Now

There is a small metallic voice coming from the orangery. Emmeline tilts her head to hear the brittle echo travelling down the dark corridor towards her. She does not know who the voice belongs to but she wants to find out.

The tall orangery doors stand ajar, allowing golden light to escape the glass building beyond, lending warmth to the austere hall. From paintings on the panelled walls, dead relatives stare down at her.

How she would love to go inside the orangery, but Emmeline is not permitted. Even taking a peep feels naughty, to twist one way and the other, to look up and down the corridor and agree with oneself that no parent and no servant is watching.

Nevertheless, with a rustle of underskirts, she nears the door, pursing her lips together as if to hold in all possibility of being caught.

As is charming, as is proper, she straightens her back and lifts her chin because although she is only six, Emmeline knows that one must always maintain good deportment, even when being very naughty, perhaps especially then.

Inside, sun floods the orangery. The smell of sweet dirt and fermented grass lift to greet her, and the tinkling sound of water plays about the glass.

This is like being in chapel, she thinks, but instead of dark leaded lights, here is clear glass flying to the heavens between painted iron columns, all of it hugged by vines and blossom.

Butterflies adorn the walls, deftly pinned like little crucified angels in frames. Marble fish with downturned mouths spit water from a fountain, and palm fronds cast spidery shadows. She feels giddy and weightless.

All the while, the tinny voice continues, much clearer now. She knows it is not Papa, nor her big brother George, who, even at the serious age of eleven, is also forbidden from the orangery.

The only time either of them entered was to greet the King when he visited Whittle Park in 1902, to see the new banana plants. Emmeline was too little to remember. George remembers though. He mentions it often.

"I was dashed calm about the whole thing,” he says. “Not like you, Emmy. Cry baby.”

Now, she pauses by the thick trunk of a tall palm tree and listens.

With rhythmic insistence, the tinny voice says, “And up comes England’s three hundred at the end of the over for the loss of three wickets. Can New Zealand take what appears to be …”

It is coming from beyond the fountain. Around the water Emmeline goes, and just as she feels she might see the strange small man, a louder, more present voice stops her dead.

“Oh, Emmeline, thank God you came back.”

Then

More than anything, Emmeline wished to be her older brother George. Beast though he was, being George would be better in every way than being Emmeline.

He climbed trees, dressed in short trousers, and sat out in front with the carriage driver, even though Mama said it was most indecorous.

And today, luckiest of all, George would be joining the shoot and trying out his new shotgun for the first time. Emmeline would watch from the open carriage, with Nanny. Could there be anything more intolerable?

In the bedroom, while Emmeline protested and twisted against Nanny’s firm hand, Nanny forced Emmeline’s small limbs into white bloomers and vest, and pulled a cotton dress over her head. Strings gathered the underskirt so tightly that it dug into Emmeline’s tummy, as if made of straw, and black woollen tights crawled up her legs like ants. Worse still, a heavy white collar made her look like a little sailor doll.

Patiently, Nanny coaxed her young charge down the oak staircase, pausing every few steps for Emmeline to make another adjustment.

“But why do I have to watch? I feel dreadful,” she whined.

“Guests will be arriving shortly and you are to join the shooting party. Don’t you want to be with the adults, Lady Emmeline,” Nanny chided. “Now control your passions, or we might mistake you for a real sailor.”

At the bottom of the stairs, with a broad smile and perfectly parted black hair, Papa waited. “Ahoy there!” he bellowed. “No hat, Emmy?”

Nanny straightened and smoothed her black bodice. “I’m afraid she refused to wear her hat, your Lordship, and I have always believed that one should choose one’s battles.”

Emmeline knitted her brows together and pulled her chin to her chest, dragging Papa’s smile down in mock sympathy.

“Oh dear, oh dear, Emmy. And I am rather fond of you in a hat.”

“Not me,” Emmeline countered. “I’m not fond of me in a hat.”

Papa took her hand in his and with a whoosh of skirts she leaped over the last three steps, passing through a waft of cigar smoke and cologne. Her boots slapped to the marble floor in satisfying unison.

“Splendid,” nodded Papa, and together they set off for breakfast.

The morning room smelt of freshly baked bread and smoked bacon. At the long mahogany table, upright and proud, George looked down at his new tweed suit, while Mama stood before the French doors, eyeing a smeared metal sky.

“And I had hoped for good weather today,” she said to herself. “I wonder if it might clear later.”

At the sound of the door creaking, Mama turned to see Emmeline enter with Papa. “Oh darling, no hat?”

