A short story

This is a short story that I put together yesterday, it is not to be taken too seriously, it's just a bit of fun!

Hope you enjoy, please feel free to comment.  

The traffic was moving slowly through the village, why her father had chosen to leave the motorway she could never understand, he always told her it was because her mother liked to see the little villages and country lanes, but she knew this was not true.  Perhaps it was his way of prolonging the last few hours of their holiday.

It had been stifling in the back of her parents’ car, she could still remember the hot breeze coming in through the open windows.  It was then that something happened that would change her life completely. 

A large pair of ornate iron gates stood open and she knew that something was wrong.  People were walking along the driveway but it was private, the gates should have been closed and worst of all where the house had once stood there was nothing.  As the car moved, she saw a sign that told her the gardens were open from March until October.

Thoughts flooded through her head, never before had they been so intense.  She could hear snatches of conversation, echoes of the past or a romantic notion of how things used to be.  For the rest of the journey Jane felt as if she was in a trance, she could not begin to understand what had happened to her during those few seconds, but of one thing she was certain, she would never forget it.

Twenty years later and Jane was no longer a little girl, but still she dreamt of returning to the gardens that she had seen so long ago.  In her dreams, she was part of the family who lived in the magnificent house.  She had grown up there with her brothers and sisters and when she became of age, she had courted eligible young men, which became her favourite pastime. 

In her teens, the urge to return to the place she called home had become almost unbearable and each night, as she lay down to sleep, her dreams would come to claim her.  As time went on it became increasingly difficult to wake up, she could hardly shake off the sensations that seemed so real, it made her feel sad to think that she was actually living in the wrong time.

Sally was her best friend, they had known each other forever.  Jane had told her all about her dreams and they had discussed their thoughts and feelings on the subject of past lives.

“We’ll leave the car in the village car park.”  The sound of Sally’s voice brought her back to reality. 

Sally knew this was a big deal for Jane, it was one of the things her friend wanted most and she would be there to support her.

Walking back along the pavement they soon came to the entrance of the garden.  Huge iron gates stood open and a man in a little wooden hut welcomed them with a smile.

“Here are your tickets, a leaflet about the park and a map.  Follow the driveway up to where the house once stood and start from there.”

Jane hardly needed to be told, to her it was all too familiar.  She could hardly count the times the carriage had turned in off the road, the horse’s hooves noisy on the drive as they swept up to the front of the house.

“Come on,” Sally said as they linked arms, “let’s go see your ancestral home.”

Jane had described this place on many occasions and Sally had a clear picture of how things would be.

“My father was Edward May-Johnson and he made his fortune importing silk from the Far East.”  It was as if Jane was reading from a script.

Sally knew this already, Jane had told her before besides, it was all written down in the leaflet.

Memories flashed through Jane’s head at an alarming rate, just like images from a magic lantern.  Although she knew the house was gone it was still a shock to see miniature box hedging used to establish its footprint on the ground ahead of them.

“There used to be stone steps and a balustrade leading up to a double front door.”  Jane whispered.

Glancing at the leaflet Sally could see that this was true, but it proved nothing.  Jane had probably seen it when the man in the hut had given it to them.  Almost as if sensing her friends doubts Jane continued.

“In the hallway that leads to the kitchen at the back of the house is the entrance to a cellar.  There used to be a door under the servants staircase.”

Leading the way, Jane walked along the little pathway between the hedges.  The parquet and tiled flooring had been replaced by gravel, which crunched under foot, this upset her even more, she had loved the polished floors in the house.  When they reached the place where the kitchen had once been they discovered a flagstone, which covered the entrance to the cellar.  There was nothing in the leaflet to explain this but on the grass nearby was an information board, it told the story of the cellar that ran under the house.

“Are you okay?” Sally asked as she reached out for Jane’s arm.  “You look as if you have just seen a ghost.”

“I think that I probably have,” Jane smiled weakly.

Sally shuddered and glanced around.

“You did believe me when I told you about my dreams.” 

“Of course, when you were a Victorian girl.”

“The year was 1912,” Jane told her.  “Edwardian not Victorian, the Queen had been dead for eleven years.”  This was the first time that she had acknowledged the year, until now it didn’t seem to matter.

“This is the place,” she whispered, “this is where I used to live.”

Slowly they returned to the front of the house and stopped in a room labelled sitting room.

“This is wrong,” Jane told her.  “This was my father’s study, this is where he did his work when he was at home.  My bedroom is directly above, I used to call it the silk room.”

They were silent for a while, both lost in their own thoughts.  Sally could remember Jane talking about her bedroom, she had once described the silk wall coverings, the huge bed and the silk shot carpets on the floor.  It had all sounded so grand. 

“Do you realise that until now I never had a name.”  Jane looked at Sally before going on.  “In my dreams I’m always known as Emily, I had no idea what my surname was.”

“Why would you need to know?” Sally replied.  “Dreams are intimate experiences, names and places don’t seem to matter.  Its feelings and emotions that fill our dreams.”

“True,” Jane nodded, “but it’s strange being faced by the cold facts.  This place,” she looked around her, “feels so real to me, but it’s also dead and cold.  Everything and everyone has gone and I feel so alone.”

Sally hugged Jane tightly, she thought her heart was about to break, not only did Jane look so sad but Sally had an overwhelming feeling that she was about to lose her friend forever.  Pushing this unwelcome sensation away, Sally listened quietly as Jane told her all about the house and those who had lived in it.  They wandered about the gardens and Jane told her about the picnics and games that she used to play as a child.  Memories came flooding back at an alarming rate and by the end of the afternoon she was left utterly exhausted.

“It’s getting so much harder to wake up,” Jane said.  “I’m sure that one day soon I just won’t come back.”

Sally glanced at her and swallowed noisily.

“You make it all sound so idyllic, Emily was such a fortunate woman.  Have you never wondered what happened to her?”

“No, I have never wanted to know.  I hope she lived a long and happy life.”

Sally nodded, she understood.  Why would anyone want to know what life held in store for them?

“You should keep a diary, write it all down.  Next time you have a dream make sure that you do it.” 

Three months later Jane disappeared.  The police investigation dragged on for many weeks and Sally was questioned relentlessly about her friend’s life and movements.  Eventually the search lost momentum and was called off, only Sally knew the truth.

Two years later on her thirtieth birthday a package arrived from an office in London.  A lawyer by the name of Simon Delaney delivered it in person, he demanded proof of identity before handing it over.    

As soon as she was alone, Sally opened the covering letter.  It was hand written and dated August 1913.

My dear friend Sally,

I have been here for just over a year now and I did just as you said, I started a diary, it’s more of a journal actually but it will answer all your questions.  It tells of my life in Edwardian England, of course it’s all history to you now, but to me it’s real, as real as life can be.

You can I’m sure discover more about my adventure if you tried hard enough, but this is a small window on a dream that became a reality...

It was signed Emily May-Johnson (nee Jane Robins).

© 2018 Kevin Marsh