April 12
Today we finally signed the papers and bought the old cottage down in the Yorkshire vale. The sellers were a young couple who told us their grandmother had passed away and that the family no longer needed the holiday home. Since her death, nobody had set foot in the house; theyd only come to unload it.
What will you take with you? I asked as they shuffled through the last boxes.
Its all just rummage, the woman shrugged. Weve taken the religious pictures, the rest you can toss.
My husband, Edward, glanced at the empty wall spaces where rectangular frames once held icons.
Do you have any photographs? he whispered, almost to himself. Why didnt you take those?
The walls seemed to stare back with facesmen, women, childrenan entire lineage etched in faded silver. In these parts, homes were once decorated not with wallpaper but with memories.
I thought of my own dear Gran Whitaker, who always had a fresh portrait in a gilt frame: either me or my sister, Mabel. I wake each morning, she used to say, bow to God, kiss my husband, smile at the children, give you a wink, and the day begins.
When she died we placed her picture beside Granddads, who fell in the war. Now, every time we drive into the villagenow more a weekend retreat than a settlementwe send an airy kiss to Grans portrait each dawn. The house seems to fill instantly with the scent of apple pie and warm milk, and I feel her presence lingering in the kitchen.
We never met Granddad; he perished on the battlefield. Yet his photo hangs in the centre of the mantel, and Gran often spoke of him. Looking at his face we felt as if he were sitting with us at the table. He stayed forever young in the image, while she grew older. Their pictures now sit side by side.
Those faded photographs are priceless to me. If I had to choose what to keep, I would take only those. The sellers called everything else rubbish. Everyone values things differently, but not everyone recognises what truly matters.
After moving in we began cleaning. I could not bring myself to throw away any of the woman’s belongings. It was clear she had lived for her children and grandchildren, and they had simply forgotten her.
How did I know? She had written letters to them. At first she sent them, received no reply, then stopped. In the old chest we found three neat stacks of unsent letters, tied with ribbons, full of love and tenderness. We read them.
I understood why she never mailed themshe feared they would be lost. She believed that after her death her children would discover the letters and read them. In those pages lay her whole life: childhood, the war, the family saga, the memory of generations. She wrote so that their story would not fade.
Tears came unbidden.
Lets take these letters to her children, I told Edward. We cant just toss them away.
He snorted, Do you think theyre better than the grandchildren? They never showed up.
Maybe theyre old and ill I suggested.
He promised to call them. Through a mutual acquaintance we got a number. On the other end a bright, chatty woman answered:
Just throw everything away! She kept sending us those letters in piles. We stopped reading them ages ago. She made up excuses to keep writing!
Edward hung up without listening further.
He muttered, If she were still here, I dont know what shed say in anger. Then he turned to me.
You write. Put her story down so it isnt lost.
What if the relatives are outraged?
They dont read books, he sighed. But Ill file the paperwork officially.
He did. He travelled, obtained written permission, and left me to descend into the cellar. The old cellars are cool, smelling of earth and time. Shelves held jars of jam and pickles, each labelled in a trembling hand:
Vanyas mushrooms his favourite, Sunnys chanterelles, Cucumbers for Arthur, Raspberry for little Sam.
Vanya died ten years ago, as did Sunny and Arthur.
P.S. Mrs. Anne Larkin had six children; all predeceased her except the youngest, who called everything rubbish. Their mother kept waiting, labelling each jar with love. The last mushroom jars were dated last year. She was ninetythree.
I learned that what some dismiss as junk may be the only thread that ties a familys past to its future. It is a reminder to cherish the seemingly insignificant, for they often hold the deepest value.
