Shards
Are you selling, then? I see Julia Mary Pullman tugged the hem of her long pleated skirt, shook her head, glanced around suspiciously, stepped gingerly over the puddle in the path and climbed the steep steps to the porch. At the top, pausing on a plaited doormat, she scraped the caked mud from her ankle boots and shivered. The rain had just stopped; drops still dripped from the apple trees in the garden. The earth, blanketed with curled brown and yellow leaves, steamed gently in the morning sun, which flitted cheerfully over the blackcurrant bushes, darted through the bare bands of withered cherry trees. In the barrel by the house, the skyautumn blue and dazzlingreflected itself, sending fluffy, cotton-like clouds skimming over the water.
Lydia Ann Benson, known by family and neighbours alike as Liddy, to her son mum, to her husband Lydsa quiet woman, almost translucent, with delicate, twig-like hands, tiny feet, a fragile figure, and a porcelain dolls facepale, almost white, with two impractical spots of red on her cheeksnodded, sighing. She was selling her holiday cottage, her familys old nest.
So why are you asking so much for such a ramshackle place? Julia pulled a face, emphasising so much. She was a decisive bargain-hunter: always haggled in the market, calculated value in shops, and was careful with her pounds. She hadnt always been that way; life had taught her, hardened her, in those lean late-eighties, when young and lovely Julia had wanted it all, but her wages went unpaid. Together with her husband Iana young, wild man, mad about herJulia had started a small dress shop for Eghams residents. But where to get decent fabrics, proper zips and buttons? You had to keep up appearances, keep the standard. They manoeuvred, played the system, hunted for profitable sources. Cheated, even. They had wanted the good life: a nice flat, imported stereos and TVs, fine whiskeys and gins at the home bar. Living by honour, by ruleswho had time for that? There was business to run!
Julia had learned to be sharp, even ruthless with those who got in the way, yet ingratiating with people who had power. Ian knew it all, yet said nothing. If you dont like it, you can always leave! Julia had once made her position clear. Ian decided he liked everything just as it was, and stayed with Julia many years, though he had another on the sideZoe, his Bunny. Yet he always separated the meat and the flies. He liked venison and game, real drinks, not Zoes dreadful moonshine. There was passion and tenderness in Zoe, money in Juliaput it together, and Ian had the perfect life. Did Julia know? Not really. Suspected? Yes, but dared not push her husband away
Julia ran a gloved hand along the porch railing, shook off green mossy bits.
Couldnt you at least tidy up the place? Ian! Ian, what are you waiting for? she called to her husband, who, slouched over the bonnet of their grey Ford, smoked with his neck ducked into his coat. Come over here. Or am I expected to do everything myself again?
Reluctantly, Ian stamped out his cigarette, tried to open the garden gate, but it wouldnt budge.
It opens outward, not inward! Are you daft? barked Julia. Without waiting for him, she ordered him to unlock the house and show them the inside.
The small, tongue-and-groove clad entryway was spotless, with a space for logs, hooks for coats and a hand-built shoe rack. By the door hung a large, oval mirror in a simple, dark wooden frame.
How many of these silly rugs do you have in this house? Such outdated tastes! Julia huffed, poking at a floral rug with her toe. Just dirt and dust lurking underneath! Youre a modern woman, surelyyet its all so old-fashioned! Like something out of the Stone Age, honestly.
Theyre from my gran, Lydia said, love in her voice. We made them together. Take a lookhandmade, you cant buy ones like these.
They had made them, she and gran. Theyd torn up old dresses, worn-out blouses and skirts; Granny Val showed her how to cut strips, how to weave in a pattern. Yes, they werent from a shopnowadays, handmades were seen as simple, even inferior. But to Lydia, they were memories. Memories of Granny Val and her rough, warm hands, of her mother, a cheerful slip of a woman whod dance barefoot over the rugs, spin and be caught by Lydias father. These rugs were the memory of little Kit crawling about, playing with his toy cars, imagining the rugs as a map of the world with countries, cities, roads, and seas.
Memories for sale today. Sold for cash, to a woman who would likely burn or throw the rugs away. They meant nothing to her.
Tat and rubbish, those! Im not paying a penny for them. What else have you got? Stop dithering, lets go, Ive things to do! snapped Julia, content to be brusque and pushy today.
Just like her father, Julia mused, watching Lydia. Seemed so frail, but underneath hard as nails. Probably the same, soft on the outside, stone inside.
