Home is where the heart is - Flash Fiction

I pushed the key in the keyhole of the front door.  I felt a little giddy with excitement and somewhat nervous because of the mixed emotions I was feeling.  The modern door set in the 19^th century stonework seemed to confirm the connection of new and old that was my coming to the house.  I lightly brushed my fingers over the etchings on the sandstone and wondered who was responsible for that particular brick; feeling the roughness catch on my skin.

I took a deep breath and turned the key, pushing the door at the same time and stepping over the worn sandstone threshold.  There I had done it!  This was the home that Charles Ellen had built in High Street, Oatlands. The home he raised a family in, the home he and Elizabeth were laid out in.

As I turned and looked in the front room I imaged Charles standing by the hearth, talking with Elizabeth about their day. 

“Bethy, I ran into Mr Bowsden today and he has asked me for a quote for another hay barn.  Truly, the work for a builder here is endless!”

“That is wonderful Charles, I am sure it is because they know what a good and conscientious worker you are.  I wish some of these qualities would pass down to our George, that boy is going to be the end of me!”

To my left was a bedroom with a large wrought iron bed as the centre piece.  In front of the window was a dresser with a beautiful porcelain jug and basin set sitting on top of it.  Looking at this room was like stepping back in time, again I could imagine plans and dreams being whispered in the early hours.

This was the room that saw eight children birthed.  Eight children brought into the world with the assistance of the local midwife and Elizabeth’s friend Sarah.  Sarah, the dear friend who was always there for Elizabeth. She was at the birth of her children; and at the death of her youngest, William when he drowned at 14.  Did Sarah sit with her on a bed like this and hold her when Charles passed on in 1892? I would never know.

I left my luggage in the door way and made my way through into the heart of the house; the kitchen. I noticed the worn timber floors that ran up the hallway; marked with time from generations of footfalls.  Charles laid these floors in the 1830s when he built the house; oh the stories they could tell.

The kitchen is the heart of any home and this wasn’t any different.  It was a smallish space with an old fashioned lead light dresser at one end, table in the middle and a wood combustion stove at the other end.  For the modern day cook it had an electric stove, fridge and microwave taking up wall space around the room. 

What would Elizabeth think of these ‘mod-cons’?  I think she would have loved them. She had a large family to cater for.  Did she have a garden out the back?  Most families did and I suspect they would have been the same.  I could almost imagine the scent of basic comfort food. Yes, a home baked loaf, fresh from the oven and spread with dripping. 

A table surrounded by hungry children and a husband reading the paper.  Probably looking for his own letters to the editor; being the prolific writer that he was. Maybe one to the council complaining about the rise in rates or it may have been an advertisement for the temperance society.

Charles was heavily involved in the temperance movement.  Having been convicted not long after arriving in Van Diemen’s Land for the theft of alcohol; perhaps he learnt his lesson and this prompted him to take the oath. One would never know the reason but he remained a teetotaler until his death.

 I made myself a cuppa and sat in the front room.  Tears ran down my face as emotions overcame me.  I felt so truly blessed; not just to be staying in the house that Charles built but to have the knowledge of my ancestors.  To know who my great, great grandfather was, to have intimate access to his life.   To think that I was sitting in the same house that gave shelter and warmth to my family past.  I like to think it was filled with love and laughter along with the tears and heartbreak.

Reflection

In 2016 I spent the night at 103 High Street, Oatlands.  The house that Charles built and I was overwhelmed by emotion.  So many thoughts ran through my head as I wandered the rooms.  This is a work of fiction, but I have embellished on some of Charles and Elizabeth’s life.  Yes he was part of the temperance movement for some time but I don’t know how strict he was or if he stayed with them until the end.  

I also don’t know if Elizabeth had a friend called Sarah but I like to think she did have that one close friend.  A confident and ally in a tough life; which was a given for women in the 19^th century.

The house has been restored but from records kept by the people who did the restoration the flooring and much of the timber work is original.

I have tried to include more description in this story, concentrating especially on my feeling as they were at the time of staying in the house and conveying an image of the house as it was in 2016. It is definitely about a sense of place and belonging, not just for Charles and his family but for me too. If I had more words to use I would have included more on the children raised there and maybe included a little more of the imagined dialogue between Charles and Elizabeth.