Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
Once upon a time there was a woman. Stella Frostrop. She was very stylish and had just the right air of mystery about her. She was, of course, from the best family. There was no doubt about that. Such beautiful taste in clothes and home decoration. You would have adored her if you had met her. Until, however, things changed.
Every day she was always to be seen walking along the canal in sensible, but stylish slacks. The neighbours could reliably set their watch by her strolling leisurely past their window. Almost 9 am on the dot every day before she would saunter back up the hill to the grand stone house that had overlooked the village for a century or more. She was a fine woman they all said. Admired for her style and poise Stella would often stop to chat to people around the village.
“Good morning Mr Smith.” “How are you sons Mrs Brownlaw? I hope they are not causing you too much trouble.” Everyone had commented that for such a woman of high standing, she was not proud and haughty at all. So refreshing it was too.
Stella always enjoyed her walk and idle chats with people along the way. It made her feel more alive somehow. The feel of walking through the long grass, the languid flow of the water in the canal. She could not imagine a time when she would not enjoy this ritual. Stella would to return to the house after her walk, happier in herself and write letters or maybe poetry. She, as all the local villagers commented, was a very accomplished woman. Stella’s father had been the one who had encouraged her to make walking a regular habit. Why? Just why was her memory about that time so hazy? Father was long dead now so she could not ask him. Stella could not remember her mother. What had father told him about her? She couldn’t seem to remember that either.
One day Stella decided not to get out of bed.
The house keeper was instructed to bring all of her meals upstairs and leave them outside the door.
The next day the same instruction was given again, and the next.
What a strange development.
And then there was that odd scratching sound.
After a week of this the housekeeper, Mrs Winstone, a mouse of a woman was almost beside herself. This was so unlike her employer. Maybe she was ill. Maybe she was sad due to the sudden departure of her fiancée the day before Stella had remained in bed.
It was quite unlike Bernard, but as he was leaving the house in great haste he met the housekeeper in the dim hallway. Even though the light was poor Mrs Winstone saw him ever so pale. His eyes had a haunted look about them. He looked so unlike himself that Mrs Winstone had given a little yelp of surprise and shock. On quickly collecting herself she had put it down to his probably being nothing more than experiencing the throws of young love and had thought nothing more of it.
After a week and a half Mrs Winstone decided that now was the time to act.
“Miss Frostrop, I, I, think it might be time to change your sheets. Is now a good time to come in?
Silence.
After knocking again and no response the slight housekeeper took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. Although she was small and the door was solid and heavy she did not expect to feel such resistance when she pushed it open. As she put all of her weight into the task she heard sliding of heavy objects on the other side of the door. Then a crash. Mrs Winstone just managed to poke her head through the door.
Piles and piles of books had been stack up, in barricade fashion, against the door to prevent the entry into the room. Now the stacks were splayed in all directions.
Beyond was the bed of the lady: queen size, floral bedspread, not that one could make the floral pattern out. It was so dark. All the blinds were pulled down. The air in the room was so musty.
Mrs Winstone could make out a lump under the bedspread. The lady? So unlike her. What on earth was going on?
“Miss Frostrop?”
“Hmm”
“Dear, you must get up. We need to change your sheets. I’ll need to open the blinds.”
As the bright light flooded into the room Mrs Winstone had only seconds to focus as a dishevelled creature within lunged at her and sprang towards the window to pull the blind to its original position.
“Don’t touch it. I don’t want them to know I’m in this room.”
“Who dear?”
“Who? You know who. The neighbours. I am tired of hearing what they say about me. I’m a whore one day. A thief the next. They don’t like me walking by their house. They are always say that about me. I’m sick of it.”
Mrs Winstone tried to regain her composure, despite the terrible realisation. It was back. The sickness that Miss Frostrop had suffered from as a teenager. Like her mother before her.
And because of that Mrs Winstone knew she that she wouldn’t be having a holiday this summer, that she would be, once again, in for a rough ride.