Heres the main room, could serve as a lounge, and theres the kitchena good size, overlooks the garden, Lydia explained, waving her hand around.
How can you call this big? Julia scoffed. Be honest if you want to sell. Dont exaggerate!
Come see for yourself.
Ill know where I wish to go! What else is there? Julia retorted, looking away.
Theres a larderwhere we keep preserves and things. The oven works. If you fire it up, it warms the whole house. Here, on the right, Lydia showed her a half-open door, was my fathers study. We havent cleared it yet, but the rest well empty.
Your fathers study? Julia adopted a curious tone. How interesting.
Inside, a heavy oak desk with a green felt top dominated the room. Why did intellectuals always pick such desksall the stains show On the desk sat a handsome bronze pen holder: hunters lying around, their trees replaced by a pen and pencil.
Fascinating, Julia murmured, running a hand over the desk. So, your fatheran academic? Judging by the shelves?
Yes. He taught history at the polytechnic. Lydia touched the desk too; the polished surface was cool and smooth, and the room smelt of tansy. Father always insisted on laying it out; kept mice away, he said. Yet the critters crept in anyway, gnawed the wallpaper, sometimes even the books. That happened when the family didnt visit in winterso much work for Father, and Mother always ill, so Liddy and gran would look after the home. Theyd ride the train out, walk an hour through the woods, then fumble with the frozen gate before bracing themselves inside. Liddy loved the deep snow, found the drab city winter unbearable. Gran would tramp a path, sigh about the mischief of the mice, heat water for tea on the stove.
Afterwards, theyd check the rooms, then get ready for the trip back. Gran would always cross herself in the hallway, bow, mouth her little prayers for the house to be safeguarded. Liddy listenedshe didnt believe in God; school said He didnt exist, people were mistaken. But she didnt interrupt gran. She liked the hush, the ritual: cross, bow, adjust scarf, then, with a God speed!, shuffle down the porch. The stairs would creak under her heavy, slow tread: Dum-dum, dum-dum Then faster: Dum-dum-dumdum! Liddy herself would dash down, make a snowball, lob it at a tree so it shook the snow onto gran, who gasped and crossed herself all over again. At the gate both would look back: the house, shuttered and dark, snuggled under snow like a downy blanket, porch timbers black from the damp, seemed to sigh, tucking itself away for winter. Off went gran and girl, treading through the wild, quiet woods.
So he lectured, you say. Right. Whats he up to now? Julia asked as she stepped out and headed up the stairs.
Dads been retired ages, can hardly see, had to give up work. Three small bedrooms upstairscozy rooms.
Hear that, Ian? The master went blind. Punishment from above, eh? Julia mocked her husband, who just shrugged. He hadnt the faintest why his wife wanted this old dump. They could get a bigger, newer place closer to town.
A mad dogll walk any distance, Julia had said on the drive down.
Whos the mad dog? Ian had blinked at the road.
Never mind. Just drive and hush.
The staircase, with bannisters just the right size to grip, rose to the upper floor. Again, there were rugs, making Julia grimace.
Old habits die hard, she muttered. And whys it pitch black? Difficult to flick a switch, is it, Mrs Benson? Hows anybody supposed to view the houseis there something to hide, mould or cockroaches in the corners?
Im not hiding a thing, heres the switch.
A bulb flared in the corridor, lighting three doors. At the end stood another glass-fronted display case, like the one below, but filled now with porcelain figurinesfoxes, wolves, dogs, ladies with parasols, ballerinas, shepherdesses and their suitors, nude nymphs shrouded by long locks, rosy-faced children, a sailor boy with a parcel, an accordionist soldier, a painted Japanese lady.
My word Ian pressed his nose to the glass, peering in. You could get more for this lot than the whole house!
They arent for sale. Theyre Dads. Well take them, just leave the case, Lydia replied softly.
Her father had been an avid collector of figurines: hed prowled car boot sales and antique shops, never haggled, paid whatever was askedeven borrowed if needed, and always brought new treasures home. Liddy loved their painted faces, stroked the glossy porcelain animals, marvelled at the ballerinas dainty legs. Mum and gran thought it silly, accused Andrew of wasting family savings.
You just dont get it! Youre so dull and earthythis is art, and its being trampled into the mud at markets! hed cry and disappear into his study.
The figurines started on the bookshelves, but when Lydias son Kit was small, he squirreled a sailor away to play under his blanket. When it went missing, there was an uproar. Lydia packed, thinking to leave for good, so great was her fathers furybut she never could depart. That very day, her father had his first stroke. Lydia spent the night in hospital, refusing to leave.
