REMEMBRANCE (3 page)

The sound of her mobile ringing in the other room broke into her thoughts. She decided not to answer, assuming that it had to be the very person she was thinking about—Richard. Ignoring the irritating ring tone, she continued to splash water over her face. This was not the time to dwell on what might have been. It was over. Richard was no longer her boyfriend and even though she knew that it was for the best, the realization still hurt in a way. Trust was something that couldn’t be bought and god knows he’d tried that trick on her once too often. When she thought about it, it all made sense. She was not willing to give him what he really wanted, so had blatantly moved on to someone that was. So, yes, it hurt.

Gran and Margaret had been her saviours. Instead of being cool and distant, as one might expect due to her having no contact with them for six years, they had given her an open-armed welcome. So much so, she thought, that she might have broken down there and then. Thankfully, they had given her no time to wallow in herself pity.

It still made Maria smile even now. Margaret was a genuine worrier, always looking out for other people, wondering if they maybe too hot or too cold. “Do you have enough milk in your coffee? Shall I fetch you another blanket?” she would constantly ask. Yes, Margaret was the most thoughtful person she had ever known. She was about five foot tall and almost as wide, with dark greying hair and warm brown eyes.

Her Gran, on the other hand, was completely the opposite—tall and willowy, with striking grey eyes and almost silver hair. Although genuinely pleased to see her granddaughter, she was more composed and reserved in the outward expressions of affection. Yes, a little more reserved than Margaret was, but just as pleased.

And there here she was, supposedly nursing a broken heart... Not. Still, the image in the bathroom mirror could say otherwise. Unhappiness could make one look like that, she told herself, as she studied the creamy paleness of her features that enhanced the colour in the green eyes staring back at her. After all, this had been one of the hardest 12 months in all of her 20 years.

*****

            Having decided that she had spent enough time wallowing in self-pity and leaving her mobile—that happened to ring every ten minutes—to vibrate itself off her dressing table top, Maria left the room. She spent time simply wandering through Whitmore’s great hall, stopping every now and then to familiarise herself with the elegant paintings and family portraits—some of which she remembered from her childhood. All the rooms she entered had a layer of fine white dust, as if they hadn’t been cleaned for years. What Margaret actually did, besides cooking, she did not know. It obviously wasn’t the cleaning!

It was then that the sound of faint laughter echoed out across the expanse of the room, and she swung around to see where it came from, half-expecting to see Margaret. Surprised to find the hall empty, she inhaled deeply and told herself quietly that she was being silly. “Starting to imagine things now M?” The experience reminded her of the first few nights she had spent here, when sleep had evaded her. She had put it down to the excitement of being in her old room. She recalled an unfamiliar throb that had started in her head, which she had tried to convince herself was due to the wine she’d drunk with her meals. However, the entire room suddenly seemed to take on an entirely new appearance. The furniture was different, the wall hangings had changed—everything that she had known in her childhood looked different. She had even caught a glimpse of herself in a large dark wood mirror at the end of her bed, before the pain took on a new dimension and she’d passed out.

Still, it must have been her imagination, as her dressing table was an old scratty whitewashed thing with a cracked oval mirror.

From what she had surmised from the snatched conversations with her gran over the last few days, her mother had always claimed that the house had held an influence over her. The years she had spent here when she was a child, Maria would describe strange incidents that she believed to be real, so much so that her mother feared for her daughter’s sanity. Now, back in the house and still plagued by the strange experiences, Maria questioned Gran further. Yet, she simply shrugged, “Your mother wouldn’t divulge any of the details; she simply refused to discuss it with me. Eventually, she took you away.”

Things looked different in the light of day, but it wasn’t the first time that Maria had imagined voices and whispered conversations, almost too faint to hear unless you actually listened. There were also various objects that moved. Well, she never actually saw them move physically, but Maria would notice that objects would appear in different places throughout the day. She wasn’t easily spooked; this was an old house, she had grown up here, and there was really nothing for her to get worked up about—at least that was what she wanted to believe.

Succumbing to the warmth of the day, she finally ventured her outside. Although it was still early April, the sun was high in the sky and she felt quite warm after the dark rooms of the house. Letting her eyes wander over the gentle sweep of the lawn with its mixture of early flowering plants, she drew in their fragrance, letting their intoxicating scent invade her nostrils. She wandered through the garden, absorbing the quietness that the country provided.

Suddenly, although it was only a faint whisper, she heard a voice, as though it was carried on the breeze: “M…” It had been a long time since anyone had called her by her nickname. Only her mother and a few close friends had ever used it. To hear it now was rather curious, and her eyes were drawn to a distant spot across the expanse of the field before her, but all she could see was an old tree.

Climbing down over the rough stone wall that separated the garden from the ground below, she walked through the willowy grass that waved gently in the slight wind. Tiny buzzing insects flew all around, while fluffy white seed pods dislodged from their stalks as she brushed past, sending them floating into the air. All she could hear now was the sound of crickets.

A pool of clear water lay at the far side of the field and resting on its bank, with its rough bark trunk and twisted branches that reflected on the surface of the water, stood a large oak tree. There was something very familiar about the way it beckoned her into its shade. She touched her fingers to its splintered cortex as she walked its perimeter, smelling its mustiness. She had almost done a full circle when her hand came to rest on something hidden beneath the spongy moss that made its home on the surface of the tree. As she carefully eased the covering, she revealed a carving etched deep into the old bark that read ‘T & M’.

Her brow furrowed. ‘T and M,’ what did that mean? It was very old—she could tell by the colour of the wood beneath, which was all crusted and brown. Were these the initials of lovers? she wondered, smiling to herself.

Eventually, she sat on the bank of the crystal water, enjoying the scene before her, as the sun’s rays bounced of its translucent surface, casting a rainbow of colours in every direction.

