Time Traveler

By Valerie Curtiss

It's said "You can't go home again," so it had to be a dream, but she had the tickets. Afraid they would be lost, she clutched them tightly as she hurried to the plane so scared she'd miss. It was a lengthy flight, and slightly tipsy from the tiny drinks, she'd slept, then touching down on England's rolling verdant plane, she wavered. She had no time to see the sights so well remembered, pigeon-filled Trafalgar square, St. Paul's, Hyde Park, and cozy little tea rooms nestled snugly in the squares.
From the bustling airport, she hailed a taxi to the station. Breathless almost running...what platform should she be on? She knew no one to help her. Old friends from way back then, like she, had all flown off to other lands.
At last she found the right train, and a seat next to the window. The rails soon hummed their droning song, as the engine pulled them northward through the country to the sea. Tiny gleaming stations, whisking by, rippling fields of wheat, and row on row of lavender, a brilliant purple hue. She thought she would never get there, as she nodded with the rhythm. So many things could still go wrong.
For years, she'd scrimped and done without, in hope she'd walk again those sandy shores beside the grey-green sea, to view once more the rocky cliffs they'd climbed while youth had still allowed. Stomachs churning, temples pulsing madly, they would carefully pick their way from rock to rock, until they'd reached the top, then roll with laughter in green meadows lush with summer fun.
In an almost empty cliff-front Bed and Breakfast, to the sound of waves upon the seashore, she toyed with sleep, but tossed and turned until she smelled the bacon. Toast sat primly, crisp and chill in silver holders, like envelopes of mail; marmalade from tiny jars, and a pot of steaming tea. She'd had her fill and couldn't wait to hike once more the mile across the cliffs from the new town to the old.

She smelled the salt-filled wind blown in from chilly seas, which in other times had almost bowled them over as they'd leaned into their bluster. She lingered once again in the tiny sunken garden, among a scented harmony of old rock walls caressed by multicolored blossoms, where monks of long ago had knelt and prayed. Here one could sit in shelter, steal breath back from the wind, and soak up the summer sun. A sacred place, even for those who don't believe.


Ahead, the blinding whitewash of the lighthouse flashed. An ancient warning beacon, the savior of those swarthy souls who spend their lives at sea. She hurried on, heading inland, down narrow lanes hedged with Hawthorne, thick and sharply fragrant, but not near as tall as she remembered. Blackbirds sung, sparrows flew about and spread their gossip in the early morn. Sheep ignored her as she passed through fields and meadows, walking faster as she reached the village pond.

Cottages of thatch sat primly, closely guarding secrets, all tied up with bows of roses, tendrils circling upwards to the sky. Gardens from the past, tended still by shrunken crones. Are these the same flowers she'd loved so many years ago?
She passed the pond and stopped and stood in silence before the ivy covered church they'd walked to every Sunday morning, rain or shine, in crocodiles of two by two, all dressed alike in wine and grey, those uniforms of long ago. Straw hats from Panama perched on their heads, elastic pinching skin. Their chattering had filled the Sabbath air as they hurried by, to kneel, to stand, to sing, sunlight streaming on them, cascades of golden ribbons through ancient leaded panes. Who was listening then? And, do they listen now? In vain?

A few steps from the church, she turned and stood before forbidding wrought iron gates, decadent with curlicues and rusted tangles, smothered now with leaves and vines. No one has passed through here for quite some time. No sounds, no wind, no rain, surrounded by a stillness hard to fathom. With a shudder and a chill, she paced the crumbling bricks, an entrance-way to gain. At last, as walls gave way to fence, a mere tunnel of a path carved out by deer or dogs appeared, and scrambling through, knees grubbing into dirt, brambles grasping at her face and hair, she struggled on. Legs and arms all scratched and bleeding, not feeling any pain.
And now she's lost, no memory of which way she ought to turn, and scrambling through the brush and trees, she searches for the long expanse of lawn, the wide stone steps, the terrace with its terra cotta pots filled with gaily nodding blossoms. So carefully tended, then, but now massive ghosts of topiary loom upwards all around her. This had to be the way.

 
She heads toward a lightening patch of sky, and searches for the house, its pink facade a solid comfort. Built long ago, two stories high, with chimney pots galore, like soldiers on parade, it's arching leaded windows shining golden in the pale summer sun.




Years before, she'd last set eyes on the fair-haired boy with whom she shared those carefree hours in this country manor near the sea.
Together, they'd climbed twisted stairways, up to towering rooftops to play catch between the chimneys, and place their tiny feet where Kings and Princes trod before them, footprints set forever in the thick molten lead. Peering through the parapets, giddy from the height, they were Prince and Princess then of all that they'd surveyed. Manicured lawns flanked with ancient Chestnut trees and formal geometric gardens laid out by Lords long dead all lay far below.
They'd gathered sticklebacks and frog spawn in the moat, much to the disgust of Cook who had wrinkled up her nose, as they brought them proudly to her kitchen. In a leaky square-backed punt, Christopher, her Captain brave, wooden sword in hand, had poled his Queen around the shallow winding waterway. They fought off wicked pirates, until tired of all the gallantry, he'd dumped her into murky waters, amongst the lily pads and goldfish.

On rainy days, they raced the halls, watched by the disapproving eyes of faded Lords and Ladies who lined the panelled walls. Together, hand in hand, they braved the haunted room where a lady once lay dying, icy spines a'tingle, goose bumps raised. Feet poised to flee in terror at the slightest rustle of a sound.
She had heard there'd been a fire, and talk of turning airy chambers into flats, but then she had gone, off to another life, another world. She tried to lock the vault, but couldn't bear to throw away the key.

For sixty years she cherished each tender memory. She must return to visit, one more time, before they faded from her tired mind.
She hears the crunch of tires on gravel, the car itself a whisper, Daimler quiet. She must be near the driveway. Pushing through old hedges thick and tall she almost falls into the garden, so much smaller now, and wildly overgrown.
On the terrace there before her, grey of hair, and only slightly stooped, he stood. Was this her prince of many years ago?

The doors lay open to the flagstones, snow white drifts of lacy curtains flutter softly in the breeze. A clear voice rings out. "Darling, are you out there?" A slender elder lady, glinting auburn hair piled high on head, silver tray in hands, steps out onto the terrace. He gently takes the tray and sets it on the table, pulls up her chair and kisses her. She laughs. He laughs.
She cries and turns away. What had she thought, to come here unannounced. She sits down upon the wide stone steps that overlook the moat, and gazes on the past. With understanding comes the truth. Although her tiny goldfish pond a moat can never be, she has her own estate. A cozy home, with sunny rooms, and in her flower filled garden, fruit still ripens on the vine.
Memories, though bittersweet, are ghosts that never change. You may dust them off and play them center stage, a very private showing to savor now and then. But the truth behind those timeworn words will always stay the same. You really can't go home. Home is where the heart is and where you are, is home.