A short story

 Note:-  I have posted this short story before but this version has been edited and 'tidied up'.  I do hope you enjoy reading it and please leave me your comments.

An Edwardian Lady

 

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 along the way, but she realised that was not entirely true.  Perhaps it was his way of prolonging the last few hours of their holiday.

It had been stifling sitting 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. 

They passed a large pair of ornate iron gates that stood open at the side of the road and strangely, 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 on, she saw a sign that told her the gardens were open from March until October.

Thoughts filled her head, snatches of conversation, echoes from the past or was it merely a romantic notion of how things used to be?  For the rest of the journey Jane felt somehow disconnected from reality, 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.  Sally had agreed to accompany Jane to the place she called home.

“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 was always going to 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 a guide it was all far too familiar.  She could hardly count the times the carriage had turned in off the road, the horse’s hooves kicking up turf as they swept towards the front of the house.

“Come on,” Sally said linking 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 projected onto a wall from a magic lantern.  Although she knew the house was gone it was still a shock to see miniature box hedging used to mark its footprint on the ground ahead of them.

“There used to be stone steps with a balustrade leading up to a double fronted 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 friend’s 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 that ran throughout 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 underground storerooms that ran beneath 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 where the front of the house once stood and stepping over the miniature hedge, they found themselves in a space labelled ‘Sitting Room’.

“This is wrong,” Jane looked around her with a frown.  “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 her friend 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 count.”

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

Sally hugged Jane tightly and thought her heart was about to break.  Not only did Jane look so sad but Sally also felt an overwhelming sensation that she was about to lose her friend forever.  Pushing these unwelcome thoughts away, she listened quietly as Jane told her all about the house and those who had lived in it.  They wandered about the gardens and Jane spoke about 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 quite exhausted.

“It’s getting so much harder to wake up when I dream about this place,” 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 ever wondered what happened to her?”

“No, I’ve not really wanted to know.  It would be strange to discover that she had living descendants that I could never get to know, but I hope she lived a long and happy life.”

Sally nodded her head in understanding.

“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 a covering letter that accompanied the package.  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 to keep 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).

 

©2019 Kevin Marsh