Meeting Elsie

The table in the centre of the room was piled high with books.  Old, yellowing pages, watermarked covers, dust on the spines.  I knew Elsie was there, I’d heard her stick tapping its way through the door and over the wooden floor.  I knew her little figure was standing, waiting, but it was impossible to see her behind the mountain of print.

“Did you want something?” The voice was genteel, soft, without disguising the hint of steel.  She wouldn’t be satisfied with any old answer.  She wanted to know what I was doing here and she wanted to know the truth.

“I – I – I’m...”

“Can’t hear you.”  The voice was a little louder. 

“I’m Jean’s daughter.”

The tap-tap made a slow journey along the floor until she stood beyond the corner of the table, where she could peer over at me, scrunching up her eyes and frowning.  She withheld judgement, I could see, until she got to know a bit more.  Well, withheld judgement was better than jumping to conclusions which wouldn’t have been favourable to me.  And they wouldn’t, I knew that.

I looked back at her and saw that old reliable, the family face.  There was the strong, straight nose, slightly hooked, the lips, once full and pouting, still sensuous and the thick mane of hair, white and drawn up into a loose bun on top of her head.  She was like a classic version of my mother, older but even so, not raddled or haggard looking.  Clearly she’d been more careful about what substances she imbibed and their volume.

“Did Jean send you?” She asked.

“No...” I looked at the floor, scuffing the rug with my shoe.  “Jean is dead.”

“I’m not surprised, I have to say.  When did it happen?”

“A month ago.”

“I’m not surprised.  Though I’m a bit surprised she didn’t go years ago.”

“She wasn’t well for a long time,” I wanted to defend my mother, though I wasn’t any friend of hers while she lived.

“Wasn’t well?  Is that what she called it? Hm!”   She moved back to a hard, high chair near the wall, “well, sit down.  I suppose you’re up for inheriting all this now?”

“No, I – I hadn’t thought about that.”  It was true.  I’d merely found the address of an office of solicitors in my mother’s things, with a note that Elsie was to be informed if “anything happens to me.”  My mother was the queen of the euphemism always. 

She had headaches, not hangovers.

She was thirsty, not alcoholic.

She needed something to calm her down, no hint that she was addicted to prescription meds.

So here I was in a big old house with a small old woman, not sure how to go on. 

“She grew up here,” Elsie said, “did she tell you?”

“She told me she had everything she wanted, when she was a child,” I said.  It was true.  My mother used to talk about her childhood like some idyllic experience in a sylvan glade, where it was always summer and someone brought you strawberries and ice cream all the time.

“Hmm, you could say that.  She ran away from here.”

“I guess she needed to move on.”

“No.  She didn’t like us, that’s all.”

I was unable to think of a response to that.  I stood awkwardly, biting a thumbnail.

“First her mother.  Then herself. They all went away.”

Again, I had no response. I knew my grandmother had left my mother at the family home in order to pursue an art career; one that never happened.

The small face looked up, bird-like, curious.

“I suppose you’re here to dump another sprog, are you?  I’m too old for that now.”

“No.  I came to… ask you to my wedding.”

“Wedding?  You’re getting married?”

“Yes – so I came to invite you…”

“It’s a turn-up for the books, that’s what it is.  Someone in this family getting married.  Wonders will never cease.”

I saw the slight, humorous curve of her lip.

“My father will be dancing in his grave. He used to worry about getting us well settled.  No need for all that concern.  Your grandmother and afterwards, your mother, didn’t bother with the formalities.”

“Will you come?  At least, will you think about it?”

“Oh, I’ll be there. In my finery. Don’t worry, I’m no Miss Haversham; there’s no wedding dress here, stashed away waiting for a bride.”

I laughed at the picture of the old lady making her way up the aisle, leaning on her stick, in fraying white net and lace of seventy years ago.  Again, there was a slight curve of her lips.

“You can wear what you like – I’m only here to let you know I’m getting married and you’re invited.  Look – there’s the invitation.”  I showed her the card, all written.

There were sounds in the hall, and her home help came into the room.

“Well, Elsie, let’s get dressed and ready for the day.”  A bustling woman, she took charge with a hand gently under my grand-aunt’s elbow.

“That’s my grand-niece.  She’s getting married.  She’ll inherit all this you know.  Someday.”

She went with the home help into the adjoining bedroom.  I stood and looked around at my inheritance.  Some old pieces of furniture that Elsie had grown up with.  And the books. Outside the window, old, old people were taking walks, sitting on benches, chatting or reading newspapers. 

My grand-aunt’s old family home was long gone, impoverished by reckless sons and daughters; the remnants finally sold to keep her, the last of her generation, in this bleak accommodation.  

Her memory of long ago was wrapped around her, cushioning reality.  For all her brave words, she couldn’t face being turned out of the family home.  She sat here, still living the old days, still picturing around her that long ago family, the hopes and dreams of her young days.  Growing older and more entrenched in the image of an old matriarch. Promising an inheritance that no longer existed.