Grandview Manor

Grandview Manor

Sitting in my car, I stare up at the towering Manor with its intimidating stature and hope that I never need to step foot inside after today. I hoped I would never need to when I left, but it seems I was wrong in assuming that. Quashing my cigarette, I pray it helped calm my nerves and exit the car. This place now encourages anxiety in me, though I’m not sure why. At almost fifteen years old, this car has been rundown for about five. But still works to get me from place to place, proving itself reliable time and time again. It’s why I’ve never considered selling. She’d been a gift from my father when I left home when I’d left here. 

I trudge up the gravel drive to the ornate front door, the carvings and gold trim are familiar. Yet also so different than I remember. Though the wood has turned a dusty grey, the effect it had still stood. It still told stories about the family who used to live here, who used to fill its walls with laughter and joy. That family, my family, used to be very close once upon a time. Now, however, most members moved away, and the rest had passed on. 

The place used to feel like home, but now it just feels like a battered old house, haunted by the past of the family who used to enjoy it. The shadows on the walls are like ghosts, though not as familiar as they should have been.

I lift my hand to knock, realizing no one would answer I pull the key from my pocket. A large and heavy brass one now rusted with age but still strong and sturdy as the door. Placing the key in the lock, an odd sensation passes over me as though I am crossing the threshold into another realm. Though that’s not possible, at least not yet given the current state of our technology. But I know it will be like entering another world, perhaps the feeling is a warning about just that.

The key clicks and I push the door open. An eerie squeak pierces the air and echoes along the walls within the dark entranceway. It continues louder now as I push the door all the way open to reveal the large, open room within. I reach along the wall searching for a switch, but no luck. Excellent thinking in bringing a flashlight or I would have needed to leave and come back. It was hard enough coming back this time. I don’t think I could do it again.

When the beam of light hits the ceiling, the entire room explodes into brilliant light, casting eerie shadows along the walls and illuminating the ancient décor. Not ancient, but older than I’m comfortable with. The air tastes stale and is heavy in my lungs only adding to the haunting feeling of the building’s past. I ponder turning back, but sense that I can’t. I would need to come back and do this all again. Better to deal with this now. 

I take short, quick breaths to not overwhelm my lungs with the thickness of the air and look around the room. A staircase leads up to the second level, and a hall connects this room to one on either side. It loops around the staircase, and it does so on the second level.

I saunter to the small tearoom on my left taking in the different textures. I’m used to shades of grey, those are safe colours, comforting colours, and this room is layered in many patterns as was common in those years, unsettling me. I understand why my father disliked it here so much. The windows are clouded with dust and mould. But this was likely a lovely place to sit and read, drink tea and chat, in its time. I would have enjoyed working in this room, or the office further in. Though now it only seemed lonely and broken, dust coating the reading chairs and the small tea table with its patterned cloth atop it. But I know what I’m looking for and I will not find in here, though memories float about my mind making me feel a sort of nostalgia in being back. I had enjoyed this place as a boy, perhaps it was not as awful as I’m remembering.

I remember running through here as a child only to have my mother and grandmother scold me for running around. I had almost knocked the family teapot over in my hurry and excitement to play. My father had told me how precious that teapot was to the family. It had been an heirloom brought over from the country… whatever country he had mentioned now fades from my memory just as I attempt to grasp it. I wonder where it ended up, though I had nearly broken it, I wonder if I might want it back.

My mother had loved to drink tea here with my grandmother and catch up on the latest gossip in town. That was before she’d moved to the city, which she used to say she rather enjoyed more. The sound of busy-ness. She loved to be busy, had hated having too much time. She’d said it made her hands shake, and maybe it did, she had gotten rather sick towards the end. Sometimes I think she got her busy-ness from Grandmother, as Grandmother always had something to occupy her time. She never let herself get bored, and she used to tell me so. Maybe being still made her feel useless as it had my mother.

I follow the hall through to the dining room where the entire family, aunts, uncles, cousins used to gather for meals. The table was long, my grandfather had bought two of the biggest tables he could find at the time and fitted them together. He connected them to make one vast table, so my mother told me. The entire family could fit if they all visited at once. It was the largest table I’d ever seen and as a child, it had looked larger than life, but I was not quite a tot then. 

