A Life Rekindled

Lauren Voaden

 

The car splutters and coughs as I drive over the old stone track. As I round the corner, the wheels spin up dust from the cracked earth. Wild plants have engulfed the old stone walls and all manner of shrubs have infected the yard. I stop in front of the house. I turn the key and let the engine die out. Silence.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath before grabbing my rucksack from the passenger seat and climbing out of the car. I keep my eyes fixed on the gravel crunching beneath my feet as I shunt the bag onto my back, feeling almost afraid to look up at the house. I haven’t seen it in so long. I haven’t even dared to imagine what it might look like now. Though even if I had, it still wouldn’t have prepared me for the sight that met me when I finally lifted my gaze. There are holes in the roof. I imagine the missing tiles are littered through the front garden, though it’s impossible to tell since the grass is so tangled and overgrown. The guttering that runs along the bottom of the roof is either sagging, cracked or missing. It’s so blocked with moss that water is still seeping out over the rim and dripping down the wall of the house even though it hasn’t rained in days. The walls themselves are beginning to crumble. In some places huge chunks are missing, gaping wounds in the building’s flesh, and for a moment I question whether it’s safe to enter. I feel my jaw tense as I take in the state of disrepair. You loved this house once. So did I.

I wrestle with the garden gate that nature has locked shut and make my way up the garden path, long grass tickling my ankles and brambles tugging at my clothes. You used to spend so much time out here in the garden: weeding the flowers, mowing the lawn, tending to the vegetables. I even saw you repair the stone wall once. You were always busy doing something, and I know you’d hate to see the state your home’s in now. Your raised beds have long since drowned under the weight of the rampant foliage and I feel a shot of grief when I realise that I can no longer pinpoint exactly where they might be. It’s saddening to learn that small pieces of you and your life are simply fading from my mind.

I approach the heavy wooden door and come to a halt on the granite doorstep. To my left, I spot a pop of blue tile poking through the ivy clambering up the wall. I pull back the leaves to reveal your house sign. Chi Lowen. I know you told me what the name meant once upon a time, but its translation escapes me now. I remember when I was young, maybe 6 or 7, I used to love hearing you speak Cornish. I would point to objects around the house with stubby little fingers and bright eyes, asking—demanding even—that you tell me their names in Cornish. I can still hear the sound of you chuckling as I desperately searched around me for the most obscure and unusual items possible, but you’d always have an answer for me. I used to know so many Cornish words, and I was always so eager to rush to school and impress my friends with them. That was over 20 years ago now though, and my memory can’t recall a single one.

Out of habit, I knock on the round brass knocker and wait for a few minutes. You always used to rush out to greet me; there’d be hugs and smiles before you’d beckon me inside with your hands. Now I’m greeted only by silence, save for the rusty old hinges that groan and squeak as I push the door open. My hands search through the darkness for the light switch, and once I feel the cold rigidity of the plastic casing, I turn the light on. It flickers weakly before meagrely attempting to fill the room with a dim light. I barely recognise this room now. The breezy, cheerful space I remember is long gone. The years of neglect and desertion are evident on every surface, no longer a secret kept by the nooks and crannies of the cob walls. I look around and spot a photo frame on the side table. I walk over to it and brush away the layers of dust with my sleeve. The faded photo of your beaming face may be the brightest thing here. I remove the picture from the frame, gently fold it in half and tuck it inside my coat pocket.

I have so many memories of this hallway. Happy memories. But with everything that’s happened each one is marred with a sadness, a longing, and covered with the dirty stain of time. I wonder if I’ll ever remember you with the same joy I felt when I was around you, but it seems that the happiness we once felt here has left no mark on the gloom that followed. I take a plastic bottle out of my rucksack and watch as its contents spill onto the wooden floor. The clear liquid trickles to my left, down the uneven floorboards before disappearing under your living room door. I cautiously tread my way over, being careful to avoid the spilled liquid, and gently push it open so I can peer inside. The ceiling has collapsed, and the threadbare floral carpet is covered in flakes of plaster, paint and splintered wood. Rotting plywood rests stiffly over the furniture, concealing your plush sofa and the mint-green woollen throws you loved. The musty smell of mould and mildew makes me scrunch up my nose and cover my face with my hand. Reluctant to venture past the door frame, my eyes scan the room for anything that might have survived the devastation unscathed. I can make out some shards of broken glass next to the arm of the sofa. It could be a broken lightbulb, or perhaps the remains of the crystal bowl with gold trim that you kept on the coffee table. It’s impossible to tell. The glass is dull thanks to a fine layer of powdery dirt which has muted the sparkle that warns of its presence.

