FICTION: THE HOUSE OF DREAMS

Surrounding us are dense woodlands. All around are ancient trees. Mist enshrouds the treetops and hovers above a nearby pond which is encircled by bullrushes. Birds call in the distance. Branches hang low and all is still. Spanish moss hanging from branches and the grasses underfoot are all damp with dew.

The month? September. The time, morning. The hour, twelve before five.

We are within an area of vast dimensions, green with wild nature all safe from human hands. Within this green paradise lies a well-manicured estate of tended parklands; an English park of architecturally placed trees designed to outdo nature. Here the old style attempts a harmonising of home and heath. Within this estate lies a palatial home, stately in its patinated archaic grandeur. And within the home lie dreamers.

Caressing the stone of the upper storey as we pass we peek into a window framed by red velvet. On the bed lies a sleeping form. The name of this form is Lizzie. She does not stir, deep in her slumbers, she sees beyond the life of this house to realms far beyond.

Shall we see what Lizzie sees for a moment or two?

The path over the hill is strewn with white pebbles of quartz. Atop the hill lie two or three stunted willows, the cold breeze causing their dry leaves to rattle. Lizzie is not alone. In her skirt pocket, she carries a frog, lately fished from the nearby stream. She recalls a dream long ago when she was too young for conscience and watched a smaller frog crawl in fear into a gap in the stream bank. She took a stick and prodded the gap until white liquid spilled out. Thinking nothing of it but slight annoyance at the unfriendly frog she wandered on in her childhood day.

Within her dream, Lizzie now feels sorrow for her act of callous cruelty and caresses the wet head of her frog friend. No one will harm her Prince Charming while she protects him.

Through the wall is Mr Johnson-Deedes, he is on a beach in the Bahamas, dozing to the sound of nearby calypso drums. He opens his dreamy eyes to find a young Nordic beauty staring down into them. “Would you like a massage perhaps?” He would as it happens. His old soul warms to the powerful Nordic hands now softly pummeling his back. He will soon awake to find himself caressed by these memories and almost ancient memories, of a life long gone.

We proceed next door to Mrs Johnson-Deedes where a very different affair is in progress. She is mounted on the horse most royal being the central attraction as she officiates at ‘Trooping the Colour’ in all her undoubted dignitary. Her hand shakes a little as her brain signals a slight wave is in order. Mrs Johnson-Deedes is in a seventh heaven of royal wonderment and will wake supremely satisfied.

A light rain is falling, trickling down moss-covered tiles to gutters running out to the gravel paths that circle the house. Above, the sky is light grey, the sun wan, shining like a substitute moon down on the grand home of the Lawsons. Oh yes… this home is not owned by the Johnson-Deedes, their line ran out of cash in the Thirties. This is the baronial residence of Lordon Lawson of Lundin Links, grandson of the former baronet of Longthorne no less.

Now it is time to visit the twins. They are housed in the adjoining annexe due to their rather boisterous nature. Granny Hopkins cannot abide their noise, that’s why they’re there. Safe and sound and out of earshot.

Who is Granny Hopkins? Granny is the head bottle washer, dogsbody, nanny and meal-arranger. She appears very ancient but is in fact only fifty-two. She was born as the sun set on the British Empire. How can that be you ask? What year is it, anyway? All will be revealed… but not right now.

Now we must visit Granny in her cell. Yes, that’s right, cell. Long before when Lawson of the Links lived here there was an uprising among the peasantry. This necessitated the construction of a number of cells in the servants’ quarters high up in the north wing. In one of those we will find Granny… and her dreams.

She is an angel winging this way and that toward a lighthouse in the distance. Below her the sea is a torment of high flying waves and crashing foam. The sky above is black with storm clouds with a whistling wind beating Granny’s wings making her wheel and pivot out of her control. But, she must reach the lighthouse. Albert is waiting there for her, an old albatross of her youthful acquaintance. She knows he likes her to be prompt and no excuse will do. Granny visualizes him, beak thrust out defiantly daring the wind or the spittling rain to touch him. Oh but she loves that creature so! She WILL fly to his wings, nothing will stop her…

The twins have arrived in the pantry among the gleaming copper pots and pans, grinding machines, thick white plates and long forks and knives. They stab the wooden table with these latter utensils making loud screams as they do so. Two more terrible little banshees you have never seen. They are Alf and Alice and mean to make their mark, on this table if nothing resembling a human passes by.

Meanwhile, Lizzie stirs and searches for a frog in her nightshirt pockets before staring bleary-eyed at her reflection in the sideboard mirror facing her. She wrinkles her nose at the state of her hair and reaches for the large chord dangling from the ceiling to her right.

In the corridor leading to the kitchen are the bells. Granny doesn’t hear Lizzie’s bell ringing at first due to the loud screaming emerging through the kitchen door. Then, in a gap between loud thuds and screams she hears it tinkling, turns and makes for the stairs.

“Tea. Eggs as usual. Toast. Tomato ketchup. The Middlesborough Herald. Thank you Granny.”

