We bought a cottage in a small village in Yorkshire. It was a young couple who sold it they told us their grandmother had passed away and their parents no longer needed the holiday home. Ever since the old lady died, no one had set foot in the place; the only visitors were the buyers.
Will you be taking any of the things? I asked.
Why bother? they shrugged. Its just a heap of junk. Weve taken the icons; you can toss the rest.
My husband glanced at the walls where faint rectangles still lingered the spots where icons once hung.
And the photographs? he asked softly. Why didnt you take those?
The faces on the walls stared back men, women, children. An entire lineage. Long ago people dressed their homes not with cheap wallpaper but with memories. I remembered my own Gran; she always had a fresh picture in a frame, either of me or my sister. I wake up, bow to my parents, kiss my husband, smile at the children, wink at you all and the day begins, shed say. When she died we hung her portrait next to Granddads.
Now, whenever we drive into the village which we now call the cottage each morning we send Gran a breathsoft kiss through the air. It feels as if the house smells straight away of freshlybaked scones and warm milk, and her presence settles over us. We never saw Granddad; he fell in the war, but his photograph hangs in the centre, and Gran used to speak of him often. Wed look at his face and feel as though he were sitting at the table with us. He stayed forever young in the picture, she grew older. Their photos now sit side by side. To me those faded prints are priceless. If I had to choose what to take, Id take only them. They called everything else junk. Everyone values things differently, though not everyone recognises what truly matters.
After the purchase we set to work clearing the place, and I swear my hand never lifted to throw away any of Grans belongings. It seemed she had lived for her children and grandchildren, and they had simply forgotten her. How do I know? She used to write them letters. At first she sent them and got no reply; then she stopped. In the dresser lay three neat stacks of unsent letters, tied with ribbons, brimming with love. Ill admit we read them. Thats when I understood why she never mailed them. She feared they would get lost, believing that after she was gone her children would find them and read them. In those letters lay her whole life: childhood, war, family history, the memory of generations. She wrote so the memory would not fade.
Tears slipped down my cheeks. Lets take these letters to her children, I told my husband. We cant just throw them away.
What, you think theyll be better than the grandchildren? he muttered bitterly. They never showed up.
Maybe theyre old and ill I suggested.
Ill call them.
Through a friend we got a number. A cheery female voice answered: Just toss everything! She kept sending us those letters in piles. We never read them. She was just making something up! My husband didnt even listen he hung up.
If she were here now, Id have no idea what Id say in anger, he whispered, then turned to me. Youre a writer. Put her story down so it doesnt disappear.
What if the relatives get angry? I asked.
Those folk dont read books, he sighed. But Ill sort out the paperwork.
He did. He travelled, got written permission, and I went down into the cellar of the old thatched houses. It was cool down there, smelling of earth and time. Shelves held jars of jam and pickles, each label yellowed: Vanessas favourite mushrooms, Sunnys chanterelles, Cucumbers for Arthur, Raspberries for little Sam. Vanessa had died ten years ago. Sunny and Arthur, too.
P.S. Mrs. Annabelle Hart had six children. All predeceased her except the youngest daughter the one who called everything junk. Their mother kept labelling jars with love. The last mushroom jars were dated last year. She was ninetythree.
