An Evening by the Fire

Hey! Here I am again! Look at me! I am gracefully and noiselessly sliding down the creaky wooden stairs - two flights - but none of the steps creak under me. I smoothly cross the room - no-one notices; noisy bunch doesn't seem to have their wits about them - and I make my way straight to the chair in the corner by the fire, the big leather comfy one where I can get all the heat. Because Lord do I need some heat. 

'Hey, it's cold in here! Anyone left a window open?' Someone shouts annoyingly and gets up to go and check the windows and doors and I take this opportunity to settle in my chair.

I sit right back and relax. All this noise and all this activity around here, it does get awfully tiring. I am happy I am down here, it is so much more pleasant than up there in the attic. The fire is lovely and the heat is perfect, dry and intense. The fire cracks and sputters and now and again the logs collapse against each other and cause delightful orange fireworks.

I used to love reading and I still do so when I see that a book is there on the coffee table I grab it. The family dog barks loudly and angrily, staring at me. Everyone shouts at him. 

'Hey! come on! Stop it! What's wrong with you? You silly dog, stop it now.'

The dog stops barking and lies down but continues glaring and growling at me. I smile contentedly and lean back into the chair. I know this place so well. I can reach the coffee table drawer easily and I pull it out slightly. I rummage in it discreetly and pull out a cheroot. This drawer contains an endless supply of these small cigars. Does no-one smoke anymore in this household?

‘Keep these drawers closed!’ Someone shouts at someone else. ‘They’ll fall out one day. They’re always left open. I can’t understand. It’s not so hard to push a drawer closed.’

I grin satisfactorily.

I reach down with my left arm this time and feel around in the log basket for the lighter. I wonder if they still keep one in there. Yes, they do. Bliss. I light the cheroot and puff on it with immense satisfaction.

‘Goodness! What’s that smell?’ Someone shouts again. ‘That’s disgusting! Is someone smoking in here?’

‘What are you talking about? Do you think I smoke? And if I did, would I smoke in here?’ Someone shouts back over the general din of the gathered family. 

‘Well, I can smell cigar smoke.’

‘Yes … actually … so can I …’ Someone replies, sounding puzzled.

I chuckle. The smell is divine and the sight of the thin smoke hovering in the air of the small drawing room makes me ponder. What are we? What am I? Who are we but an ethereal presence? No-one can see nor smell the smoke in the air. Not everybody though. Look at this family. There is only one maybe two members who are aware of their surroundings. The rest of them just bumps along happily, blaming on others the things that they can’t control nor master.

The fire is burning nice and low now and the small room has reached a nice temperature. I will probably fall asleep soon.

Everyone has moved into the kitchen and the dining hall and they are about to sit down at the big table and have dinner. I won’t be called to their table, that you can be certain of. But I am not here for dinner, I am here for information. I am here to check on them. To see if they are taking good care of the house and also maybe to see my wife. Because, you see, my wife hasn’t left, she has always insisted on staying here because it is her house, the house where we were happy she says. So now and again I come and visit. But most of the time it is really noisy. Too noisy for me. I cannot stay long. Just a quick visit.

I can’t seem to fall asleep after all. Too much noise, too much agitation. Even if they are next door, they haven’t closed the double glass doors and I can hear all the bickering, the joking, the shouting. The knives and forks clashing against the plates, glasses clinking to celebrate everything and anything. 

I am bored here in my chair. Where is my wife? After all I have come down to see her. Let me take a look around here, move a few things around. Oh yes, poking the fire is a good one. I push the logs around a bit and I get the fire to go wild. 

WHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSHHHHHHH

Goes the fire. I laugh quietly.

‘Hey!’ Someone shouts! ‘Who did that? I’ve told you, just let it burn nice and slow! You just don’t listen, do you?’

Someone’s in trouble. This is fun. So now I am into an utterly mischievous mood and start moving people’s things around. A book from the table to the sideboard. Magazines from the table to the floor. I even unplug a couple of phones. The family next door will be in here any minute now. They are done with the eating and the drinking and the loud conversation. How many of them are there in that dining-room? As the first one reaches past the double glass doors I knock a china cup over and it smashes into a thousand delicate shards all over the tiles. As expected, screams of horror (if only they knew) from the other room.

‘Oh no! My favourite cup! Pay attention! You just don’t care about other people’s things, do you?’

‘It wasn’t me! I didn’t even touch it!’

‘You must have left it too close to the edge. I’ve told you about that! Hundreds of times!’

While this argument is going on over the china shards, another one is starting next to the desk in the corner.

‘Who unplugged my phone? What’s wrong with this family?’ 

‘Hey! Don’t push me!’

‘You’re so annoying! It wasn’t even me!’

I stop laughing. My wife is here, in front of me. She looks cross. She is not amused. She grabs me by the elbow and points at the youngest member of this wild family. This tiny girl has found the phone I had hidden and is pointing it in my direction.

‘Quick. This way.’ My wife’s angry voice whispers in my left ear as she literally sweeps me up the staircase.

‘There’s a cold draft in here. Someone’s left a door open. Again!’

Then everything stops. Even my wife stops and we both hang up there on the first landing. 

Everyone is looking at the little girl standing in the middle of the room, half way between the fire and the double doors. Everyone is staring at her as she is staring at the telephone she has in her hands - its owner strangely not screaming to retrieve it.

In a quiet voice, her finger still hovering over the screen, she says:

‘It’s Grandpa.’

‘What? What are you going on about?’

But the voices are quieter now. No more screaming.

‘I took a picture of him. See, it’s Grandpa. He broke the cup. On purpose. I saw him.’

They are all staring now. At the girl then at the screen then back at the girl.

‘I see him all the time. That’s why I wanted to take a picture. See? I’m not lying. Do you believe me now?’

I really really want to see what I look like on the picture but my wife orders me up the stairs.