“Refused,” confirmed Papa.

“Emmeline Aldridge,” said Mama, swishing to the table. “I must have a word with Nanny.”

“Nanny can’t do a thing with her,” said George, tucking a serviette into his stiff collar. “Emmy’s a nuisance.”

“Unkind,” reprimanded Mama, as she patted hers flat on her lap.

As soon as Emmeline had lifted herself to the chair next to George, a footman bent silently by her side, and placed an engraved silver egg cup before her—the white egg pre-cut for dipping.

“Oh, no thank you,” she twisted to the young footman, “A scone for me, please.”

George threw his head back and guffawed at the high ceiling. “What a mutton head!“

The footman lowered again and said quietly, “I’m afraid I only have eggs, bacon, or kedgeree, Lady Emmeline, but perhaps there will be scones this afternoon.”

Papa nodded at the young man’s kindness and clarified for his daughter, “Breakfast, Emmy. Not tea.”

She scrunched her button nose, “But I am so very fond of scones.”

The word fond sounded like fondant and felt good in Emmeline’s mouth and she had planned to use it often, but George’s shoulders were shaking with mirth and Emmeline’s cheeks grew hot. She slouched in her seat.

How pleased George was with his advanced understanding of absolutely everything.

Now

Emmeline cranes her neck to see round the fountain.

“Please come in, Emmeline. Come. Sit.”

On the other side of the fountain, in a large bamboo chair, an old man sits. His hair wispy and white, his skin stretched and freckled, his gnarly fingers draped over the arms of the high-backed chair. All the while the metallic voice chirps on.

“Can England hold? Or are we staring at the greatest defeat by …”

The man leans forward, and says, “It’s okay Emmeline, you can come in.”

In all her life she cannot remember ever seeing anyone so old. Keen for a closer look, she passes the pond, the sad fish, and the towering palms until she is with him.

He smiles sadly and gestures to a second bamboo chair opposite his own, and after a moment of consideration, Emmeline lifts her bottom to the rough wicker seat, catching her tights but not taking her eyes off him.

As if remembering something, the old man says, “Ah, let me switch that off,” and he picks up a small red box, and clicks a switch to stop the strange metallic voice. “That’s better,” he says, “I’d rather speak to you than hear England lose to New Zealand.”

Emmeline feels the small voice’s absence. Silence creeps up behind her and she glances over her shoulder, expecting to see something coming at her. As if noticing her fear, the old man makes a show of shifting in his chair and lifting a bent finger skyward.

He clears his throat to get her attention, and lifts his snowy brows. “Wait,” he whispers.

She waits and watches his finger tip, looking about for what might happen next. To her delight a butterfly lands on his ridged nail. Brown wings, edged in white, and dusted in brilliant blue, open and close and open again. She realises her mouth is hanging, and closes it quickly.

“This,” says the man, “is a Xerces butterfly from California.” He turns his finger carefully and examines the papery insect. “We’re lucky it’s come here to visit us now because it’s been extinct since 1941. Isn’t that remarkable?”

Slowly, Emmeline reaches out her finger towards the butterfly, hoping it might land on her, but the powdery wings shimmer as it flits and floats into the undergrowth.

“Did you ever see such a thing?” the man asks.

Finding her voice, she says, “This is only the second time I’ve been in here.”

“D’you really think so?” he smiles.

A cold draft tickles the nape of Emmeline’s neck and she straightens to review the man’s watery blue eyes, and his slack brown cardigan, and the ease with which he sits in Papa’s realm. She tries to recall the proper way to ask a person’s name, when she notices the plate of scones.

Then

The only thing Emmeline loathed more than George’s constant victories, was being made to watch. She sat next to Nanny in the open black carriage, looking over the dreary lawn where the clay shoot would soon commence.

Feeble drizzle pattered on the raised carriage hood, and coated the rump of the chestnut pony up front. With nothing but a wooden cup and ball game to amuse her, as well as the secret hope that George would be a terrible shot, Emmeline pushed back into the leather seat and click-clacked the toy, only half watching the little ball on its string, and half watching George.

George had never fired a real gun before and he would not be joining the pheasant shoot that afternoon, but if he could show Papa what an excellent shot he was by smashing a few of these clays, he might be in with a chance next time.

On the slick lawn, George stood in Causton’s long shadow. The gamekeeper’s thick moustache moved around his words as he gave George instruction. Long wax jacket, hands thick and hard, Causton looked like a man born outside, while George’s brand new tweed suit attracted every drop of rain.