“What’s the word for death trap?” I mutter into the empty house. There’s no answer this time.

I leave the living room door wide open, scared that closing the door would cause more of the ceiling to crumble, and pick my way back through to the kitchen. I brush away the cobwebs as I step through the doorway and then rub my hands on my jeans in an attempt to free myself from the sticky thread. I close my eyes and let myself remember the smell of butter frying in the pan and the sound of your humming. My lips sneak their way into a smile. There are moments where the world feels brighter with your eyes closed. The current reality is somewhat gloomier: the cupboard doors are unhinged; the windows are smashed, and the paint is peeling. Your best china is missing from the glass cabinets, and the locked drawer where you hid your loose cash has been busted open and the money tin taken. A photo of a man and a woman is hung on the wall above the drawer. They’re somewhere exotic, their skin glowing under a hot sun, but their smiles are empty. I remember them well. I remember how they’d drown you out with their tall tales and big plans. I remember how they never noticed your eyes glaze over and your fingers start to drum on the dining room table. I remember how you would so often pretend to be elsewhere in their company. “Can’t choose your family,” you’d say. My thoughts are interrupted by a beetle scurrying out of sight under the fridge. Life goes on, and insects thrive in the decay of others.

I head back into the hallway and hesitate before climbing the stairs; they look steep and treacherous, and I doubt things look any better from the top. I steel myself and commit to the climb, each footstep met with a loaded moan. I walk down the dark, narrow corridor all the way to the white door at the end. I twist the brass knob and the door swings open. For a moment I’m taken aback. To my surprise, this room looks untouched; it’s exactly how you left it, save for the dust that’s settled. The bed is neatly made, and your book is on the bedside table with a fold still marking the page you were on. You’d nearly finished it. On your desk there’s a magazine that’s a few years out of date now. I flick through it, briefly scanning through some of the stories: Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee, a feature article on Whitney Houston and a guide to red lipstick. All the puzzles are completed, blue ink on a wordsearch – the most tangible piece of you I’ve seen in years. Next to the magazine is a French to English dictionary, a hairbrush and a to-do note written in indiscernible shorthand. I notice your jewellery box has disappeared. No guessing where that’s gone. I pick up the French dictionary, enjoying the feel of its wafer-thin pages, and I notice your diary is lying underneath it. Desperate to hear your voice again, I slip my rucksack off my shoulder, dropping it to the floor with a soft thud, and peel back the cover. I don’t know what I’m expecting but I can’t help but feel disappointed when I find nothing but page after page of appointments, numbers and reminders. I realise that I never once heard you grumble or complain, and a rush of grief washes over me as I question whether I ever really knew you at all.

I gather myself and move to the other side of the room. I open the wardrobe to see it’s still filled with your clothes, though of course there aren’t many. The dust hasn’t found its way in here. I carefully run my fingers over the different fabrics and notice that my hands are trembling. It’s strange how things that are seemingly so mundane can suddenly feel so significant. Even after all this time, your laundry detergent has more or less managed to keep the smell of musk at bay. Just as I’m about to close the door, I spot an old shoebox tucked away at the back of the wardrobe. Intrigued, I can’t help but pick it up and take it over to the bed. I lift the lid to find a collection of old, tattered papers. There’s an old card with a beautiful hand-painted picture of a small harbour on the front and a handwritten message inside, written in a beautiful yet almost illegible scrawl. I squint, eager to decipher the message. My heart drops when I see the words ty a fyll dhymm at the bottom of the page and realise the card’s contents will remain a secret. I turn my attention back to the items that remain inside the box. There’s a number of receipts and, though the ink has faded over time, I can just about manage to make out a couple of them. There’s one from a seaside fish and chip shop in St Ives and another from a Parisian restaurant called La Chambre aux Oiseaux. I never knew you’d been to Paris. Underneath the receipts is an assortment of photos and, under those, your wedding ring. I slip your ring onto my finger and carefully pull out the photos. I move over to your bedroom windows that stretch from floor to ceiling and lower myself. I sit cross legged and rifle through the photos, smiling at the memories we share, and the ones we don’t. I should have asked you about those.

