The Visit

Reedsy Writing Prompt number 418                                                                Words: 1,944

THE VISIT

by

Angela Ewing

I was sitting in the comfortable living room of my home in Oregon when the phone rang. It was my brother calling from England to ask if I would please visit soon. "I'm selling the house," he announced. William always got to the point quickly. There was no, "How are you." He wasn't the sort of man to dawdle on the phone.

"Oh hello William, why are you selling and where will you go?" I asked, suddenly alarmed knowing his blindness had worsened from Diabetes, and he relied on others for a lot of things.  

"I can't manage it anymore. The house is too big for me to manage and I don't know what to do with all the stuff of yours. Mum and Dad kept all the postcards you sent from every place you went for holidays, and the letters since you went to America. There are lots of photographs too. I can't take them with me."

A month later, I was standing outside our family home in a suburb of Leicester. My sister, Pamela, and my brother and I had been born there. Pam had gone to Africa with her husband when she was nineteen, and I had left for America when I was twenty-two. William never left England or the house. Nor had he married. He had stayed with my parents and looked after them until they died. Look

The house hadn’t changed. All buildings in England, built of brick or local stone look new to me. Roofs are slate and never wear out. It was the garden that had given in to neglect. The flower beds no longer boasted roses and hollyhocks, wallflowers, and Canterbury bells. Weeds grew in abundance now, and the lawn was a sea of dandelions. Yes, I could see it was time for someone to rescue this old home built during the industrial revolution in the late eighteen hundreds.

The living room hadn't changed much, only an empty spot in the alcove at the end of the room made me sad. In my mind, I could still see the upright black piano and hear the first few bars of Beethoven's Für Elise, my mother's favourite.

My eyes were drawn to the sideboard and the bottom drawer. As I remembered, things were tossed into that drawer when there was nowhere else to put them. Everything was a treasure to me when I was a little girl. I eagerly opened the drawer. Pieces of elastic, string, clothespins, an old zipper, a magnifying glass, little chocolate boxes from Christmases past were still there, and my most prized possession of that era, a small coin purse made of beads—light blue, dark blue round beads, and silver bugle beads in a swirly pattern. A few strands of naked string hung from the bottom corner where it had frayed.

I opened the purse. There were a few pennies and a sixpence still there, coins no longer used in Britain. I studied the money for a moment before putting it back into the purse and closed it, snap. I opened it again, pop. Closed it, snap. Playing shops with my mother, just to use the purse had been a favourite game of mine, I remembered. I always emulated my mother's voice when I was a buyer, "I'll have a pound of carrots, please."

"Right," she'd say, "that will be fourpence, please." Out would come the purse, pop.

Coins would be handed over, and then the purse would be closed, snap.

A voice from the kitchen brought me back to the present. "The boxes of photographs are in Mother's bedroom, William said, "Why don't you go look while I make us some tea."

I went upstairs, still holding the little beaded purse.

My parent's room was just as I remembered; dark furniture, a large chest of drawers and a double bed that occupied most of the room.

Dust motes swirled around as I lifted the lid from one of the boxes by the window. There were postcards and letters and lots of photographs. The first one I picked up was of me and my late husband in Tunisia. The photo was dated December 1973. North Africa was a popular destination at that time. I was sitting on a camel dressed in a Bedouin skirt and top; a coloured scarf draped around my head. It was one of the tourist attractions to visit a Bedouin Village in the desert. I remembered that camel. The animal was in heat, trying to escape from a male camel behind it. It suddenly shook itself free from the reins being held by a man, leaving me clinging desperately to the saddle. The camel, obviously eager to rid itself of its burden, ran through a tall cactus forest. It must have been quite a scene, me leaning back with my legs outstretched, trying to keep out of the prickly-pear.

I smiled as I sat with the box of photographs beside me on the bed, opening and closing the little beaded purse, pop, snap, pop, snap. The sound made me think about when my mother and I went to the city-center to buy fresh vegetables and other goods.

Leicester market had permanent structures for vendors selling their wares. Rough wooden posts held up equally rough counters, each space boasting a sign with the name of the retailer. Canvas awnings kept out the rain, but on cold days the stall keepers wore heavy raincoats and fingerless gloves, blowing into their hands and stamping their feet on the cold brick pavement to keep warm. Bare light bulbs hung from straggling wires shedding raw yellow light onto the produce and other goods displayed on the wooden surfaces.

There was a magic about that place despite its bleakness on dull winter days. The aroma of chrysanthemums and potted plants mingled with the earthy smells of celery, onions, cabbages, and kale. Each stall had its own pungent aroma. Stall-keepers shouted as we pushed our way through the melee. “'Ere you are love, a nice bunch o' leeks, or carrots for thrupence. Now, 'ow about a lovely 'ome-grown cabbage… just for you and tuppence for this beauty."

