June 12
We finally bought a cottage in a little village in the Cotswolds. It was being sold by a young couple who claimed the owners mother had passed away and that her children no longer needed a holiday home. Since her death, no one had set foot in the place except the buyers. They came only to collect the keys.
Will you be taking any of the belongings? I asked.
Why bother? Its just a heap of stuff. Weve taken the icons, the rest you can dump, they replied indifferently.
My husband glanced at the walls where faint rectangles marked where icons once hung.
What about the photographs? he asked softly. Why didnt you take those?
The walls seemed to stare back with facesmen, women, childrena whole family stretched across generations. Long ago people furnished their homes not with wallpaper but with memories.
I thought of my own grandmother. She always had a fresh picture in a frame: either me or my sister, Lily. I get up in the morning, she would 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 grandfathers.
Now, whenever we drive into the village, which we now call the cottage, we send a breathy kiss to Grandma in the air each dawn. It feels as though the house instantly fills with the scent of warm pies and clotted cream, and her presence is palpable.
We never met Grandfatherhe fell in the Great Warbut his picture hangs in the centre of the wall, and Grandma used to speak of him often. We would look at his face and feel as if he were sitting at the table with us. He remained forever young, while she grew old. Their photographs now sit side by side. To me those faded images are priceless. If I had to choose what to keep, I would take only theirs. Yet they called everythinga photo album, a stack of lettersjunk. Everyone values things in their own way, but not everyone recognises what truly matters.
After the purchase we set about cleaning. Honestly, I couldnt bring myself to throw away any of the ladys things. 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, receiving no reply, and eventually she stopped. In the old chest lay three neat bundles of unsent letters tied with ribbons, each brimming with love and tenderness. Ill admitwe read them.
Then I understood why she never mailed them. She feared they would get lost. She believed that after her death the children would discover the letters and read them. Those pages contained her whole life: childhood, the war, the family saga, the memory of generations. She wrote so that the past would not fade.
I wept.
Lets take these letters to her children, I told my husband. They shouldnt be thrown away.
Do you think theyre better than the grandchildren? he snapped. They never turned up.
Perhaps the old ones are ill I suggested.
Ill call them.
Through a friend we found a number. A cheerful womans voice answered on the other end:
Just throw everything away! She kept sending us those letters in bundles. We stopped reading them ages ago. She had nothing to do, so she made it all up!
My husband didnt even listen; he hung up.
It would be nice if she were still here I dont know what Id say in anger, he whispered, then looked at me.
Youre writing this. Put it down so she isnt forgotten.
What if the relatives get upset?
Those people dont read books, he sighed. But Ill sort it all out officially.
He did. He travelled, obtained written permission, and left me to descend into the cellar. The old outbuildings were cool, smelling of earth and time. Shelves held jars of jam and pickles, each labeled with a yellowed tag:
Vanyas favourite mushrooms, Sunnys chanterelles, Cucumbers for Arthur, Raspberries for little Sam
Vanya had died ten years ago. Sunny and Arthur were gone as well.
P.S. Mrs. Anne Lukans had six children. All predeceased her except the youngest daughterthe one who called everything junk. Her mother waited, rolling jars, signing each with love. The last mushroom jars were dated last year. She was ninetythree.
