We bought a cottage in the little village of Alderbrook. It was sold by a young couple who told us their mother had passed away and that the family no longer needed the country house. Since the old ladys death nobody had set foot there; they had only come to unload the place.
Will you be taking any of the things? I asked.
Why bother? they replied indifferently. Its just a heap of junk. Weve taken the icons, the rest you can toss.
The husband glanced at the walls where faint rectangles still glowed the spots where icons had once hung.
And the photographs? he asked softly. Why werent they taken?
From the plaster stared faces men, women, children. An entire lineage.
In those days people furnished their homes not with wallpaper but with memories.
I thought of my own grandmother, Agnes Whitmore, who always seemed to acquire a new portrait in a gilt frame: either me or my younger sister, Eleanor.
She used to say, I rise with the sun, bow to my parents, kiss my husband, smile at the children, give you a wink and the day is begun.
When she died we placed her picture beside my grandfathers. Now, whenever we drive up to Alderbrook, which we now call our holiday retreat, we send her a lighthearted kiss into the morning air. It feels as if the cottage is instantly scented with fresh scones and warm milk, and her presence settles over the rooms.
We never saw my grandfather; he died in the war, but his photograph hangs in the centre of the wall, and Agnes would often tell stories about him. We would listen, stare at his face, and feel as though he sat with us at the table. He remained forever youthful, while she grew old. Their photos now sit side by side. To me those faded pictures are priceless. If I had to choose what to keep, I would take only theirs. Yet they dismissed everything pictures and albums as junk. Everyone values things differently, but not everyone recognises what truly matters.
After the purchase we began to tidy up, and I swear my hand never lifted to throw away any of the womans belongings. It seemed she had lived for her children and grandchildren, and they had simply forgotten her.
How could I know? She had written them letters. At first she sent them, but received no replies. Then she stopped. In the old dresser lay three neat stacks of unsent letters, bound with ribbons, full of love and tenderness. I admit we read them.
Then I understood why she never mailed them she feared they would be lost. She believed that after her death her children would discover them and read them. In those letters lay her whole life: childhood, the war, the familys story, the memory of generations. She wrote so that memory would not fade.
I wept.
Lets take these letters to her children, I told my husband. We cant just toss them away.
You think theyre better than the grandchildren? he said bitterly. They never showed up.
Perhaps theyre old and ill Ill call them.
Through an acquaintance we found a number. On the other end a cheerful female voice answered:
Just throw everything away! She kept sending us those letters in bundles. We stopped reading them ages ago. She had nothing to do, thats why she invented them!
My husband didnt even listen; he slammed the receiver down.
Imagine if she were standing here now I dont know what Id say in anger, he whispered, then looked at me.
You write. Put her story down so it isnt lost.
What if the relatives get upset?
Those people never read books, he sighed. But Ill get it all official.
And indeed he did he travelled, obtained written permission. Meanwhile I descended into the cellar of the old cottages. It was cool, smelled of earth and time. Shelves held jars of jam and pickles, each labeled in fading ink:
Vanyas favourite mushrooms, Sunnys chanterelles, Cucumbers for Albert, Raspberries for Sam
Vanya had died ten years ago. Sunny and Albert too.
P.S. Emily Whitmore had six children. All predeceased her except the youngest daughter the one who called everything junk. Their mother waited, sealing jars with love. The last mushroom jars were dated the previous year. She was ninetythree.
