ECHOES(Jane Lockyer Willis) Echoes

Alice sat in the bay window and set about dreaming. She’d tried the open fields, the old derelict castle on the village outskirts and even the cafe in Second Street with its comings and goings of visitors gasping for a cup of tea and a slice of cake. But she was never alone at these times; there were always others with her. Annoying, that. Only now, sitting here in the attic of her uncle’s old house with the bay window looking out to sea, could she hope to relax and set about her dreams.

Alice settled herself on the window seat, unlocked the rusty latch, gave it a good push and opened the latticed window as far as it would go. She leant her head out and breathed the briny air. Ah! So good after that fusty room. The sound of sea, the sight of sand filled her eyes, her lungs and heart. She concentrated on the seagulls swooping and soaring in the sky; watched with wonder a small child walking with his mother. She looked up the street and down the street and wondered when something might be done about the increasing traffic. But where were her dreams? More to the point, where was her special dream. Why, after all this time searching and finally discovering the ideal spot, did it still allude her? Her mouth drooped, eyes clouded and in disgust she turned her back on the sea-view to face the room: Cold, dusty and littered with large old furniture. A discarded bureaux with old tattered books arranged in an untidy heap; a tall hat-stand, and a once gold threaded sofa now standing shapeless and worn in the corner of the room. Alice momentarily closed her eyes. How could she dream of her love amidst this mess? Perhaps the sea was the better option after-all. Alice turned once more to face the window and set about allowing her mind to wander: That first meeting with her love; it was near the seaside in Devon, a pretty, large village with its narrow shop-lined streets and tea house. She tried to resurrect the picture of them walking hand in hand along the nearby beach; but now Alice couldn’t remember his face, his voice or those words of love he’d whispered in her ear one moonlit night. Moonlit? Was there a moon? Yes, there must have been one, surely. Moons and romance went together, like cheese and biscuits. Silly really. Who says that romance must be laced with soft music and moons and holding hands and kissing? Did they kiss? They must have kissed. He was a soldier, going to fight, going to war the next week. They loved one another, didn’t they?

Alice closed the window with a bang. She shivered. It wasn’t the same any more. Her uncle, for instance. Where was he? Where had he moved to? Had he died? Surely they’d have told her if he’d died. He was a nice man, her uncle. Kind. Jolly. When she was little he’d come for visits at her home, press a half crown piece in her hand. She loved her uncle. Perhaps she should enquire to his whereabouts. Alice stopped. Her heart began to race. How did she get into this house if her uncle had not let her in? And if he were dead then why had he not sold the property? He always complained it was too big for him. He grumbled a lot, her uncle. She liked him for that. They’d sit together when she came to visit and both have a good moan about this and that. Mother always told her not to moan. It wasn’t ladylike. But her mother moaned. Never stopped. Money was hard to come by then, and her father was in and out of work; there was rationing. Her uncle gave her stockings and sweets on the black market, and told her to treasure her love for the young man she’d met at a barn dance. What was his name the man she gave her heart to? Reggy! That’s it. Reggy. He’d black shiny hair and dimples. His smile was more of a grin and lit up his eyes. It was that smile that made her fall in love. Such a kind man. So full of surprises. Like that time he took her to the zoo and she lost her right shoe. Oh, that was funny. Why was it funny? She couldn’t remember, she just knew that it was. Oh, and that bracelet he gave her. So pretty. She still had it, wore it sometimes when a friend came to visit. ‘That’s a pretty bracelet,’ they’d say. ‘Is it real gold?’ Well I didn’t know. Didn’t ask him. I like to think it was; that I meant enough to Reggy for him to buy me something in gold.

I’d like to think that he told me the truth. That he was unmarried, that I was his first true love. But then I discovered the photo in his jacket pocket. And there she was: his woman. His other woman. Lovely hair much nicer than mine: thick and blonde and curly the way they used to have it in the thirties and forties. He told me she was his sister. But she looked nothing like Reggy. Never mind, I’ll delete her out of the dream; forget his blush, reproachful look, the sudden snatch of his hand from mine. We said our goodbyes soon after. He was leaving the next week to fight; posted somewhere, I don’t recall where. I never saw him again and he never wrote. Dead for all I know. Later I met and married a good man but we never really loved one another. Fond, yes, but true love? Well, maybe affection amounts to the same. He’s gone now. Died a while back. It wasn’t easy after that to cope, to do everything for myself but I think I managed pretty well until … Until what? Strange. I don’t know. My mind’s drawn a blank. It’ll come back to me. I mustn't fret.

You’ll probably have gathered that I’m rather forgetful. I have so much time on my hands nowadays to dream that I’d like to get things right in my head.: Dates, places, people. But I never possessed a good memory. At school I’d difficulty recalling dates in history or remembering words when reciting a poem. I tried so hard to memorise, ‘I remember, I remember the house where I was born,’ but could never get further than the first line.

Alice sighed and went to sit on the sofa, closed her eyes and nodded off.. She was startled awake by the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs and moments later the attic door creaked open and a tall, slim young woman walked in. At first she didn’t spot Alice, the dark room seemed to have swallowed her up, so slight a figure was she. At length it was Alice who spoke.
‘Hello.’
‘Alice! There you are Alice. Oh thank heavens! We’ve been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing up here in this fusty old attic?’
‘I don’t know. I was hoping to find something, I suppose.’
‘Come along dear. It’s time for tea and your medication.’
Alice stared at the woman, opened her eyes wide and smiled.
‘I think I remember now!’ she said.
‘Remember what, dear?’
‘Why, the whole of the first verse.’
‘What verse, Alice?’
‘The poem I learnt at school,’ She thought for a moment. ‘And I remember who wrote it too. It was Thomas Hood.’
‘I’m glad. Will you recite the verse for me? I’d like to listen.’

Alice stood up; a tiny figure of a woman, and for a moment it seemed as though she were back in the schoolroom; a child standing straight backed, eyes ahead, her voice strong clear and confident.
‘I remember, I remember the house where I was born
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.’

‘I like that poem,’ said the woman. You remembered it well, Alice’
‘You really think I did?’
‘Yes. Alice. I really think you did.’

THE END
c: Jane Lockyer Willis

A short humorous novel::
ON THE FIDDLE Or The misadventures of two part time crooks
https://tslbooks.uk/

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