Little Lake Part 4

...I turned my back on the people staring at me as I rested against the car’s side.
My breathing became awkward and shallow, I felt light headed and odd I subconciously started to blame it on the thin fresh air but I found myself gasping for air under the pestering gaze of all my new neighbours.

I balanced myself slightly and then looked at the entrance to my grandfather’s cottage and with a groan of despair I started to walk around the side of up the cobblestone pathway to the door.

My mother had already gone inside with Reverend McCormac who was assisting her with her luggage. My grandfather waited at the door for me impatiently. I met him with a hollow feeling inside. He looked at me with disappointment.

“Hello Clarice.” He said the words like they were poison, without any emotion and without even looking me in the eye. I replied with hostility.

“I prefer Clare actually Granddad.” I looked at me so evilly that it was as if I had called him Hitler. I smiled at him sarcastically.

“Where’s my room?” He coughed elaborately into his wrist as he rested against the door frame, and with a tough of antagonism his replied, speaking through his teeth spitefully.

“It’s in the attic." I looked at him bemused. "Go up the stairs and ask your mother I’m sure she remembers.” I smiled again acerbically and pushed past him impolitely, not the best stepping stones on a new relationship with my grandfather but I couldn’t have cared less.

After I entered he shut the door and went back to his dinner which he was eating alone and boringly at his large oak, perfectly polished, dining room table. I started to observe his house, when he saw this he cursed under his breath and I smiled with delight at the thought of having already made my grandfather swear at my expense.

He looked spitefully at me as I watched him eating his dinner; his eyes were glazed with venom and his opinion already harshly decided over me. He made no comment on my exploration of house and left me in peace to do as I wished so long as I left him in his peace eating his pitiful dinner.

None of the downstairs rooms were very interesting, they were all plain and boring with beige wallpaper which was peeling, a yellowing ceiling, cream carpet which used to have been white and no ornaments just furniture.

The living room was nothing like my living room had been back home in London.
There was a single bulb hanging from the ceiling dimly, a large dark brown arm chair which had been well used and was grubby. A lighter brown loveseat and two bookcases filled to the brim with novels and books.
I loved books and seeing all these binding of books made me excited at the prospect of having things to read. I examined the titles “Treasure Island”, “The Wizard of Oz” and “Wuthering Heights.” There were some of the best books of traditional literature, nothing modern and it seemed that hardly any of the books had been moved from their places in many years.

After flicking through several original copies of my favourite stories I put them down on the knowledge that I was going to flick through them again later.

The wireless sat dustlessly in the corner of the living room next to the small fireplace with its one flame of heat trying so desperately to break free and consume the twigs that were waiting to be lit. Other than that there was nothing, no pictures, no plaints, no rugs or even gramophone.

The rooms of downstairs bored me and hurried up the stairs to examine the rest.
As I reached the landing I found Reverend McCormac heaving my mother’s suitcase into her room and onto her bed under my mother’s constant instruction and erratic mind.

From what I could see of my mother’s bedroom she had a large bedroom with a single bed, a plain mahogany wardrobe and a light brown stand which held a perfectly shimmering mirror. Her room had plain pale green wallpaper which reminded me of the colour of the mint herb.
It was possible to conceive the room as pretty, something extraordinary in my grandfather’s quaint country house that had been neglected from prettiness it seemed for years.

There was only one bathroom in the entire house and it was on the second floor. Compared to my lovely tiled and pretty bathroom in London this bathroom could barely be called a bathroom.
There was a large steel basin and it still had cold dirty water in it with a yellow tinge from the small piece of soap that remained at the bottom of the basin half dissolved, there was a ration on soap and I felt unclean at the idea of only having that tiny piece to wash with for the last few months of the year.
I was even more revolted by the steel bathtub which had grey hairs attached to the side and a small amount of water left in it still. Out bathroom at home had always been kept immaculately clean by my mother due to her fear of germs! So when I discovered my grandfather’s bathroom I found it repulsive and generally unsanitary, I left quickly before I caught the plague from its lack of hygiene.

My Grandfather’s bedroom was easy to spot in the white wallpapered hallway of the upper floor. The closed door seemed to push out an eerie sense of distrust and evil, I went to push the door open to examine his room but I could swear that there was a face etched into the handle of my grandfather’s bedroom, it dark misshapen eyes were watching me alarmingly and warning me to never go into that room and I backed away quickly, paranoid and imagining things.

I was about to ask my mother where my bedroom was when I realised that there was only one door left and it was most likely to lead to my bedroom so I followed my impulsive instinct and opened the final door of the upper floor.

The door opened to a narrow intimidating staircase which had no natural light and so was the colour of darkness and yet I wasn’t afraid. The steps creaked as I stepped on them one by one, stepping into a thick layer of dust each time leaving a trail of footprints behind me as I went up the stairs to a white oak door.

I thought the room would be like what I had seen of that house so far, plain and boring, and I thought this even more so after realising that the staircase leading up to my room had no wallpaper and the wall was nothing more than wood and concrete. But as I opened the door to my bedroom I was welcomed with a beautiful unexpected sight.

