April 12th
Today we finally became owners of a little cottage tucked away in a village in the Cotswolds. It was a young couple who sold it, claiming their mother had passed away and that the family no longer needed the holiday home. Since the old ladys death, nobody had set foot there; the place had only been visited for the purpose of selling it.
Will you be taking any of the belongings? I asked.
Why bother? Its all just junk, they replied indifferently. Weve taken the icons; the rest you can toss.
My husband, James, stared at the walls where rectangular patches of faded paint marked where icons once hung.
What about the photographs? he whispered. Why didnt you take those?
Faces stared back from the plastermen, women, children, an entire lineage captured in still frames. Long before glossy wallpaper, people used memories to dress their homes. I thought of my own grandmother, Agnes, who always had a fresh picture in a frame: mine or baby Lucys.
I wake up each morning, she used to say, bow to my parents, kiss my husband, smile at the children, wink at youthen the day begins.
When she died we hung her portrait beside my grandfather Arthurs. Now, whenever we drive into the villagenow our holiday retreatwe send a soft, invisible kiss to Agnes each dawn. It feels as if the cottage instantly fills with the scent of fresh scones and warm milk, and her presence settles over us.
We never saw my greatuncle; he fell in the war. Yet his photograph hangs in the centre of the wall, and Grandma used to speak of him often. We would stare at his face and feel, as if he were seated at the table with us. He stayed forever young, while she grew older. Their pictures now sit side by side. To me those faded photographs are priceless. If I had to choose what to keep, I would take only theirs. They called everything else junk. Everyone values things differently, but few recognise what truly matters.
After the purchase we set about tidying up. Believe me, I couldnt bring myself to throw away any of her things. It seemed she had lived solely for her children and grandchildren, and they had simply forgotten her. How do I know? She wrote them letters. At first she sent them, receiving no reply; then she stopped. In the wardrobe lay three neat stacks of unsent letters, tied with ribbons, brimming with love and tenderness. I admitI read them.
Thats when I understood why she never mailed them. She feared they would be lost. She believed that after her death her children would find the letters and read them. Inside those pages lay her whole life: childhood, the war, the family saga, the memory of generations. She wrote to keep the past alive. I wept.
Lets take these letters to her children, I told James. We cant just throw them away.
Do you think theyre better than the grandchildren? he replied, bitterness creeping in. None of them ever showed up.
Maybe theyre old and ill I suggested.
Ill call them.
Through a neighbour we got a number. A bright, cheeky female voice answered: Just toss everything! She kept sending us those letters in piles. We stopped reading them ages ago. She was just making up excuses! James didnt even listen; he hung up.
She would be standing here now, I imagined, and I didnt know what angry words Id say. He glanced at me and whispered, You write. Put her story down so it doesnt disappear.
What if the relatives get upset? I asked.
They dont read books, he sighed. But Ill get the proper permission.
So he didtravelled, obtained written consent, while I descended into the cellar. The old stone rooms were cool, smelling of earth and time. Shelves held jars of jam and pickles, each label yellowed: Vanyas favourite mushrooms, Sunnys chanterelles, Cucumbers for Anatoly, Raspberries for Sasha.
Vanya had died ten years ago. Sunny and Anatoly were gone too.
P.S. Mrs. Anne Lukey had six children; all predeceased her except the youngest daughter, the one who now calls everything junk. Their mother kept filling jars, signing them with love. The last mushroom jars were dated last year. She was ninetythree.
I feel the weight of those lives pressing against the walls, and I promise to keep their stories alive, however small the task may seem.
