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
