We bought a cottage down in a Yorkshire village. It was being let go by a young pairJack and Lucy Bennettwho told us the matriarch had passed away and the family no longer needed the holiday home. Since the old womans death, no one had set foot there; theyd only come to sell.
Will you be taking anything? I asked.
Why bother? Lucy shrugged. Its just a heap of junk. We kept the icons; the rest can go.
Tom Walker, my husband, stared at the plaster where faint rectangles of light still glowedplaces where the icons had once hung. And the photographs? he whispered. Why didnt you take them?
From the walls stared facesmen, women, childrena whole lineage, generations of love. Once people dressed a house not with wallpaper but with memories.
I thought of my own Granny Margaret, who always had a fresh picture in a gilt frameme or my sister. I wake up, bow to my parents, kiss my husband, smile at the children, wink at youthen the day begins, she used to say. When she died we hung her portrait beside Granddads. Now, each morning we drive to the cottage and blow a kiss through the kitchen window to Margaret. The air seems to fill with the scent of scones and boiled milk, and her presence presses close.
We never saw Granddadhe fell in the Second World Warbut his portrait dominates the mantel, and Margaret would tell stories of him. We listened, we gazed at his lined face, and for a moment felt him seated at the table with us. He remained forever young; she grew old. Their photos now sit side by side. To me those faded pictures are priceless. If I had to choose one thing to take, it would be them. Yet the sellers called everything junk. Everyone values differently, but not everyone recognises what truly matters.
After the purchase we threw ourselves into cleaning. And, you know, I couldnt bring myself to lift a hand and discard that womans belongings. It felt as if shed lived for her children and grandchildren, and theyd simply forgotten her.
How do I know? She wrote them letters. At first she sent them outno reply. Then she stopped. In the old dresser lay three neat stacks of unsent letters, tied with ribbon, brimming with love and tenderness. Ill admitwe read them. Then I understood why she never mailed them. She feared they would be lost. She believed that after her death the children would find them and read. Those letters held her whole life: a childhood in the countryside, the war, the family saga, the memory of generations. She wrote so the memory wouldnt fade. I wept.
Lets take these letters to her children, I said to Tom. We cant just throw them away.
Do you think theyre better than the grandchildren? he answered bitterly. They never turned up.
Maybe theyre old, sick
Ill call them. Through an acquaintance we got a number. The voice on the other end was bright and impatient: Just get rid of everything! She kept sending us those letters in piles. We stopped reading them years ago. She had nothing to do, so she kept making them up! Tom didnt even listenhe slammed the receiver down.
She would be standing here now I dont know what Id say out of anger, he whispered, then turned to me. Youre a writer. Write about her, so she wont disappear.
What if the relatives are outraged?
Those lot never read books, he sighed. But Ill handle the paperwork properly. And indeed he didwent, got a written permit, signed it all.
Meanwhile I slipped down into the cellar of the ancient stone cottages. It was cool, smelling of earth and time. Shelves held jars of jam and pickles, each with a yellowed label: Vanyas favourite mushrooms, Sunnys chanterelles, Cucumbers for Albert, Raspberry for little Sam. Vanya had died ten years ago; Sunny and Albert, too.
P.S. Mrs. Anne Lister had six children. All predeceased her except the youngest daughterthe one who called everything junk. And mother waited, rolling the jars, signing each with love. The last jars of mushrooms were dated last year. She was ninetythree.