Granny turns on her heel and retreats downstairs growing ever closer to the sounds of pandemonium coming from the kitchen. As she reaches the door all noise stops and there is perfect silence. Opening the door she found all in order within… except for a butcher’s cleaver stabbed deep into one of the windowsills. With a shrug of her shoulders, she sets to work.

Mr Johnson-Deedes is sitting up in his bed with a broad smile on his rather haggard face. It gives the impression of two blue blackbird eggs stuck in a haystack. But this is a much nicer visage than his usual early morning look, believe me. He has awoken from one of those dreams where the smile or laugh within it emerge unscathed to greet the new day. He rises and beats his chest with some vigour while striding to the window where he takes a very big breath into his somewhat creaky old lungs.

Gazing at the fringe of trees to his left and the well-spaced oaks and pines across the English park he has one of those moments when all seems right with the world. This lasts until he hears the twins galloping laughing and grimacing while they toot some tiny horns they’ve found. A frown turns his fragile smile down before it edges back up again unfazed. Twins will be twins he thinks to himself, sighs and heads for the bedroom door.

Upon exiting he shuffles grandly along to the pink and rose door of Mrs D. As usual he softly scratches down the door panel before letting himself in. Mrs Deedes greets him with her usual, “Good morning dear” and, he observes in a gayer note than usual. “I see we have both had happy dreams my dear, that’s nice”. She smiles evenly toward him and on hearing this her smile broadens and she brings her arms up above her head to invite a hug. He acquiesces, sitting down beside her on the bed then half falls into her arms.

Far off in the distance, a somewhat discordant note of a tiny horn is heard. Their heads rise for a moment before they laugh in happy synchronicity.

Just at that moment in the estate cottage Tayler the gardener is getting his wellington boots on. His hair is splayed in every blond direction atop his hoary old head. His breakfast of thick slices of bread with butter, banana and strawberry jam washed down with a huge mug of tea, is over and done with and sustained against the day he barges out through the front cottage door. The apple trees in the orchard are his target today. Pruning and sweeping, weeding and tending are his tasks, tasks he has repeated endlessly each year that comes. And a great many have come and gone before his eyes, those white circled eyes of Tayler who have seen sunrises and sunsets aplenty and ready for yet more.

The milk cart now rattles into view. Tommy on top of course, every now and then caressing Topsy’s hindquarters with his otherwise useless whip. Creamy red top milk is deposited with a pull at the knob of the old bell ringer by the front door. Granny can be heard shuffling toward the door and he awaits her.

“Top of the morning to you Granny!”

“Same to you Tommy… and to you Topsy”, she calls.

Topsy stands immobile though on hearing Granny’s voice she shakes her mane a little and raises one hoof… just slightly mind you.

Tommy laughs.

“She knows you know.”

“I know she does Tommy lad.”

“G’day.”

“G’day.”

The slight rain has stopped and the sun begins to shine brighter through the cloud cover. Birds, at first quite distant in their twittering can now be heard more frequently. Unseen a hundred tiny lives begin their day.

Let us now peruse the upper living quarters. Most are completely empty and unused now. There is quiet there as the sun glances and dances, sparkling on the side of a green bottle nestled within a cabinet, now fluttering in a lost corner, now caressing the myriad motes that float gracefully all around. The soughing of the wind is all that is heard… not even the tootling of a tiny horn breaks the silence of the room, the twins being otherwise occupied down by the lake.

Just beyond the window, beyond the ivy that graces either side, past the sandstone walls, out just some inches into the warming morning air a shimmer has begun. It wafts and waves, tiny rainbows caught within it. A car is heard. A voice. Several voices reply. Then a sound like a roof collapsing, a mechanical grating, a horn blares, and overhead there’s a droning sound. Voices and noises multiply, a boom is heard, then some child shrieks in either pain or joy. A growling undertone hum seems to envelop the air by the window before silently a thin wisp of grey smoke floats nonchalantly into the room.

Outside, John and Dawn with their children, Mark and Veronica are greeted by Mr Godfrey from the estate agent’s in town.

“Here it is. What do you think? First impressions?”

“It’s rather nice. A pity about the area, it's a noisy very road, isn’t it?”

“I know. When my Dad was a boy it was all fields and greenery around here he says. Hard to believe, I know. ‘Used to be a country estate by all accounts. Very pretty it was apparently.”

The couple look at each other with something akin to scepticism and then slightly purse their lips.

Paul spoke first.

"I can't picture that I'm afraid."

Dawn looked at her husband wistfully. Then looked up at the house before looking back to the street and all around them as they stood at the doorway.

“What a pity, it’s a real shame So much has changed, so much has been lost. But I think I can imagine it though, as it was. With my eyes closed, if I try really hard, I'm sure I can just about do it…”

Dawn looked at her husband wistfully. Then looked up at the house before looking back to the street and all around them as they stood at the doorway.

“What a pity, it’s a real shame So much has changed, so much has been lost. But I think I can imagine it though, as it was. With my eyes closed, if I try really hard, I'm sure I can just about do it…”