We bought a cottage in a little hamlet nestled among the rolling hills of the Cotswolds.
It had been sold by a young couple who told us that the old matriarch had passed away and that the family no longer needed the country house.
Ever since the grandmothers death the place had lain empty; no one visited except the buyers.
Will you be taking any of the belongings? I asked.
Why bother? they replied indifferently. Its just a heap of junk. Weve taken the religious pictures; the rest you can toss.
My husband stared at the bare walls where once rectangular frames had held icons.
What about the photographs? he whispered. Why didnt you take those?
From the walls stared facesmen, women, childrenan entire lineage, generations. Long ago people decorated their homes not with wallpaper but with memories. I thought of my own granny, whose mantel was always adorned with a fresh portrait, either of me or my sister.
Each morning I would rise, she used to say, bow to God, kiss my husband, smile at the children, give you a winkand the day would begin.
When she died we hung her picture beside my grandfathers. Now, whenever we drive into the villagenow called the cottage by the localswe send a breathsoft kiss to the air for her each sunrise. It feels as if the cottage instantly fills with the scent of hot pies and simmered milk, and her presence settles over the rooms.
We never saw my grandfather; he fell in the Great War. Yet his photograph hangs in the centre of the wall, and my grandmother often spoke of him. We would gaze at his face and feel, as if he were seated at the table with us, that he had remained a young man while she grew old. 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 understand what truly holds worth.
After the purchase we set about cleaning. And, you know, my hand would not lift to throw away any of the womans belongings. It seemed she had lived solely for her children and grandchildren, and they had simply forgotten her.
How do I know this? She wrote letters to them. At first she sent them, receiving no reply; then she stopped. In the old dresser lay three neat stacks of unsent letters, tied with ribbon, brimming with love and tenderness. I confesswe 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 find the letters and read them. Within those pages lay her entire life: childhood, war, family history, the memory of generations. She wrote so that the memory would not fade.
I wept.
Lets take these letters to her children, I told my husband. We cant just throw them away.
You think theyre any better than the grandchildren? he muttered bitterly. They never turned up.
Perhaps the old folk are ill, I suggested.
Ill call them. Through a friend we got a number.
On the other end a lively female voice answered:
Just throw everything away! She sent us those letters in bundles. We stopped reading them ages ago. She invented excuses for nothing!
My husband didnt even listen; he slammed the receiver down.
Had she been here now, I dont know what Id say in my anger, he whispered, then turned to me.
You write. Put her story down so it isnt lost.
What if the relatives are outraged?
Those people never read books, he sighed. But Ill get it all official.
And indeed he didhe travelled, secured written permission, while I descended into the cellar. In the old outbuildings it was cool, smelling of earth and time. Shelves held jars of preserves and pickles, each bearing a yellowed label:
Vanyas favourite mushrooms, Sunnys chanterelles, Cucumbers for Albert, Raspberry jam for little Sally
Vanya had died ten years before, as had Sunny and Albert.
P.S. Mrs. Anna Lukeys had six children. All predeceased her except the youngest daughterthe very one who called everything junk. Their mother kept labeling the jars with love. The last jars of mushrooms were dated last year. She was ninetythree.