Eventually, I place the photos on the floor directly in front of me and turn my attention to the view from the window. You had a good view from here, I can see for miles. In the distance, I can see Bodmin moor majestically rising from the horizon, an imposing silhouette in an otherwise gentle landscape. To my left I can see sheep peacefully grazing in the green fields, and my ears can hear the chirping of the birds that have turned your overgrown garden into a home. The view is idyllic, and for a minute I forget the overbearing despair of the house I’m in. I forget what brought me here. I forget everything. It’s a clear, hot day, and I watch as the gentle, yet insistent breeze tugs the leaves from their branches. The few rogue clouds that pepper the deep blue sky float gently from west to east, trapped in the aerial currents. Before me is nothing but miles and miles of rolling hills. It’s hard to feel caged when you’re staring into freedom. I think I understand why you spent so long sitting here now. I feel my eyes start to sting at the thought of you not being able to witness all the life in front of me on this warm June day: white lambs frolicking under the late afternoon sun, blackbirds whistling in the hedgerows, and paragliders making the most of the pleasant weather to soar high above us all. This house would seem so small to them.

I stare at the view until the night pulls in, and the vibrant greens and blues of the day morph into gloomy shades of grey and black. A cold chill steals its way through the poorly sealed window frame and teases my skin. I stand up and turn away from the luminous full moon shining through the huge sheet of glass and turn back to face the inside of the house, squinting as my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. I return the photos to the shoebox, put the lid back on and tuck the box under my arm. After swinging my rucksack over one shoulder, I feel my way back down the corridor towards the stairs.

I don’t look back at your room.

As I approach the front door, I stop, turn and take one last look at your old home. I watch the dust dance in the moonbeam streaming through the cracks in the boarded-up hallway window. A spider wrapping a desperate fly is the only evidence that life ever existed in this house, a painful reminder that the only thing harder than losing someone you love is watching while the only physical remnants of them are stolen, mistreated and left to decay. I sigh. Some things, no matter how great and glorious they once were, have to be let go. I set the shoebox down just outside the front door and then feel into my coat pocket and pull out a small box of matches. I slide the box open, pull out a single match, strike it against the rough outside edge of the box and throw it onto the alcohol-soaked timber floor before making my way out of the house for the final time. I leave the front door wide open like you used to do when me and my cousins rode our bikes around the yard.

All that’s left to do now is wait. I wander back down the garden path and take a seat on the bench at the far end of your front garden. Brambles and thorns poke at my back and the underside of my legs through the slats of wood as my ears listen out for the sound of timber crackling. I feel for the hallway photo inside my coat pocket and look up into the night sky. The stars glisten above me and, before long, a thick smoke starts to smother their light. Just a few minutes later, I turn my gaze back to the house to see an intense blaze of red, yellow and orange begin to poke through the front door of your old home. The flames are big, fierce, and thick, a striking display of scorching orange against the blackness of the night. I can feel their heat from where I’m sitting on the bench, and eventually my skin starts to prickle and turn red. I can hear frantic rustling in the long grass around me as small animals hurry to escape the inferno. For a moment I’m gripped by fear. The untameable heat and irreversible nature of what I’ve done is suffocating, but as I listen to the entrancing chorus of crackles, pops and snaps, I remind myself of the alternative. I fiddle with the gold ring on my finger as I watch the flames take hold, transforming the house into a dazzling beacon visible for miles around. The fire flickers and dances, teasing the stars with its warm glow. The heat of the burning house is a comfort against the cold chill of the night, and I can’t help but feel that this is the most alive this building has felt for years. I picture the photo in the kitchen going up in flames, wiping the fake smile off the faces of the couple captured within it. For the first time in a long while, I tilt my head back and laugh like I used to with you. The smoke rises and rises and rises, leaping and twirling high above my head.

As the sun begins to rise, the roar of the fire is but a whisper, and the building is nothing more than charred wood, smoking embers and black ash. The distant sound of sirens grows louder and louder. I wish more than anything that I could have made those four walls a home once more. But your absence is engrained here, it always will be, and I’d rather keep your memory pure and distant than anchor it to Earth and watch it rot.