So which are the favourites? Every collector has their treasures, Julia asked, brow raised.
Yes. The skier, the ballerina, and the swimmer. Lydia pointed to several.
She remembered clearly how her father had unwrapped them at home, proudly pulling each from his old briefcase. As a girl, shed wanted to touch themher sharp father strictly forbade it. Only to look, never to touch.
Honestly, what tasteless trinkets! Julia suddenly snapped, flinging open the cabinet, grabbing the porcelain swimmer in her blue cap, turning her over in her hands, and thentossed her to the floor. As Lydia and Ian stared, open-mouthed, Julia seized the skier and ballerina and dashed them too. There. The most precious? So be it. Damn you, Uncle Andrew! Damn you!
Julia! Youyou what are you doing?! Ian gasped. Mrs Benson, Im so terribly sorry! My wife, she he fell to his knees, crawling under the case to collect the broken bits.
Lydia was silent, trembling.
I dont understand. Who are you? Why did you call my father Uncle Andrew? Why act as though youve been here before? This is our housemine, my grans, my fathers, my sons
Its not yours now, though, is it? Youre selling. The family nest, so cosy, overflowing with memories Christmas with a fresh, bushy fir treebrought in by hand, wasnt it? All those glass ornaments Where was it put, just by the stairs? Yes, and your father always tied it to the railings so it wouldnt topple. He dressed up as Father Christmas each year for presentsand you saw him, and were so proud. Summers, thered be picnics in the orchardunder the cherry trees, though I suppose they withered? No matter, Id cut them down anyway.
Lydia gripped the bannister, colour draining from her face.
Lets all sit down, talk calmly, yes? Ian tried to mediate, nervous, dreading female quarrels from a childhood of two matriarchs.
Well, why not, Ian, good idea. Or shall I just set light to the place now, before they have a chance to cart away every last teacup, book, curio and rug? Lydia, got any matches?
Julia, come now, youre not yourself. Lets just go home and have some tea, youll feel better. Excuse us Ian grabbed at Julias sleeve, but she shook him off.
No, we will talk. Lydia, youre selling up for your son, arent you? Well, lets have a cup of tea Theres nothing to be afraid of, is there?
Julia stomped downstairs, familiarly, rattling the kettle.
Now, sit down. Right, wheres the mugs, I said?
In the cupboard there, but
Which ones your fathers? That fine bone china, pink floral? Ohthats yours This one with the foolish horse, your sons, I supposeloves horses, that one. The deep blue one with the gold, your grans? No? Must have been your mothers. Mothers gone? And mine, of course. But wheres the most important cup? Wheres the masters?
Lydias eyes betrayed her as Julia poked about.
Oh, you mean that dreadful one? Didnt your mother give him a beautiful black one, gold rimmed? He never showed you? Ashamed, maybe. But this old thing? Ill bin it!
She made to smash it when Ian halted her, stilling her hands. The kettle shrieked on the cooker, as if drawing a line under Julias onslaught and Lydias silent defeat.
You knew him? My father? Lydia whispered. Ian passed her a mug, but she didnt touch it, as if it might poison her.
I did. You surely thought he was a saint? The perfect dad, husband, grandad. Shame your mum never did learnbut she was far from being his only love. I could have been your sister. He met my mother at one of those figurine shows. Mum let slip she had a few rare pieces; he called next day, brought flowers, compliments, Mum fluttered. For me, it was a dolla talking German one. You had one too, didnt you? He often stayed overnight, then Id be sent to next doorawful old Mrs Jennings, always insulting me and my mother. But I put up with it for Mumshe was never so happy as with him. Once, he took us out here, for the fresh country airI thought he meant to marry her. Here in your house I saw toys, realised there was another child. They told me not to touch them.
I always had the feeling someone else had been in my room,” Lydia agreed quietly.
There you go. He told Mum how lovely it was at Christmas, the tree, the lot. I thought one day it might be like that for us. I spent many nights at Mrs Jenningss, till one day Andrew showed up, handed my mum cash and took her figurines. Said it would cover an abortion, told her to get on with life. I could have had a siblingcan you imagine? But Mum didnt keep the child. Too cramped in a flat, she said She faded after that, took her tablets, tried to hold on till I was grown. She used to weep at night. After a while, she just became quiet, absent. Your dad destroyed her. Left her like an abandoned pup. And you, crying nowunpleasant to hear, is it? I want you to hurt, too, just like us. You had everything; I buried my mother at eighteen, got into college, then there he wasyour dad, lecturing history. He didnt remember. I didnt take revengejust waited. I transferred, dropped out, opened the shop with Ian, got on. And thenyour son started at my office. Kit, isnt it?