With Causton’s direction, George lifted the weighty steel shot gun, which was almost as long as him, and Causton gave the gun a shove, forcing the butt into George’s shoulder. Momentarily, George lost his footing and Causton steadied him with a guiding hand on his elbow. Emmeline giggled loudly.

Finally, Papa arrived, all fluster and enthusiasm.

“Right,” he clapped his hands together. “Few shots on clay and then we’re off for the shoot proper.” Papa was addressing George and Causton, but his eyes were on the house, where a carriage had just pulled up. Refocusing, he gave his son a little nod. “When you’re ready, George, gun up, eye on the sights. You’ll want to aim a little ahead of the clays, yes? Off you go.”

George took a deep breath and heaved the gun up. “Pull!”

The gamekeeper released the trap, sending two black discs sailing into the air. George squeezed the trigger.

The loud crack echoed in the distant trees. The pony stamped, rattling the carriage. The wooden butt slammed into George’s small shoulder so hard he was forced to take three backward steps to stay upright. The clay discs hit the grass unharmed.

Despondent, George turned abruptly to face Papa with his gun still raised. Causton crossed to the boy in long strides, grabbing the barrel and forcing it down.

“Bloody hell, George!” cried Papa, moving swiftly to his left, “Gun down!”

Causton warned, low and clear, “Still got a cartridge in that gun, sir. Best you keep it lowered when you’re not shooting.”

Blotches flowered on George’s cheeks and he tried to look round Causton to Papa.

Causton towered over George, “I’ll need to reload for you, sir.”

George reddened and sniffed, “Fine,” he said, and let the gun go.

Rain hit the carriage hood harder and splashed off the pony’s shiny behind. Emmeline click-clacked the wooden toy, swinging her legs back and forth under a blanket with each attempt, until finally, the ball landed in the cup.

“There, I did it,” she announced to Nanny with the ball balanced in the cup. “Look at it, Nanny.”

Nanny smiled with great effort and drew her boots further beneath her long skirt.

“Papa,” Emmeline called, “I did it!”

But Papa was marching away with arms spread to greet his newly arrived guests.

With the reloaded gun in his wet hands George hoisted it to the air when he noticed the toy in Emmeline’s outstretched arm. He let the muzzle drop to the sodden grass.

“Hey, where d’you get that?” he barked.

“It’s mine actually, bally George.”

“Papa,” George called after him, “Emmeline said bally!”

But Papa was now a distant figure.

Causton waited by the clay trap. Icy focus on George.

George’s shoulders fell and he resumed his shooting stance. He heaved the gun up and shouted, “Pull!”

Now

The old man gestures towards the plate of scones, “Oh, do please take one.”

“May I?” Emmeline smells their sweet warmth as she lowers herself from the chair, never taking her eyes off the plate.

She smears clotted cream and strawberry jam and takes a huge bite so that she is left with white and red around her mouth. The old man laughs and sits back to enjoy her enjoying the treat. Clearly it is much appreciated.

“Tea?” he asks.

She shakes her head, unable to speak with a mouthful. When she has finished one whole scone, she notices a flicker of fine skin tensing under his eyes, and something familiar settles on her. She feels the pull of the next thing even though she does not know what that might be.

An urge to leave fights with an urge to find out more, to ask him who he is, where is Papa and Mama, and nanny. And just as she is about to give voice to these things he leans forward and takes something from behind his back.

It is a little wooden cup and ball game, much older than the one Emmeline previously took from the nursery. Worn and aged though it is, she jumps from her seat.

“My brother has one of these,” she says excitedly.

“Would you like to keep it?” he beams, offering the toy in both hands.

And that is when Emmeline remembers.

Then

George missed the first but hit the second clay, smashing it to grey shards.

“Huzzah!” he cried, looking round for Papa but he was passing out flutes of champagne to the small assembly on the carriage drive.

Emmeline shouted, “Lucky is all it is, George,” and she poked out her tongue as far as she could stretch it.

Nanny closed her eyes and held Emmeline’s leg to stop the constant kicking, which made Nanny feel seasick in the rocking carriage.

Causton reloaded the gun and George took it without even looking because he was shaking his head at Emmeline, in a most parental and disapproving manner. Then with great effort, he lifted the gun skyward and eyed the sights.

“Pull!” he shouted.

He fired and missed, and Emmeline shouted, “Dreadful!”

“Madam,” Nanny tapped Emmeline’s hand, “We’ll have no more, thank you.”

