a young girl full of love and excitement. Then an entry: “Edward Phelan is getting married, but I’d say he still loves Emily.” Later in the book the name Emily appeared again. “Emily is back married to Mike Tobin a merchant seaman and they are living at Mossgrove gate and now Edward is married in the house below. Today I am going to visit her.”

  The light was fading, but before he closed the journal he went to the back page and the last entry was “Tomorrow night I’m going out to meet Rory and I’m not coming back.”

  Dusk had gathered in around the house behind him, filling it with shadows. Tomorrow in better light he would read the rest of her journal and then give it to Kate Phelan.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  KATE SAT AT the kitchen table feeling miserable. Since Jack’s death she had not been able to lift herself out of a black hole of loneliness. Despite all David’s loving efforts, she felt that a light had gone out of her life that might never again come back. Now David looked up with concern from the copybook he was correcting before going out to school.

  “Not having a great morning, my darling?” he asked sympathetically, and her heart ached to see him so worried. She could pretend that she was fine, but David knew her too well to be fooled. He was already worried about the school, and she hated herself for adding to his troubles now above any other time of the year, with the exams pending.

  She forced a brave smile and told him, “Well, I’ll have to get going today, because as you know Rodney Jackson is coming this evening. Fr Tim and himself will be here for dinner, and I asked Nora to come along because she needs a break from all the studying. She is driving herself very hard, but she seems to be handling Jack’s death better than me.”

  “It could be that she has it sidelined by burying herself in study, or it could be the resilience of the young,” he told her. “They go down further and they come up faster.”

  “Well, I seem to be very slow surfacing,” she said bleakly.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Katie,” he told her gently. “It’s early days yet, and Jack was a big part of your life for a long time.”

  “Are you worried about what Rodney will tell us this evening?” She wanted to get the conversation away from Jack as she could feel the familiar lump in her throat, and she did not want to send David out to school with the memory of a weepy face.

  “Well, at least we’ll find out where we stand. At the moment, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, or even if I will have a school in the autumn.”

  “All thanks to wonderful Martha,” she said bitterly.

  “I suppose at the moment we are not even sure of that,” he said reasonably, “so this evening should at least clear up a lot of confusion. Now I’d better get a move on or my pupils will be wondering what is happening.”

  He came around the table and, kneeling by her chair, put his arms around her and drew her face close to him to kiss her lingeringly.

  “Kate, my darling, this black patch too will pass and the sun will shine for you again, and I love you more than I ever thought possible, and whatever happens with Rodney we will be all right,” he told her comfortingly.

  When he was gone, she sat for a long time, wondering why the hell she could not pull herself together. Then she heard the post thump through the letterbox and went to bring it back to the table. There were a few letters and one big envelope which she opened. When she saw the headed notepaper of Mr Hobbs, she felt a cold chill spread over her. It was a stiff legal letter and a copy of Jack’s will. She recoiled with a shiver from the finality of this legal document. The uncompromising language of the will hammered home again the awful reality that Jack was now no longer part of her world. His voice was silenced into this unreal legal formula of words. She put her face in her hands and sobbed in desolation. Then slowly she picked up the will.

  She had to read it a few times before she could take it in. Jack had left his cottage to her. The image of the cottage that was wrapped up in her love for him floated in front of her. She had spent much of her childhood there, and up to the night he died it was her first port of call in a crisis. Without Jack it was a shell, and yet she owed it to him to keep it as he would have wanted and make a home for Toby. She felt powerless, as if she would never again be capable of making a decision. What would she do with the cottage? She wished that she could live in it, but the practicalities of her job and David’s made that impossible. But it was such a part of her that she wanted someone to live there who would appreciate, love and treasure the memory of Jack.

  She was still sitting at the table gazing into space when Fr Tim rushed in, but he stopped short at the sight of her.

  “Kate, are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “You look terrible.” Without answering she handed him the will.

  “Oh God, Kate, how come ’twas posted to you?” he wanted to know.

  “I wouldn’t go into old Hobbs,” she told him listlessly. “I didn’t want to see it. There is something so cold and final about a bloody will.”

  “And David was gone to school when it came?” he said, and when she nodded he sat across the table from her and asked, “Do you want me to read it?” When she again nodded silently, he picked it up and read it and then told her gently, “Kate, in time you will see this as Jack’s final blessing, but just let it be for the time being.” He folded it up and put it back into the envelope and slipped it between the books on a shelf beside him.

  “Tim, what’s wrong with me? I can’t seem to get myself going,” she asked plaintively.

  “Grief can emotionally cripple people,” he told her gently, “but you recovered after Ned and you will again.”

  “But I think that with Jack I buried them all again. He was the back wall of my world, and with him gone I feel that I have no past, and having no children I feel that I have no future either. I feel like an island.”

  “Grief is an island, Kate,” he told her, “and you are isolated there with all your hurt.”

  “But why has not having children become such a big issue for me now?” she asked him desperately.

  “Because in grief, Kate, all our vulnerabilities surface,” he told her gently. “You have this dream of a little boy called Jack Ned, and maybe you see in him a way of perpetuating the two people who meant so much to you.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, does it?” she asked sadly.

  “But it’s understandable,” he told her gently, “and grief and reason are not fellow travellers.” Changing his tone, he continued firmly, “But now we have a job to do. I came to help you prepare for the Yank.”

  “David sent you,” she accused him, surprised that Fr Tim, who was a bit of a disaster around the house, was being enlisted to help.

  “Well, what if he did? Any cook would be glad of a slave like me at her disposal. So, Madam, issue your instructions.”

  She looked across the table at this warm-hearted, forgetful, disorganised, lovable friend, and she forced a smile on her face.

  “I’m glad you’re here, and now we’ll prepare a feast for the Yank that will hopefully give him indigestion
if he brings bad news.”

  She was relieved to find herself actually enjoying the cooking and working with Fr Tim, who was not much of a help but good company. When they had everything in readiness and they sat down to have a cup of tea, he made her smile by telling her that his father kept the garden shed locked so that he could not get in and upset the tools.

  “Was your father always methodical?” Kate asked.

  “Always. I suppose if you were foreman on a building site in London, it came with the job. Then after my mother died and he was left with all of us, he had to keep law and order, so he ran the house and the bar like clockwork. He loves doing things well and restoring old buildings. Of course, he is in his glory in Furze Hill, and he treats young Danny as if he was one of us. If I was a bit more like him, he would find it easier living with me, but unfortunately I’m my mother’s son.”

  “Fr Tim, how would your father feel about living in Jack’s cottage?” Kate heard herself saying, but when a look of delighted astonishment filled Tim’s face, she knew that it was the ideal solution.

  “My God, he’d be in heaven,” he declared.

  “That settles it then,” she decided. “Jack had great time for your father, and Toby will have a good home.”

  Shortly afterwards, Fr Tim had to go to the school for lunchtime football practice, and she began to lay the table in the front room, bringing out wedding presents that were seldom used.

  Later David and Nora came home from school, and as soon as they were in the door Nora announced, “This house has the smell of visitors!” She made a beeline for the front room to inspect the dinner table. Kate could see the relief on David’s face that she was looking better, and as he laid his bundle of books on the hall table she put her arms around him.

  “Thanks for sending Fr Tim, and I’ve a good feeling about this evening,” she assured him, leaving the news about the cottage until later.

  “Come in here, Uncle David,” Nora was calling. Kate followed him into the front room where Nora was surveying the table that Kate had covered with her best linen tablecloth, inherited from Nellie. She had used the best of everything, including the dinner service that she had got from David’s father, the cutlery that she had got as a wedding present from Jack and the cut glass that she had got from Ned and Martha.