Sweet Satisfaction (Purple UGC Winner 2014)

Sweet Satisfaction - Twenty-Nine

Twenty-Nine

“What are you doing?” Mary wondered, staring at us. Susanna thrust the letter into her hands.

“Oh, goody. They’re coming home, especially for my birthday!” she gloated, grinning.

“No, no, someone’s coming at us, don’t you see? Mother would’ve sent the letter to us, not herself. We’re in danger,” I cried exasperatedly. Mary let out an exaggerated, hearty laugh that pierced the air, rolling her eyes.

My jaw was set tight; who was coming after us? Why was the letter addressed to Mother? When were they coming? Why were they coming? Why wasn’t Father here to tell us what to do? I had loathed decisions being made for me but when the time came, I had no clue what how to react.

 It’s the Zeppelins, Elsie, the Zeppelins are coming to get you! BANG! BANG! BANG!  I covered my hands over my ears, whimpering, blinking.

Emma appeared in the doorway of our bedroom, where we were throwing clothes into trunks, her hair and attire immaculate as usual.

“Look, the ink is fresh on the page- perhaps this is a serious matter,” she suggested. I narrowed my eyes.

“This isn’t your idea of a joke, is it?”

 “Believe me, it’s not." 

Little than five minutes later, the four of us had broken into Father’s study. My eyes scanned over the abundance of papers scattered on the desk. There were many shelves full of books, folders and there was a heavy, metal globe perched atop the cabinet. The furniture was all ebony and combined with the closed red-wine coloured curtains, gave the room a suppressed feel.

Susanna grabbed a box labelled ‘addresses’ and gave it a shake. Lid falling off, we were showered with dozens of 5 cm by 5 cm white square cards, all with Father’s Underwood Typewriter’s impeccably neat print on them.

“It’s not here,” I wailed, after rifling through many friend’s addresses.

Mary tipped the letter rack over and hastily began reading the first lines of each envelope. With no luck and the clock on the desk ticking, we started to fret, even ripping photographs out of their frames, in case anything was hidden in the backs.

“When was this taken?” Emma asked. Mary peered over at a picture and frowned.

“Elsie, was this the summer of 1911?” I furrowed my eyebrows into a ‘v’ – this was a most pressing matter and she was enquiring about summers gone by? I flounced over to inspect it, suddenly realising I was shaking as I took the photograph.

The brightness of the photograph was like one stupidly deciding to look at the sun. Every blade of grass and flower’s petals were strikingly bright. Mary and I’s hair had enriched colour and life as if every strand had been individually painted.

 We were so stupidly young and ignorant, with checked ribbons in our hair and arms entwined, displaying laughs on unblemished faces. Father had his hand on my shoulder and Mother bloomed with radiance we now found perplexing. Mother.

My eyes watered and I felt like a hammer had been thrust into my heart. Why had I been so nieve and failed to protect myself, to protect her?

Mary tentatively put her arms around me, eyes large and full of sorrow. A lump formed in my throat. She stared back at the picture in my hands.

“Lily Cottage,” she murmured.