In the far-left corner of the house’s first floor is the grand kitchen where my mother, grandmother, all my aunts and even my oldest female cousins would work on meals. Where they chatted, catching up after only two weeks apart, but it was still nice. I had loved to run through laughing and giggling and they would hand me something small to snack on before getting back to cooking and preparing. 

Next to the kitchen on the right, my grandmother’s walkthrough pantry looks the same as I remember. Looking into it once again brings back memories of running through here as a boy and being yelled at by Grandmother, she’d tell me she’d make me clean the entire house if I dared to knock any of her jars over. It’s safe to say that I never did. I was told she and my grandfather had argued many times about this pantry. But she won, she usually did, saying that she didn’t want to have so much trouble getting to the library by going around the entire house. So, he’d built it for her. I believe he had a soft spot for her because anything she wanted, she got.

Continuing through the tunnel of the pantry is my grandmother’s library. As a boy, it had seemed almost like an entire world, with its bookshelves reaching to the high ceiling. Grandmother prevented anyone from throwing away any books. She insisted on keeping them all no matter how damaged and would patch them up. She had a special glass case for all her “broken treasures” or so she’d call them. She had loved to read, and this room had seemed the perfect place to do just that. The perfect place to immerse yourself in a delightful adventure and leave this world behind you. She’d done that many times, even read to the grandchildren occasionally when she was not busy with other things. My father had never stepped foot into this room, though now I wonder why. Perhaps he’d thought he wouldn’t be allowed, though that was greatly untrue.

I swing around to my right and waltz to my grandfather’s office where he’d kept all his records, including the deed to the house. I hadn’t been there for the sale, though I’d been told several stories about it. One thing they all had in common was my grandfather’s pride in finally owning a home where he and my grandmother would begin their lives and their family. And he’d been the proudest that he’d earned it all himself and done all the work. My grandmother had not needed to lend or give him any money to help, he’d done it all on his own. He’d wanted to prove he could provide for his family, his entire family, no matter how large. That’s why every member always felt invited. No matter the time or the number of guests they already had, they would never turn away another one.

Grandfather had provided for every member of his family, no matter the difficulties or hard feelings. My uncle Adam had proven that when he’d come home drunk, jobless and naked after his wife left him. He’d always drank too much and spent all their money on booze, including the money she’d given him to help pay off their house. Grandfather had invited him in and asked no questions. He gave him a month of free-living to find a job, then he had to help if he was to continue his stay. He’d worked and stayed for a long time paying off his debts to every pub and every bar in the area and those he’d borrowed booze money from, neighbours and such. 

He’d gotten himself back on his feet soon enough and left home once again. Uncle Adam later found a nice woman and was kind and gentle with her this time around. They’d died in each others’ arms, or at least that was the rumour I’d heard, perhaps it was true, or maybe not. I couldn’t say, I haven’t seen them in more than ten years. When I’d left, I had planned to put this place behind me entirely, forever. I had not planned on coming back.

I search the drawers, my eyes stinging when the dust flies out from the movement. I rummage around not entirely sure it would still be here, but still hoping to find what I came for. Finally, my hand clutches around a rough piece of thick paper, slightly damp with age and the humid conditions of the house. I pull it out and examine the crinkled document.

The paper is now darkened from age and covered in grey fingerprints; those would be my grandfathers. He always got ink everywhere when he sat here doing his work. My grandmother would make him wash his hands three times before he could sit and eat dinner with everyone. She claimed she didn’t want him getting ink anywhere else. He could spread ink stains anywhere he wanted inside his office, but she would not have them creeping in anywhere else to make a mess of her immaculate house. 

There are other smaller stains from smaller fingers, though you couldn’t distinguish the actual prints. Some sticky, suggesting they were made by candy, while others are red as though blood, but likely pasta sauce from spaghetti night. The rest of the stains are dark from dirt. I realized just how many times Grandfather must have taken the deed out, more than I realized. Perhaps he’d been admiring the deed, or perhaps he’d regretted his decision to buy the place. Taking care of his entire family was expensive, and he and Grandmother had issues near the end. They struggled to keep the bills paid and the family fed, frequently I’d heard of some member offering them money to help. Though, knowing Grandfather, he’d never have taken a dime, no matter how much he needed the money. He’d wanted to provide for the entire family all on his own. 

