The House at the End of Granite Road

Everyone was always intrigued by the house at the end of Granite Road. It was old, that was for certain, but no one could quite date it. It had elements of several different eras – the window shape of a Victorian manor, the porch that some argued was of Edwardian inspiration, and seemingly Tudor brickwork – leading different people to formulate different theories, like those who thought it was built through generations of the same family. But inexplicably, every time a theory was raised, it was disproved or disliked into obscurity. You see, the intrigue surrounding the house only went as far as that momentary wonderment you felt when driving past it; after the sight of its overgrown gardens and dirtied windows had passed, no one thought too hard about it. As such, it sat there, year after year, collecting more dust, being filled by nothing but shadows and age, and falling deeper into disrepair.

The only people who thought any further into it were the children of the small town around it. The town made up of the houses of the manor’s old workers, or the streets they had walked and the fields they had reaped. To the newest generation of children though, the house was a forbidden hide and seek haven, somewhere to uncover great fossils, antiques of never-before-seen origins, and a place of buried mysteries. It was a jungle, filled with unusual and unknown specimens, that only children could ignore as worms or centipedes. It was somewhere to rule over one’s subjects, to run through the hallways in the twilight, or to draw strange symbols to scare the next group of children who would enter. At least, that’s what it was to Lucinda.

Lucinda was aware that part of her childhood infatuation with the old manor was because of her mother’s stories, which, while intended to be warnings, only spiked her interest more. She was told of the rotten floors, the broken glass, the pipes that squealed despite their disuse, and, when those didn’t work, she was told of the various potential diseases that lay rife within. Her mother even went as far as to show her a nail, old and rusted, that she claimed had been pulled form the leg of a young boy in the village who explored too far. Lucinda took it from the drawer her mother put it back into, and hid it under her bed, vowing to one day find the place it had fallen from. To be the architect who rebuilt the old manor. Who restored it with love and time, to what it had once been.

Many stories were told in childhood of the things that lay within. Children shared tales of shadow monsters, of ghosts that moved on the floors, and followed them from room to room. Lucinda played a major role in the formulation of such tales, revelling in the details that she hoped one day, she’d be able to ensure were true. She was told of goblins hiding in wardrobes, of pipe monsters, of shadow creatures that could move within curtains. She tried time and time again to convince her mother to let her explore the manor, and told her the magical tales of the species she hoped to observe inside the undiscovered world. Her mother chastised her, with a slight smile, saying she’d only encourage other people to be reckless if she carried on that way.

A mother’s caution prevents a lot of curiosity. And Lucinda wasn’t afraid to argue with her mother, harmlessly, about the joy and fun they could discover inside that manor. She promised her mother titles in her kingdom, the honour of co-author on her papers detailing the discoveries of species, and even promised to let her mother be hider in a game of hide and seek. She could see the joy in her mother’s face that came from her creativity. But, despite it, her mother wasn’t willing to risk falling through hundred year old floorboards to play in some old manor house. Lucinda promised that one day they’d be restored.

In the interim though, they discovered new species in her back garden. They built kingdoms in her bedroom. They played hide and seek around the whole house with no bounds. And her mother often reminded her of the dangers of the old manor house on Granite Road. She was well aware of the spirit her daughter held. So she maintained her caution, just in case.

But, to a curious 10 year old, the reminders only increased her desire to enter. The more she was told of the place, the more she wanted to know for herself. So, one day, after much internal conflict and deliberation, she did it. It took a lot of courage. She twice stepped over the threshold of the door before turning back around and running to the front gate. But the draw of the sun bleached floor, telling a story with its shadows, kept pulling her back. And the nail she held in her hand was a puzzle piece she had to find the place for. But once she’d entered with both feet, she felt unafraid to go back.

And she did so. Often. She enacted all of the fantasies she had built from the sight of the exterior of that decrepit manor, and spent many days enjoying the sights within, and the sun beams through shattered windows. Part of her wished she could convince her mother to join her, to run alongside her through the halls and hear the echoes of footprints not heard for decades. But she knew her mother well enough to realise that the call of the manor wouldn’t be heard through the telling off she’d get for ever going inside. So she explored in solitude, with the shadows of the centuries before her for company. Every now and then she’d find a gap seemingly perfect for a nail. She’d line hers up to see if it fit, but wouldn’t be disappointed when, again and again, it didn’t. Because that meant she could come back another day and try again. And she did so under the guise of visiting friends, or playing football, or cycling around the narrow streets of the small town she lived in.

