Open Writing

On the brow of the hill, to the left, there was a stone cottage with thick walls and a fat chimney at either end of the roof. There was nothing to the right, only the view, sweeping down the valley and up again to a ridge, a bare backbone with green slopes and clumps of trees here and there. Dry stone walls on both sides of the lane were pocked with moss and lichens, and the wind whistled in and out at all times and in all seasons.

You couldn’t imagine who would build a cottage right up there. The nearest neighbour was a mile away, and the soil was too stony for growing good vegetables. The postman struggled up the lane twice a week, and that was all. No gas or electricity, no running water, just an old well at the end of the garden. There was a privy down there too, half hidden by squat little apple trees, stunted by the wind. It would have been a hard life for anyone living up there, but the house had been empty now for some time. It wasn’t even up for sale, for in those parts it wasn’t the sort of property anyone would want.

A year before the old couple who lived there had died, one after the other, within weeks. The postman had found the old man, cold and confused, looking for his wife at the end of the garden, and when the doctor came, alerted by the postman, he found the old lady already dead, and the old man heading that way. They were buried in the same plot down in the village churchyard.

The place had stood empty ever since, lonely and abandoned: apples from the trees lay rotting on the ground. I climbed up and up that day, just needing a good walk to blow the city cobwebs away from my brain. It was cold as I reached the top and I wished I had worn a thicker jacket. The stout grey walls came into view, and I rounded the last bend in the road, breathing in deep and strong, filling my lungs with the cold clean air.

For a moment I thought I had climbed the wrong lane. I didn’t often find time to visit my grandmother in the village. Then I realised there was no other lane up the hill - but the bit of wall that I leaned against to get my breath was ablaze with purple aubretia, and the garden behind was full of summer flowers, so where was I? Where could I be, if not where I expected to be?

It was only a moment of doubt. I could see the cottage clearly; the windows were open and there were lace curtains blowing in the breeze. The door was painted blue and there was a big shiny brass letter box in the middle and as I watched a young man came out carrying a wooden bucket. He wore breeches and boots, and his hair shone like copper in the sunlight, and he was smiling at a young woman who followed him outside.

“I won’t be long, Mary,” he said, “put the kettle on. I’m just going for the water.”

He disappeared down the garden towards the well, and after a minute or two he came back and went in and closed the door. I saw the glow of an oil lamp being lit, and the two of them smiled again and looked at each other with such happiness. Carefully, the curtains with roses on them were drawn and I couldn’t see them any more.

I only turned round for a minute to scan the valley below. Dusk was coming, and it was autumn, just as it had been when I set out on my walk. In the cottage garden it had been summer: there had been pots of geraniums everywhere, and roses climbing, and hollyhocks reaching for the sky.

I turned back to be sure of what I had seen, but already it was too late. The illusion, the apparition was still there, but slowly, gently, it faded away. There was no lamp, no bright flowers, and no-one stood behind the rotted away curtains. Like a mist rolling in, a feeling of desolation crept in and covered the place, and I felt cold and sad and hurried back down the hill to my grandmother’s house.

I asked her, after a few days of thinking about it, if she knew anything about the old couple who used to live on the hill. She didn’t, because she’d only been in the village for forty years, but she pointed me towards great aunt Nettie in the next village. I went to see her and asked my questions.

“They came here when they were first married,” she said. “Never had children, didn’t seem to mind. Just kept themselves to themselves, growing a few vegetables and kept a couple of hens. They got water from the well and he chopped wood for the fire, and that was it. Came down to the village once a fortnight for a few groceries and oil for the lamp.”

“And what did they look like?” I asked. “Can you remember?”

“I can remember the boy,” said my aunt. “His hair was curly and so red, we used to call him carrots. Always wore boots and breeches. Oh, and the young wife, I know she was called Mary, but I don’t know what she looked like.”

I’ve been back a time or two, climbing against the wind. I’ve not seen them again, but I’m sure they’re there, just where they want to be.