My brother's voice interrupted my reverie. "Mother didn't want to give your doll's house away, but I let it go. Not so long ago."

"I'm surprised they kept it," I said.

"Aye, they didn't get rid of anything when you went to America. Kept it all, just in case you came back to live with your own family."

I could feel tears springing to my eyes. I had left with no regrets. I often wonder, now I'm a mother, if they missed me as much as I would miss my daughter if she suddenly up and left for a distant land never to return? "Do you mind if I stay here for a few minutes?" I said. "I think its jet lag. It affects me more these days, I do get tired."

"No, you do that. Stay as long as you like. The kettle will be on the boil. Come down when you've had a nap."

I lay back on the pillow and closed my eyes, drifting on a sea of memories. I was suddenly back in Leicester market thinking about the day I'd wandered off alone searching for the stall where I'd seen a miniature porcelain tea-set for my doll's house. As I looked around, I spied some stalls set apart from the others. Bamboo canes were strung under bright awnings, and hanging from each were rows of raffia bags and baskets. I glanced up at the man behind the stall. He sat cross-legged on a tall stool in rather a strange garb. The long red and white striped coat had gold braid down the front, and the hood attached to the jacket sported a gold tassel that flopped to one side as he bent his head intently over his work. The long slender needle he held swooped into a dish of brightly coloured beads, scooped up several, and in one deft movement, he had stitched them into place on a small coin purse. Finding me staring, he smiled. His teeth were yellow and stained. His brown wrinkled face was barely visible under the hood. "You like my purse, yes? You buy?" The needle flashed in and out of the fabric, narrowly missing the tassel as he extended his arm to pull the thread taut. His language was strange, his accent thick. I found it hard to understand.

"I'm just looking," I stammered.

He continued his rhythmic movements threading the beads, pulling, stitching. A pattern was emerging, Light blue, dark blue, and silver bugle beads in a swirly pattern. Something was familiar with this pattern and the colours. The stall-keeper in his red and white striped coat continued until, with a flourish, he held the purse out to me. "Here," he said, squinting at me. "See this will hold lots of money." He opened the metal clasp, pop, it opened, snap, and it closed. Pop, snap went the purse, just like mine, the same sound. He handed it to me, "You buy?"

A voice came from the next stall, "No, you buy from me." This man had his hood thrown back. His head was bald and shone like polished mahogany. With his legs crossed under him, he sat on one of the wooden countertops and swayed forward and back. He turned and suddenly spat something he had been chewing on to the ground behind him. He smiled his toothless grin as he pointed to a row of cans in front of him. "Saffron," he said, still smiling. "Turmeric, Paprika. Very cheap."

Before I could answer, a woman tapped my arm. She was swathed in white from head to toe. It was hard to see even her eyes. Expertly balanced on her upturned palm was a wicker tray with a cup of clear, steaming liquid. Petals were scattered over the surface of the tray. She picked up some of the petals with her other hand and dropped them into the cup. As she held it out to me, she murmured, "Orange blossom tea, good for you."

The perfume was overwhelming, coming from the cup in waves, sweet, sickly, cloying. My head ached, and I wanted to leave. Robed men had begun to gather around me pushing baskets, bags, and clothing at me. "You buy, you buy," they shouted. Then I noticed two camels tied to a post at the end of the stall, snorting and spitting. One by one, they broke free and started after me. I squeezed through the crowd, trying to get away when a voice shouted sharply above the commotion. "Stop that girl; she has a purse. She stole it from my stall. Stop her, stop her." I glanced back to see the man in the striped robe pointing his bony finger in my direction.

Another voice called to me as I tried to run. My feet didn't want to move. It was a man's voice echoing in the distance, calling me by my name as I tried to escape the crowd. I struggled to listen.

Words suddenly reached me, "Angie, you ready for a cuppa?"

I sat up. Awake. Dazed. What a strange dream, I thought probably because of the postcard. I rose from the bed and went downstairs to join William for tea.

***

Back in Oregon, a few years later, I was cleaning out my loft. A couple of boxes from England had remained unopened. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper was the little-beaded purse. I had forgotten about it. I opened it, pop, closed it, snap.

Memories enfolded me. I opened the purse and tipped out the pennies and the sixpence. Suddenly, I was enveloped in a sweet smell, faint but there. I looked around the room, wondering where it came from. When I looked down, I knew. Among the coins … white petals, petals of orange blossom.