By P L Herlihy. All rights reserved.
I stare at my palm; I have been
gripping the key so tightly it’s left a perfect imprint there. Barrel, teeth,
the ornate scrollwork. I rub my hand to get the blood returning and then turn
my attention back to the estate agent, still fiddling with the heavy door lock,
unable to open the front door.
‘I am so sorry; this normally
does not happen! This house is very old and has been empty for some time, I
think the door might be jammed…’ She jiggles the key again but the door does
not budge.
‘Maybe if I try?’ I step up and
take the key from her hand and then, with my back blocking the agent’s view, I
swap it for my key. It fits the lock and I can feel the tumblers move sweetly
under the key’s turn. The lock clicks and the door slowly sweeps open, dry
hinges squeaking in protest as it moves. I hand the estate agent back her key
and pocket mine.
‘Oh well done! There’s always a
knack to these old locks. You clearly have made friends already with the old
place! I shall take that as a good sign. Now don’t forget your hard hat, the
roof is not in the best repair. Let’s see if I can find some lights. Ahh, here
we are!’
I settle the bright yellow hard
hat firmly on my head and, taking a deep breath of the chill autumn air, I step
inside the house.
…
I can barely remember a time in
my life before the key. It sat on the rich red velvet lining inside its
ornately carved little oakwood box, demanding my attention. While my great-aunt
owned it, it wore a bright red silk bow and stayed where she had put it, on her
dressing table, out of harm’s way. A pretty trinket for me to play with as a
child.
‘Now you mind young lady, that
key does not fit any of the locks in this house so don’t try it. I don’t want
to have to call a locksmith out to fix it if you jam up a lock. I will deduct
the cost from your visit treats. It will mean no sweets for a year!’
‘What lock does it fit aunt?’ But
she is always too busy to answer my question. Busy talking to my parents and making
tea. Adult conversations that drift over my head and leave me free to run and
play.
At the far end of my aunt’s
garden is an old greenhouse. Layers of flaking white paint on a rusted metal
frame holding up jagged glass panes, like snaggly teeth over a pair of old
potting table gums. The glass panes are green with algae and the potting tables
sag under the weight of stacked up clay pots and dusty cobwebs. Brambles crowd
the brick walls below the frame and catch at my socks. I figure if the key isn’t
for any of the doors in the house, maybe it is for the greenhouse door, the
lock looks as old as the key to me.
I make sure the adults are busy,
absorbed with their tea and talk and then I take the key on its red ribbon from
the pocket of my shorts and carefully turn it in the lock. The door to the
greenhouse opens and I step inside. The scent of tomatoes almost knocks me
over. Tall green stems, arching with prickly leaves, have great trusses of red
tomatoes spilling over the deep boxes they are growing in. At the far end of
the greenhouse I can see my Aunt, not shrunk with age, but young and tall,
tying in the trusses with deft movements. I stumble slightly and trip
backwards, falling back out of the greenhouse and landing in a patch of nettles
by the door. I can still see inside at the clean glass windowpanes, the freshly
painted frame, the riot of tomatoes.
‘Time to go home!’ The shout from
my mother reaches me at the end of the garden and I grab the key from the door
and turn, running as fast as I can to return it before anyone notices it is
gone from the house. My legs sting from the nettles and my head whirls with
what I’ve just seen. I glance back at the greenhouse but it is the empty,
broken, snaggly teeth frame it usually is.
…
Thirty years later the key sits
in its little carved box on the desk in my study. The ribbon has long since frayed and broken
and has been replaced with a sturdy silver watchchain. The key was left to me
by my great-aunt but she never once told me it’s secret and I never once told
her I knew. Now I know it was not just the key to the greenhouse lock but to
any door lock with a bit of age to it. A way to glimpse a past beyond it, step
back in time to whatever happened behind that door. Sometimes a few years,
sometimes centuries.
I have seen so many moments from
so many lives that I started writing them all down. My study is lined with an
impressive set of notebooks, chronicling every door, every vision. And I write
stories flowing from these visions imagining the lives from the scenes I see. Of
course I have to be careful, never visit the same estate agent again after I’ve
viewed the property I’m interested in. Make sure security cameras don’t catch
me when touring stately homes and old houses on open days. Abandoned factories,
castle ruins, museum visits, even high street shops and hotels can have old
doors. I have written several bestsellers, volumes of ghost stories and have a yearly
lecture tour on the history of domestic interiors. I am a success and I have
the key to my success with me in my pocket.
The house I have chosen to view
today is a grand Victorian townhouse, set back in its own grounds on a
tree-lined avenue in a country town. I have chosen it deliberately after taking
some time to research my family’s history. My publishers want to me write my
autobiography and so I thought I would start with a little research. This was
the house where my great-aunt was born. I have travelled for a few hours to get
there but the estate agent can understand why a move from the city to the
country is right for me now. With my large glasses, nondescript raincoat and a
scarf covering my hair she does not recognise me. Or maybe she’s never read one
of my books, either way, the hard hat completes my disguise today.
…
I breathe out and my breath hangs
in the icy air in front of me, fogging up my glasses momentarily. I glance back
at the doorway where the estate agent is still standing, perfectly still, hand
on the light switch, frozen in time. I move forward, the house is warm,
furniture stands polished, windows reflecting candlelight. I hear a noise and
turn to find an old lady descending the grand staircase, one hand gripping the
banister, the other gripping a silver-topped bamboo walking stick. She stares
at me as though she can see me and then asks. ‘Is that you, Viola, where have
you been? I have been waiting for so long. Your supper will be quite ruined.
Your parents are expecting you to say goodnight!’
I am taken aback. Firstly, can
this old lady see me and secondly, Viola was my great-aunt’s name. Before I can
think about what to do next the old lady reaches me and deftly slips a hand
into my raincoat pocket, retrieving the key on its silver chain. ‘Ahah! I
thought as much! Here it is as usual, it is not your plaything Viola. This is my
key!’ The old lady scolds, clipping the key back onto her chatelaine while
raising the bamboo cane and whacking me on the leg with a practised hand before
I can move out of the way. The cane makes stinging contact and, like the first
time I used the key all those years ago, I stumble backwards in shock and fall
back through the open door; sprawling on the wide stone steps leading up to the
porch.
‘Oh my dear! Are you OK?’ the
estate agent reaches out a hand. ‘I’m afraid these old houses can be such a
nightmare to show round, trip hazards everywhere. Are you hurt? I didn’t see
you stumble; I was just turning on the lights…’
‘I’m fine, really, just caught my
foot on the doorframe. Clumsy really. No honestly, I’m fine.’ I tap the hard
hat to reassure her and glance beyond her into the house but it is lit with the
bright glow of modern lightbulbs and I can see peeling wallpaper and bare
wooden floorboards. I check my raincoat pocket but there is no key there. I
search the steps around me but there is no sign of it. I scramble to my feet
and check all my pockets but there is only my phone, my purse and a train
ticket. The key is gone.
‘Are you sure are OK? Have you
lost something?’
‘Oh! No, no it’s here.’ I
retrieve my train ticket and wave it at her, ‘Thought I’d lost it for a moment.’
‘Well, if you really are OK shall
we carry on, I have a viewing straight after this across town.’
I nod and follow the estate agent
into the house, not sure now there will be anything more to see.
The End