But Emmeline had spotted Mama making her way to the shoot, accompanied by a flotilla of women, each one squinting beneath an umbrella held aloft by a servant.

“Pull!”

Crack. Crack.

Emmeline called out to Mama, hoping for early release from Nanny’s guard. Mama would be kind, Mama would understand. She did not hear Emmeline over the gunfire and chattering women. Utterly unable to sit there any longer, Emmeline wriggled off the carriage bench and jumped to the mud, splash landing with both boots at once.

“What on earth … ,” Nanny grasped the air behind Emmeline, too slow for the nimble child. “Emmeline!” she shrieked.

“Pull!”

George twisted to the flash of white running in front of him and his boot slid and the trigger gave, and the force of the gun shot pushed him to his behind, and it all happened so fast that for years afterwards he would struggle to understand how he killed Emmeline.

Now

She knows what comes next because he always does this—gets her down here and then starts bleating. Emmeline has no desire for this game now. Frivolity has been stolen from her, along with Nanny from the bedroom, and all the people and feelings she has grown used to, all dissolved to quiet.

“Emmeline, please take it,” he says. “Or would you like more scones? Or a different game perhaps?”

“No. No I don’t. Just leave me be. Why do you do this? I remember now and you should know better. It’s intolerable, do you hear me? Intolerable.”

“But I’m sorry Emmy. I’m a whole lifetime of sorry.”

She gets close to his face and through little teeth, she says, “That’s all well and good but if I am to visit here again,” a little closer now, “then you shall have to send for more cream. Because I’m dashed fond of cream you know.”

And with that, she glides past the sad fish and the dead butterflies, leaving no sound.

“Emmy. Emmeline!”

The housekeeper leans into view, bringing with her the smell of nicotine gum and furniture polish. Her blonde hair is tied up in a gold scrunchy and her baggy Mickey Mouse sweater is rucked by an apron belt.

“Lord Aldridge,” she says, putting a duster and spray on the table, “Please don’t upset yourself. It’s me, it’s Jane.” She rests her hand on his shoulder. “Lord Aldridge,” she tries more firmly, and then, “George.”

His brow smooths as he looks into her eyes, as if seeing them anew, “Oh, Jane. Oh, dear I … Emmy was here. Just now. She was right there.”

Jane glances at the chair and tilts her head to George. “And did she stay for scones, sir?”

“Oh yes,” he nods.

“Would you like the cricket, sir?” Jane passes the small radio to him and slides the plastic switch on. “Apparently, New Zealand are up to bat. It’s getting very tense.”

He rests the radio set in his lap and listens to the small voice.

The End

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Thanks for reading my story. It took longer than I ever thought such a short story would need. I just kept coming back to little Emmeline and chopping any unnecessary details out. At the same time I wanted to convey the gothic, Victorian nature of the space. I hope I struck the balance.

I went back and forth on the ending. It seemed just too tragic to have Emmeline run away in fear or shrivel at her ultimate loss. As her character developed, she guided me to what mattered to her most—scones with cream. This lightened the heavy load.

Go ahead and comment your thoughts below.

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a month ago · 73 likes · 63 comments · Ian Taniels | HouseOfChapters

The smell of urine is a poor companion for lunch, but Catherine is not eating. With a scrunch of blue paper towel, I pinch a drip from her nose before it lands in the mash, grateful for my solid constitution. Like the gnarled woman in the corner and the drooling man opposite, Catherine has departed her body. I wonder if the carers know who Catherine was before Alzheimer’s.

With forced levity, I say, “Catherine, shall we go into the garden? Get some air?”

Soon I am prattling into the silence as we wheel past an empty bird feeder, a wilting hydrangea, a metal sunflower. I sit on a bench and twist her wheelchair to face me.

“Catherine, I’m afraid we had to say goodbye to Morris this week.”

Nothing. I go on.

“He was so old, bless him, and fifteen’s a good age for a Labrador.”

Catherine uncurls her knotted hand and I take it in mine, but my vision blurs and I am back in the vet’s office again: Morris wrapped in a yellow knitted blanket, head growing heavy in my lap.

The vet whispers, “You’re doing the right thing by him.”

Now, I say to Catherine, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry the dog gets the right thing, and you get this.”

She looks down and smiles at our clasped hands resting on her knee and I wonder if she feels Morris there, waiting patiently to be invited up onto the sofa.

Thanks for reading this piece, which was inspired by my own experiences of losing loved ones. If it made you feel something, maybe you’ll like, share or subscribe.

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