I shook my head, “time to go.” Yet I linger, slowly inching toward the smoking-room, my head once again an itch that will never be scratched in entirety emerges, urging me forward. The last room on the main floor is the smoking room and its smell of old tobacco draws me in. I enter, cigarette ready between my lips and I light up as soon as I cross the threshold. My grandmother had been very strict about where smoking was allowed, and this was the only place. I relax as I bask in the ambience of a room I was never allowed in as a tot. Though now feels more familiar to me than the rest of the place.

I suck in a lungful and breathe out calmly. My nerves fade into the fog, slipping away with the smoke on the slight breeze blowing through the house, releasing me. Now, with my mind cleared from the nicotine, my thoughts wander to my plan for this place. This house is full of all my childhood memories, the best memories of my life. Everything turned to shit after we’d left, yet I’d hated this house for ruining my life. But now I see more clearly, my original thoughts were false. The house had not been responsible. My parents ruined us. My mother, who’d made those decisions that turned everything to crap broke us, pulled us apart and stripped us of who we used to be. She’d done it for my dad. He hadn’t wanted to stay nearby or visit often. He’d wanted to be as far from this house as was possible, that’s likely where I got my thinking from.

I planned to sell this place and use the money to start a business, but that was not set-in-stone. I might’ve put the money in the bank or bought a house, who knows. It’s not like I have anyone to take care of. I don’t have a family, this used to be mine and now they’re gone. They’re gone before I even realized I had them before I’d even realized that they were mine. 

Shaking my head I pull out my phone hitting redial. I look about the room at the old chairs now dusted and heavy with cigar smoke from my grandfather’s old habit, as I wait for the ringing to stop and someone to answer. Oh, how they now remind me of how my grandparents might’ve looked or who they might have been. They are a couple looking for a fresh start. Something they can build on and make their own. 

“Hello?” The voice is deep. The man, whatever his name, though he sounded chilled, as though depressed.

“I’m sorry,” I began, “but I can’t sell you this house. I recently realized how important it is for me to keep the place.” A slight twinge of guilt twists my gut at going back on my earlier word, but not enough to change my mind. I now knew I needed to do this. For myself, but also as a tribute to my grandparents who had made such a life here and created a large, happy family.

The pause seemed interminable from the other end, but when he spoke again, he sounded worse than before. Maybe he was crying on the other end. “That’s fine, we won’t be taking the house.”

“Oh, why?”

“She left me; Louise left me.” The man hung up, not giving any more explanation, and when I tried to call him again, no answer. I shrugged, it was no business of mine what happened or what he did after the call ended. Though, I had a strange feeling that his life ended as soon as the call did, or soon after. 

I looked about the house, my cigarette nearly beat between my teeth and pride now growing in me. This had been my home, my family’s home, and now it would stay in the family, it would be ours again. And I would not give it up, not for any price. Perhaps I’d make my family within the ancient walls, at least I hoped. The thought occurred to me to begin as my grandfather did, though I was no longer young in years, I still had some time. Even though my grandfather had his difficulties towards the end, he seemed to think the decision worthwhile and maybe it was. 

I would fix up this old house and make it livable, I would make it a home again. My life was starting, and I was finally living it the way I was meant to. I would not turn away anyone who was hungry or came knocking in need of help. I used to believe my grandfather was crazy for doing those things, but perhaps he had it right all along and I am the crazy one. A knock brings my attention to the front door and when I approach a beautiful woman stands in the doorway. Her smile brilliant and her eyes sparkling. She was maybe nearing forty, but not there yet. She looked good for her age. You could only tell by the slight grey of a few strands of her hair and by nothing else. 

“Hello, I’m Tess.” And as she reached for my hand, my heart jumped into my throat. She is perfect, just as I assume my grandfather first thought my grandmother had been, all those years ago.