The room was large and warm; the windows were all brightly clear and dustless, sunshine poured through them onto the golden hardwood floor. There were some plain pink curtains clipped back at the side of each small window as well as some lace hanging down from a pole that ran through the wall.
On the left side of the room was a single bed with a white duvet and a pick eiderdown draped over it, beside the bed was a white well threaded chair with a water colour painting of a waterfall hanging above it in a petit golden frame. Directly next to the bed were two side tables, one was occupied with an empty white vase which had two handles with a rose engraved on the tops, on the other table was a single gasp with some dried crusty paraffin still adjacent on the side, as I looked up at the ceiling I realised that there was no electricity in my bedroom as I was living in the attic.

However my disappointment at the lack of electricity was short lived as I was impressed with my little slice of heaven which was my bedroom.

On the opposite side of the room was an evenly sized honey coloured wardrobe fully stocked with dresses and skirts that I had not expected to be there. Beside of it there was an ivory coloured dressing table complete with a pale blue jewellery box and a silver laced hairbrush and besides that was a body length mirror with a daisy chain all the way around it from top to bottom that was quite lovely.

I hadn’t noticed until after I nearly tripped up over it that there was a large black trunk that was seemingly locked. Intrigued I knelt on the floor and unlocked the stiff locks of the trunk, before opening the lid which creaked loudly to reveal what was inside.

On the inner side of the lid, which was my first point of looking, were glued on pictures of dollies and a few actresses from the 1920s. I stroked a picture of a smiling lady sitting gloriously spectacular on a table with a long cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other; it was the most visible one of the many pictures for most of them were fading under the harshness of the amount of glue. The models and the actress’s all looked happy and care free, I envied them; I envied their lives and longed to be one of them and to be free of my horrid life thus far.

Turning my attention immediately to the things that resided in the trunk I removed a neatly folded blanket that lay over the top of the items, concealing them from obvious view.
I surprised by the content that lay beneath. There was a pack of pristine sharpened colouring pencils, some blue and black ink and a hand crafted quill, there was a paper and a few books, two dollies, one big and one small and then at the direct bottom of the trunk was a sketchpad with the name “Marie Danielson” coloured in elaborate different colours, but never once did the colour run over the lines. I had never known that my mother was a keen artist as a young girl, it had never entered my mind that I might have received my artistic abilities from her. This was mostly because I would never describe my mother as a creative person for she hardly ever did anything inventive, apart from embroider and even that was on the rarest occasions.

As I sat on the floor flicking through the many pages of the sketch pad marvelling at the magnificent drawings my mother had done as I children my mother walked in. She spotted me staring at a picture of hers where she captured the image of the churchyard from what was probably her bedroom window; it was darling and exquisite in soft grey pencil tones.

She scoffed unbelievably at the sight of her old drawings and smiled when she spotted my overjoyed face at seeing the images; it was like I had been allowed to meet my real mother after so many years of not knowing her properly.
She sat on my bed as I looked at several of her other pictures. Her floppy hair came forward across her shoulders as she released as pin more relaxed that she had dealt with meeting her father after so long and returning to her less than happy home, she looked rather pretty with her hair down and fluffy but she would never wear it loose in public she always kept it in a neat bun on the top of her head.

“That was my sketch pad when I was your age, I never thought I was that good but it was a good tool for relaxation as a child." She sighed and looked around the room. "I always used to sit in that chair staring out of the window and drawing whatever came into my mind. I loved this room.” She stroked the eiderdown as she recounted memories privately in her head.

I watched her as her eye stumbled across the room to her full length mirror and she laughed lightly and stood, walking over to mirror and caressing the daisy chain on the side of it.

“I painted that daisy chain, I was only eight when I did." Her happy voice faltered for a moment. "Your grandfather gave me such a hiding when he saw it, but I liked it. It made the mirror look prettier to look at when I saw my reflection in it.” She smiled softly but saddened as I watched her politely.

She turned and faced me crossing her arms with a brief smile but then her eyes stumbled on the dollies in the trunk and she stepped forward again, this time kneeling beside me gasping as she picked the smallest of the two dollies up.

“These were my mother’s dollies when she was a child; they were all I had of her's. This one’s Cindy and the other’s Jane.” She held Cindy in her hand, the doll had dark black plaits and looked pristine and smart in her pinafore but the other doll was almost hairless and was missing an eye, her outfit was gone and she was left lying in old fashioned white undergarments.

After a brief moment of holding the dolly tightly to her chest my mother sighed and placed the dolly back and standing with fluidity. She sighed and sniffled from all the renewed memories coming back to her, she had never thought of her original home for many years and to return was one of the toughest things that she could have even done but she did it anyway.

“You can have the sketch pad if you want, there were a few pages left. You can tear out my drawings I don’t need them now.” I looked up at her hurt by the idea of tearing out such lovely artwork. I hugged the pad close to my chest, thankful for having a pad to draw in and to release my soul in.

The pad was the best thing that my mother could have given me that day and although the room was breathtaking and suited me perfectly I could not shake the feeling that I did not belong, and that was before I even went out into the village publicly.

For the first and last time I was getting on with my mother and I felt that I would be ok, Churchill was promising that the War was going to be over soon and there was nothing to worry about so I reassured myself that I was only going to be in the village for a few months if anything.

For me school didn’t start for another two weeks, in the beginning of September, so I had plenty of time to adjust to the strange alien village and I was somehow looking forward to the challenge!