When the gates of Ys were opened,
and the city consumed by the sea,
its beauty, a secret, lies in wait,
for the first to hear the church bells ring
and there to rise as king.
The journey to Brittany had been uneventful. We arrived at the port early, queued, had the buffet breakfast with hot chocolate and then spent the rest of the journey in our cabin watching movies as the engine drummed the ferry through the low waves. As usual, there was some who didn’t know how to lock their car without the alarm and as the ferry rocked, car alarms sounded, and as usual, Mum cursed the owners, asking how hard was it to look up a video on the internet, but with earphones in, I could hardly hear them.
The drive from Saint-Malo hadn’t changed over the year. The towns and coast were familiar and comforting like an old, warn sweater. Our house was not really a house, but rather an ancient grey stone villa with turrets and a tower, set high on a cliff top in much need of renovation. Jaded, Mum had said, preloved. But the thick dust on surfaces that we had not covered with old sheets at the end of last summer told another story. Each year, I discovered something new about the house, like it was waiting for me to be old enough to know its real secrets. The house was far too big for just Mum and me, but it was an investment, she insisted, for us girls. An investment that would take decades to realise, if ever, as she insisted on doing the work herself over the summers.
You’re going to love it, she’d say, when it’s done! And when would that be? I’d reply.
Every summer it was the same. Every summer she discovered something new that needed to be fixed and added it to the list because over the winter, the house would give into its age like a degenerative disease so that in the summer when we took one step forward, the house had already taken two steps back.
I couldn’t argue about the view. Sunsets, when it wasn’t raining, were spectacular. But that wasn’t very often. Mist, fog and rain were as staple as milk, bread and cheese. If anyone approached by boat in the fog, they were doomed to crash into the rocky base of the cliff; I was sure that numerous boats sank just below with the crews sacrificed to the grindylows who would drag them under with their elongated, sinewy fingers to become sea ghosts. On clear days, you could easily see the boats coming. There was no hope that they’d be able to dock at the cliff base and would have to sail along the coast to the village.
Being a teenager this year, I was sure things would be different. And they were. I had to do more work. Mum said that my first task was to clean out the room at the end of the long hallway on the left and she would start in the first room on the left. There were twelve rooms in total. Five on either side of the hallway and two at the top of the house. Eventually we’d meet and clean the middle room together. It was a cute idea, but when I opened the door of the last room, I realised the huge task ahead. This would take most of the summer.
The room was damp, even in the July heat, with four rickety single beds in dormitory style and motheaten bedspreads that did not match – patchwork quilts of reds, oranges and yellows jarred with the blue-green wallpaper of flowers and birds. The wallpaper was torn at its joins and in some places, pieces were completely gone revealing the plaster work beneath. Mum had given me a bag containing: cloths, polish, window cleaner, bin bags, adaptors as well as a mop and bucket and a hoover. She had packed two in the car this year and I thought she was crazy, but perhaps she did not underestimate the job at hand.
Under the windows, which spanned the length of the wall, were three low, long bookcases. That was the best part of the room. I took one of the adaptors out of the bag attached it to the hoover and plugged it in to a dodgy socket; the hoover roared to life. I detached the arm and sucked up the dust on the books with the end of the hose. When I’d just about reached the end of the row, an envelope flapped out from between the books and jammed against the hose, the hoover struggled to suck it down and the flat of the envelop puffed in and out like lungs expanding and contracting.
I slammed the off button with my foot and silence returned to the room. The envelop fell to the ground with the loss of suction and lay partially open at my feet. I rested the arm of the hoover on the wood floor and picked up the envelop. It was yellowed and the edges were disintegrating, like the rest of the villa. I removed the letter; it was three pages and began: Dearest Daughter and was dated: 1820. I shivered and suddenly felt like an intruder in someone else’s life. The writing was hard to read, and I moved closer to the window for better light. The letters were small, and the cursive writing in italics was a mix of English and French. My French reading was very bad, so I tried to make out the words I could: regret, obliged, reluctant and weeks. On the second page, there seemed to be a warning: beware, below the sea, flooded, dam. The more I looked at the words, the clearer they became, and on the final page it seemed less like a warning but more of an invitation: paradise, beautiful, secret, waterfall, lake, ancient, regenerate. It was signed: Your Loving Mother with a postscript in bold capital letters that I could easily read: Find the keys, trust your heart, follow your feet and seek the eternal: Ys.
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The Gold Shoe Writer 