Yes, but how did you know? He uses his fathers surname.
He told me, at a staff party after too much bubblycouldnt stop talking about this house, even invited me along!
My Kit Lydia shut her eyes, shaking her head. Hed never been discreet, always over-sharing
Hes got a tongue without a bone, that one, scoffed Julia. Amusing, in its way.
Kit got mixed up with the accounts, the money went missing Was that you? Lydia asked quietly.
No. He did that himself. I just watched. You started selling up to help him. Now Im ready to step in myself. This house will be mine. Ill have my own country cottage, the stairs, a Christmas tree, study, gardenpicnics, just like you, see? Julia jabbed a finger at the window. Its my turn to get Andrews legacy. I could have had your boy sent down for fraud, but I wont. Ill buy your place, you give him the money, he pays mesorted. Its nothing less than I deserve. Your father stole my mother; you idolised him, didnt you? Silly woman. He betrayed you all. Gone blind, is he? Serves him right!
She stood abruptly, hugging herself.
Ian, get me a cigarette!
Jules, please, dont Ian pleaded, shaking his head.
I. Said. Get. Me. A. Cigarette! she hissed, each word sharp.
He patted himself down helplessly. Dropped them somewhere. Sorry, Ill grab some from the car, he excused himself, fleeing to the garden as the scent of wet leaves and smoke wafted in.
Julia gave a grim nod. Ian always was hopelessclumsy, late, always breaking things.
It wont help, Jules, Lydia said softly, approaching and gently turning her to face her. Youve told me terrible thingsI dont know how to process it all. I can only imagine how you suffered, and your revenge is understandable, but even if you take the house, the flat, the car, everything, you wont live my life. This house will only be a well of old pain for you, always comparing, always resentful. Youll tear yourself apart.
No, Ill take what should have been mine, what my mother wanted, Julia sobbed. Let go of me!
Youll only be unhappy, Lydia shook her head. Build a new life, one of your own, with your own memories, your own traditions. Youre strong, incredibly capable. Live in the present! Am I harsh? SorryIm asking for my fathers sake, to forgive, to let it all go. What you told meit shatters everything I thought I knew. Do you do you and Ian have any children?
No, I never wanted them. Were just workmates, really.
The women lapsed into uneasy silence, eyes lost in the garden.
You never let yourself be happy, Lydia said suddenly, all because of your mum. You thought, if her life was shattered, yours had to be as well, but thats wrong! She always hopedknewyoud have a better one. Thats what all parents want, really. This house is beside the point
Julia turned away. Happiness? Was it possible? Her mum might have said, Go on, love, for both our sakes.
Lydias mobile rang, buzzing on the table.
Mum! Kit bellowed into the handset. Mum! You havent signed anything, have you? That woman come to view? Dont sign a thing! Some bloke from Scotland calledsaid his company got a transfer from me, freaked him out. Theyve returned it all. I dont owe anything. Tell her to leave!
His booming voice travelled through the house; Julia looked aside, rolling her eyes.
Kit, dont shout, please. Shes here, were sorting it out. Love you, Kit! Thank goodness its all resolved!
As she switched off, Lydia gazed, uncertain, at her guest.
I think Ill be going. Julia turned, marched out. Well, since thats settled, no need for more talk.
Give me your number, Lydia asked.
Why? Well, alright
She scribbled it quickly on an old bit of newspaper from the sill, then was gone, out into the garden.
Lydia heard the Fords engine rev, tyres spinning in the sodden soil then silence.
And so, it was as if not porcelain, but Lydias very life had been smashedsmashed and scattered, sharp edges tearing the air. All those bright, cherished memories; all that pride in her father, the belief her parents marriage had been happy, the thought of her father as a kind of saintall had collapsed, plunged into a black, bottomless pit. And she had no idea what to do next.
Her cat, old Thomas, padded in from the garden, damp seeds stuck to his coat, and nudged her leg, meowing. Cats always know, always sense, and try to ease their owners pain.
