Stories of the Street - Twenty Two

The old, red-bricked house at the end of the street has six bedrooms, two bathrooms, four reception rooms plus various other smaller rooms and large cupboards and a set of grand cellars below. The front is littered with old cars and the gardens are overwhelmed by a number of different very large trees creating a dark, murky place where sunlit fun used to dominate.

The two old men who live in the house use the Kitchen and scullery on the ground floor and two bedrooms and one of the bathrooms on the first floor. All the other rooms are full of boxes and furniture covered in old dustsheets. About fifteen years earlier the two brothers had seriously considered selling the house and moving on but they had chickened out of this plan at the last minute and had never entertained the notion again. However, they have still not reached the point where they feel the need to unpack most of their packing cases and boxes from the aborted move.

Faded labels announce details of kitchen equipment and bedroom linen, crockery and books. Even the dust seems to hang in the air, uncertain whether to land on such transient things.

Every few months their niece arrives and stays with her uncles for a few days, even weeks. She uses the place as a bolthole from her family and other problems. Neither uncle ever asks her why she is there or tells her what to do. She just arrives in her little Italian hatchback, pulls out her suitcases and rings the door bell. One of the uncles is always around and opens the door to her. She hugs him and says that she will be staying for “n” days and he nods and goes back to what ever he was doing.

As a teenager she hit on the idea of coming here when things got bad at home. She also used it during her time at university as a place of escape. She cleared out one of the rooms right up in the top of the house and now uses the adjoining room as a makeshift kitchen with a microwave, baby cooker with two hot rings, a kettle and a little fridge.

Late at night she sometimes sits in front of her bedroom window sipping a coffee laced with brandy watching the wind drive the trees crazy in the dark garden. The sound of the foxes calling will sometimes draw her to the window late at night and she has sat there, high above the unruly night watching and listening while wrapped in a heavy, warm blanket until the pre-dawn light starts to add colour to the sky.

She has never invited anyone to stay with her, even when she realised that it would not make any difference to her uncles. This is the private place she will never let any one near. It is a quiet, hidden reflection of her soul.