She lay back on the long grass, to marvel at the way the white clouds floated across the blue sky. Blue… It was so blue… It reminded her of something, but for the life of her, she just couldn’t remember what. She felt as if there was something in her mind that was screaming to get out; yet, the pain in her head throbbed every time she tried to think of it. She placed her hands over her eyes to block out the brightness. What was it?

A large splash broke her from her thoughts and, sitting up abruptly, she saw the last of the ripples dispersing across the water as the soft whispering voices invaded her senses once again.

Just another boring day in the life of Maria Austin! She laughed to herself as she lay back in the long grass.

Several hours later, light drizzle eventually drove Maria back to the house. She went through a side door that she found open, which led into the drawing room. A large oak desk stood to one side, with pens and papers spread out across the green leather insert on its top. She noticed the large harp, which sat in the far corner, but turned her attention to the grand paintings that decorated its dusty walls, as did those of many of the other rooms in this large house. She ran her fingers over the delicate strings of the golden harp, sending out tantalising notes that filled the room; it had been a long time since she had sat upon the little stool at the side and played her melodies.

It was then that she noticed the portrait of a woman hanging proudly upon the green wallpaper to her left; she couldn’t remember ever seeing it before. She moved closer—it was like staring in a mirror! The woman in the painting was the exact image of herself. She was wearing a long white dress, its material gathered just under the bust, flowing freely to her ankles. Her golden hair was swept up at the sides and fell in long soft curls about her shoulders. Her green sparkling eyes stared out from the canvas, and she appeared not to be much older than Maria was now.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she,” her gran’s voice broke into the room’s silence.

Maria jumped, shocked by her sudden presence.

“Y… yes, very,” she stuttered.

“She looks almost magical!”

“Yes,” Maria whispered, “who is she?”

Maria turned to the old woman, who now stood at her side. She wore a soft smile on her lips as she stared at the painting.

“She…,” her gran paused as if in thought, “she is my great great grandmother. I remember her being the object of admiration of many eligible bachelors, due to her many accomplishments, exceptional beauty and elegance.”

The old woman’s eyes drifted off to another time.

“What was her name?” Maria asked.

There was another pause before Gran answered, her pride in the woman in the painting so very evident.

“Lady Austin,” she whispered, turning to face Maria. “You look just like her.”

Maria blushed, “Oh, I could never be that beautiful.”

The old woman looked at Maria, a light in her grey eyes.

“In time, my child, in time.” With that, she smiled and then swept from the room.

*****

Bertie sat upon the old desk chair, a dusty photograph album laid across the leather insert of the desk. She sighed deeply as she eyed the worn pictures that lay on the back card.

“I thought that I would find you here,” the familiar voice of the housekeeper broke into her thoughts.

“Ah, Margaret, I am where I always sit when in thought.”

Margaret walked further into the room, “You are alone, Madam?”

Bertie raised her eyes, and they came to rest on her old friend’s face, “Yes, Margaret I am alone; I believe that Maria has gone to her room, but please shut the door—I do not wish her to overhear us.”

Margaret did her bidding and moved closer to her companion, “I see that there is something troubling you, Madam. Is there anything that I may be able to do to ease your burden?”

“Oh Margaret, I am finding this very difficult. You know how much I hate having to lie to the child, but I see no other way round it.”

“I’m sure that, in time, she will come to understand.”

Bertie’s eyes were drawn to the painting on the far wall. “She questioned me about the portrait, and I fear that I have misled her. I told her that the lady was my great great grandmother,” her grey eyes searched her friends face. “Oh Margaret, how could I bring myself to tell her the truth?”

“I’m afraid she would never understand; she has not the experience just yet, but the time will come when she is ready and will accept it for what it is.”

Bertie rose from her seat and, in a fluid motion, came to stand before the painting, “Oh Margaret, my heart aches terribly for my children. Will there ever be an end to this?”

“As you keep telling me, Madam, these are modern times; we have to adjust, just as she has.”

“Yes… Yes, you are right, Margaret. We have waited all this time, so a little longer will not do any harm. And, as you know, this matter cannot be rushed. I just wish that it was all over and my soul could at last be contented.”

Margaret placed her arm around her friend’s weary shoulders, “The time is not yet here, for it has not yet begun. Come, Madam, let us not dwell on what has not yet happened. Have a little more patience, for we will triumph over this and everything will be set right.”

She inhaled deeply again, “Again, Margaret, you are right, and I am so glad that you are here to share this with me, for I fear that my soul would burn forever in the fiery pits of Hell.”

“If you are glad, then I am too. I would not have my friend bear this torment alone. Now come, Madam, let us go and have some tea for there is nothing more we can do for the moment.”

Bertie laughed lightly at her friends understanding, “You are too good Margaret; yes let us have that tea.”

* * * * *

Maria sat on the chair in front of the small whitewashed table and placed her mobile phone on the side. Richard! Just when she was getting herself together, he had to keep ringing or texting her. She had already said her piece, and could not understand that he still saw the need to keep pestering her with messages; anyone would think that he cared for her, when she knew that he didn’t. She sighed deeply and looked at her reflection in the cracked oval mirror; twisting the length of her blond hair out of the way. She scowled as she studied her face.

She had been considering what her gran had said, but confusion had edged its way into her thoughts. Gran had stated that the woman had been her great great grandmother, but if so, how could she have possibly known her? Surely, she would have died long before her gran had been born? The impossibility of what she had been told seemed to eat at her. Still, she saw no reason for her gran to lie to her about an old portrait. She rubbed her forehead in confusion. As she looked at her reflection again, she noticed the dark circles that surrounded her green eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks, and the taught line of her pink mouth. She did look like the lady in the portrait; still, her features were drawn, whereas the lady’s were smooth and flawless.