Some would think it a lonely exercise. But never Lucinda. To her, the manor felt as though it was hers – no one else seemed to want it, so she claimed it as her castle, her puzzle, her world.

Until, as happens with time, she lost interest in that youthful place of imagination. She became like the others in her town – someone who wondered past and smiled, but then turned back to the road and carried on. Some would say she simply grew up. She started to spend time with other people her age, with boys, in places that seemed more interesting to them. In your teen years, the place you pretended to be a princess, or the discoverer of Atlantis doesn’t feel the best for drinking in, or playing loud music in, or waking up on the floor of. So gradually, Lucinda spent less and less time with her puzzle. She ended up at house parties, and in fields, and eventually in pubs and bars. And the manor house grew older. Its shadows became more pronounced, as no one disturbed its interior and no one brought light into the rooms and halls.

The manor never quite left her heart though. As she grew ever older, she wondered if one day she would take her future family there, letting her young children pass through corridors of flaking wallpaper and knock moth balls from curtains as she had as a child. She decided that yes, she would. She would revive that old place, and she’d convince her mother to go with them. Her mother would finally know where she’d lost various caps and headbands, where the scuffs on her shoes had come from, where she found all the bugs that wound their way into tubs under Lucinda’s bed. She would finally share the joy of her childhood games with her mother, her partner, and her own kids.

It was a comforting thought. It was a way off yet, mind you, but the idea of returning there one day warmed her inside out. There was nowhere else quite like the manor. So, it always stuck in her memory. She wondered if she’d be able to find the owners, convince them to let her marry in its crumbling walled gardens, surrounded by its jungle and its undiscovered species. Her mother would walk her down the aisle, flanked either side by overgrown grasses and wildflowers, her tears of joy mixed with those brought on by hay fever. She decided in that instant that the old nail, still carried with her from place to place, would be wrapped in linen or hessian around her bouquet. It would bring a smile to her mother’s face, remind her of the days they had shared in her youth. Lucinda would feel the warmth of the sun on her back as she held her partner’s hands at the altar, and the shadows would watch from inside as their friend promised her life to the person she loved.

These daydreams got Lucinda through her rough days in university cities, dark, crowded, grey, and loud. She was 21, but felt aged by the constant clamour of blurred people. The silent, wild, unrestricted majesty of the manor was never far from her mind, its potential future merging with its past. Her heart swelled with the thought of possibility, of her future. Maybe she’d be there again in 10 years, with the sun on her back, her mother on her arm, the old stonework and worm-eaten wood encompassing the joy of the day.

Lucinda contemplated telling her mother of her plans, so she could share the excitement of a future so broad and hopeful. But a mother’s worry grows with age. It turns from worries of your knees being grazed to worries of your heart being broken. Her mother, ever the realist, would tell her it was too far away to be worth worrying about. She should enjoy the time she had now. But Lucinda couldn’t help but imagine. So she kept her plans to herself, stowed in the back of her memories with those from her childhood. Kept safe for the speech she would make in 10 years’ time. For the stories she’d tell her mother as they perused wedding dresses. Or to her children as she led them around and through the same corridors, trying to complete the puzzle that had driven her at the same age.

But in reality, Lucinda was only 25 by time she entered it again. She had returned to the small town for her mother’s funeral. It happened all of a sudden, before she could get home to say goodbye. Before she could share the plans she’d made. Before she could commit to memory the feel of her mother on her arm.

The manor had fallen further away from its grandeur by then, as if the life had been taken from it. The shadows had overtaken the light, and she felt as though no joy could ever revive it. Wandering around its cold, timeworn halls left her grieving for a future that only existed in her mind. She mourned the loss of her mother, of the experiences they never shared, of the memories she would never be able to make. Of the ones she could never tell her about. Somehow, she could see her mother in the old cobwebs that would never be disturbed. In the books that would never be leafed through. The doors that would never be pushed.

She said goodbye to the old manor house one last time, stepping over the threshold with the same trepidation she felt as a young girl. But this time, the fear of the unknown could not be resolved through playing in her back garden, or her bedroom, or through the entire house, with no bounds. She was alone. Without her castle, without her mother. Until she became like the halls she had once reveled in; a shell, filled with shadows, stuck in a grandiose time long passed.

She buried the nail by the wildflowers near her mother’s grave. A piece of the puzzle she’d now never feel able to complete.