Its title is Bridge Hay.
Bridge Hay
We start, far out at sea. The ocean stretches all around, flat and glittering in the sunlight. We are rushing forward, just above the surface of the waves, close enough that we can taste the salt on our lips and even see the dark shapes of fish swimming beneath them. There is a feeling of mounting excitement as we speed along and sure enough, before long a strip of purple land appears on the horizon. The land comes closer quickly; we can see the white spray breaking against the tumbled rocks and cliffs. Our path is changing, veering; we are making for a break in the cliffs where a wild, semi-wooded valley makes its way down to the sea. All at once, we are high above the valley and by the soft reds, greens and golds of the trees, we can see it is Autumn. As we look down, a spear of sunlight illuminates one particular patch of woodland. To this part of the forest, by the effect of the light on the russet and amber curves of the foliage, we are irresistibly drawn. We fly closer – and it is only now you realise we are indeed flying – and find ourselves descending to the forest’s edge. There, I set you down gently, and then throw myself back into the air, glad to be free of my burden. It is your story now.
You find yourself on a patch of open hillside, covered with rough grass and bushes. Above you, a forest begins; below, at the bottom of the field, stands a large, graceful house. As you rise to your feet to look at it, the memories come rushing back – not in a flood, but in ones and twos – in brilliant images. The name of the house; Bridge Hay. The four children that had lived there, each with a bedroom looking out onto the hillside, and the marvellous adventures that befell them.
You gaze happily at the house. There are chimney stacks reaching up from both sides of the sloping roof, as well as one taller one in the middle. The white-painted front faces out across the valley and the sea, but the back of the house is of brown stone and gives out into the hillside, with the woods only a short distance away. The four identical gable windows, all in a row, are the very windows that the four children looked out of on that winter night so many years ago. Those woods, so sunny and gentle-looking now, are the same storm-lashed forest that they dared to enter.
On that night, the children threw aside their patchwork quilts and climbed out of the wooden cots with carved sides, in which they slept. Shivering, they pulled on clothes, and lighted candles to take with them – but who could keep a candle alight in such a gale? The forest outside had been turned by the storm into a black, howling beast. Yet all four children had answered the summons when it came, for they shared the same adventurous spirit.
The wind flung sheets of rain over them, soaking them to the skin as they crossed the hillside; their way fitfully lit as the clouds opened and closed their angry fists on the moon. As they reached the forest’s edge the roar of the wind through the trees rolled out like the voice of a creature deep inside it, and the darkness ahead was profound. Still they did not hesitate, and plunged into the blackness.
Slipping on wet leaves, whipped by branches, they lost one another at once and their frightened cries rose up to join the wind’s lament. Then they passed, as if through a veil, and found the place that had called them. It was a forest still, but silent now and empty; full of solemn grandeur. They tip-toed, holding their breath, through trees huger and more stately than any they’d grown up with.
Then out of the silence came music, wild music but muted, and they felt themselves growing until their heads were level with the giant trees, and then far above them. Then they looked down, and the treetops were clover leaves, and they were in a sweet sunny meadow dotted with friendly ash and birch. Scattered around were lumps of grey and brown stone. The children began to explore – but, stop. You are a story maker, not a story teller. Walk on, go to the house, see who lives there now!
Obediently, eagerly, you obey, hurrying down the hillside, feeling the ground bump beneath your feet. As the house grows nearer, you become more excited. You can feel the magic pouring off the house, from its doors, gables and window-panes. The trees around seem welcoming and as you breathe in, even the air tastes sweet – just as you remember. Cautiously, you approach the three white semicircular steps that lead up to the garden gate. An oval sign in black, white and pink enamel reads BRIDGE HAY, with a sprig of blossom painted above it.
The front of the house is stately and calm. Tall windows are placed so their panes reflect the glory of the setting sun. The well-tended lawns and gardens slope gently down the hill. After passing through the small white gate, there are two ways to go – to the left, down a gravel drive to the grand frontage, or to the right, up a small, brokenly-paved path. This is the path you follow, leading between two over-heavy laurel bushes up to a kitchen door that looks as if it could do with a lick of paint. You hesitate at the door, knock, and then push it open. You glimpse the kitchen, paved with red flagstones, but before you can observe any more, a crowd of children in dirty pinafores come racing out at full speed, all with their mouths open, and yelling at the tops of their voices. You dart to one side and let them pass through the doorway; whereupon they scatter and their pursuer comes to an abrupt halt.
“Brats!” she screams after them but they are out of sight by now. She is dressed as a housekeeper, and she has a harassed look about her.
“Brats,” she repeats in a much more subdued tone, “How’m I expected to do my work when I’m plagued by such a set of demons?”
She begins, with small touches, to put her uniform and her hair, which is sadly disarrayed, back in place. When she has finished, some of the hectic colour had disappeared from her cheeks.
“So,” she says, “Sit down, stranger, and tell me your news. I’ve work to do, and work must wait on visitors.”
You ask her about the children. Was she still living in the house when they had their famous adventures? The question appears to affect her deeply. She heaves a great sigh. “If only you knew,” says she, “of the battles I’ve fought to keep this house going. Things were different in those days. We had quite an establishment. Oh, everybody used to come here in the old days, when the master and mistress were still here – everybody! And then, of course, there were the children. Such lovely children – and so brave! But still – they’re all gone now. There’s only me left. And those brats from the village, that plague the life out of me.”
“Something terrible must have happened?” you surmise softly.
The housekeeper nods vigorously and meets your eyes with her own full of tears. “If only you knew,” she repeats, “how much I’ve struggled. It used to be a busy house – full of activity. Each in their proper place and all with a part to play. And Christmases – I wixh you could have seen one of our Christmases – the lights, the food, the singing and dancing, the decorations –“
You feel a great compassion for the tired-looking housekeeper. In your wish to comfort her, you tell her how well the house looks, and how none of the old magic has been lost.
“Have you been here before, then?” she asks, a tiny spark of hope kindling in her eyes.
“Yes,” you tell her, “I was born and brought up in this very house.”
Her wrists shoot out from under her cuffs and she seizes your arms in a tight, bony grip.
“Who are you?” she demands urgently.
“I am a traveller in time,” you tell her, “I am exploring my past.”
“Time traveller, can you see the future?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then tell me – will this house ever be full again? Will the owners return and bring the house back to life? Will my labours be repaid, at last?”
Behind closed eyes, you see many pictures. You see Bridge Hay humming and full of people, children playing in the garden. You see it empty, but beautiful, with the housekeeper’s face at the window. You see it derelict, with branches growing in through the windows and ivy creeping over the flagstones. This is the image you concentrate on, and it becomes sharper. You see that parts of the house have tumbled down and that the forest has somehow got closer and now encircles the ruins.
When you open your eyes, the housekeeper is still looking at you expectantly. The words do not want to be said, but in the end you say them.
“Bridge Hay will be abandoned at last.”
She believes you completely. She begins to weep, a luxury she has not allowed herself for many years. She packs her bags, still weeping, and sets off for the open road, leaving behind the charge that has been her master for so long.
You watch her back as she disappears down the hillside. She does not look round and you are glad for her. You sit yourself down in the spacious front drawing room. There is plenty of time. Time to watch the house imperceptibly fall down around you. Time to watch the gradual encroachment of the forest until the tumbledown building is quite hidden from view. And finally time to wait, to wait for four children to discover the ruins...
by Sabreena 1992To read about the reality of time travel, see my suite 101 article Psychic Tests show the Future can Predict the Past.
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