Well, old friend, lets get you dry. At least youre not a traitor? No, youre a good one. Thomas Tommy She settled him on her knee, dried him with a towel, then sat, eyes lost on the garden beyond
Julia, her mum, a German doll, shattered porcelain, her fathers betrayalthey whirled in her thoughts, wrapped her in a burning, restless sleep that night. Waking in the dark, Lydia couldnt get back to sleep. The window rattled in the neighbouring room; Tommy batted the rugs fringe.
She slipped on her dressing gown, crept downstairs to her fathers study, sat in his old chair.
How to speak to Dad now? Pretend to know nothing, or confess it allsay, Julias mum died because of you? Lately he forgot things, sometimes even the past.
What used to seem a cosy, dignified study now felt alien, cold, blank. Lydia drifted to the kitchen, poured herself some tea.
No, its not right. It just isnt! she declared suddenly, setting down her cup. Outside, dawn edged in; water dripped from the eaves, splashing into the rain barrel, perfect circles spreading. A scarlet-and-gold maple leaf floated, rocking gently on the surface.
At ten, Lydia rang Julias number. No answer.
Come over, lets try again, Julia read Lydias message, sighing into the shoulder of her sleeping husband.
Its a mistake, Lydia. I just dont know how to be close to peopleIm afraid Ill be hurt, Julia blurted the minute Lydia met her at the gate. Today Julia was completely changedplain tracksuit, hair in a ponytail, barely any makeup, lips natural, her face no longer haughty but lost and unsure, voice gentle rather than sharp.
Lydia smiled, invited her in, curious now to discover which Julia was the real one. She was not a nobodyno, she was strong, deeply unhappy, beautiful. Lydia found herself, strangely, wanting a friend like her.
But you came, said Lydia. Its never too late to learn, to trust. I want us to be happy, truly happy. She shrugged, started laying the table. Now, wheres your Ian? Call him in, lets have some lunch! She busied herself hunting out food from the fridge, directing the kitchen.
Hes loitering with the car, waiting for us to fight. Ian! Julia yelled. Come inits safe now, theres no row. Turning to Lydia: He loathes rows. Spent his whole life with his mother and gran, poor man To the door: Ian, fetch us the watermelon!
Flustered, panting Ian staggered in, nearly slipped on the steps, and the two women laughed as they caught him at the elbows and dragged the watermelon inside.
So, were not buying the house, then? he whispered to Lydia.
No.
Oh, thank goodness! I cant stand gardens or allotments. Jules, youve saved me!
Julia smiled sheepishlyher husband so rarely thanked her, and it felt oddly wonderful.
And thank you, she replied.
As Lydia sat with hands neatly on her lap, she wondered where everyone would sleep come Christmas. Theyd still have Christmas here, of course, but there definitely werent enough spare rooms And Julia simply had to have her country Christmas with a real tree tied to the bannister, presents underneath! Well, she thought, that could be sorted laterhappiness always comes a little at a timeAs if the thought conjured it, Lydia caught Julias eye and found, for the first time, something real therelaughter, yes, but softer around the edges, edged with hope, like the golden sun chasing away the last mist from the briar hedge. In that delicate pause before cutting the watermelon, as the old clock ticked in the hall and Thomas purred against Ians shoe, Lydia felt, unmistakably, that the greatest holidays were made not by blood or inheritance, but by forgiveness and the opening of doors, however battered they might be.
Ive never actually had Christmas in the country, Julia confessed, running a finger around the rim of her cup. Just city ones. Everythings too bright, too hurried.
Well, then, Lydia smiled, this year, well do it all properly. A treetied safely, dont worryginger biscuits, silly songs, and maybe, she winked, just a little drama. Kit will be here, and you, and Ian. Dad too, if hes well enough. And if the oven plays up, well just laugh about the half-baked pudding.
I could bring a few of my mothers old ornaments, Julia offered, shy as a child. Lydia nodded, and the women exchanged the smallest, bravest glancenew shards, not of pain, but of possibility.
Outside, the sun burst through cloud and lit up every last drop in the tangled apple trees; the world sparkled and waited. The wounds, old and new, would never vanish, but they might soften if shared between honest handsif every sharp shard found its place in the mosaic of a new beginning.
And inside that little house, beneath the worn, memory-laden rugs, three people and a cat laughed as watermelon juice ran everywhere. Their laughter roseuneven, riotous, healing. For the first time, in the warm heart of the cottage, Lydia felt not broken but whole, standing in the light of forgiveness, and the fragile hope of unexpected friendship.
