Read Online The Remaining Voice by Angela Elliott - Free Book Online
Authors: Angela Elliott
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left, both slightly ajar. At the end of the hall was another, but this was closed. I pushed the first door open and crossed quickly to the window. I opened the shutter, noticing the Juliet balcony outside, and rotten window frame. The rain had stopped but the sky was still an oppressive grey. When I turned…
… I heard her breathing. I could not see her, but she was there all the same. The bed was unmade, the covers pushed back as if someone had just gotten up. I stood transfixed by the sound…
Eventually, I plucked up the courage to say: “Berthe?” No one replied. I listened, and after a while I could not be sure anymore if it was my breathing I had heard, or that of my ghostly companion.
I fitted the new roll of film in the camera and took a few pictures. The dressing table mirror was opaque with dust, and the bottom drawer was missing. To one side stood a small chair and next to that a heavy walnut armoire. When I opened its doors I found a row of faded calico clothing bags hanging inside, and peeping out from the bottom of each, a drift of moth-eaten silk.
Her clothes were still here. Everything was still here.
I photographed the contents in situ. I could not bring myself to open any of the bags. That would have to wait. Her shoes were lined up in a row. I dared to lift one out. She had such small feet. I put it back in place.
On her nightstand by the bed I found a glass, a bottle of pills, and a silver-framed photograph of the same woman as in the painting, arm in arm with a hard-faced man in a hat. She was staring up at him adoringly, but he had eyes only for the camera.
“Berthe,” I whispered again. I took up the frame and crossed to the window to get a better look. Yes, it was one and the same. I clasped the picture to my breast. So… if this was Berthe, if the painting was of Berthe, if the ghost was Berthe…
But she had been an old lady when she died, and I doubted that ghosts could choose at what age they haunted. I laughed nervously at myself. It sounded ridiculous. Perhaps what I needed was not so much an antique expert as a clairvoyant - or maybe even a priest.
I took the photograph with me into the next room, which contained a brown-stained bath, sink and water closet. The piping was intricate, like something from a Victorian insane asylum. At any minute I expected white coated attendants to enter and hustle me into the bath for ‘treatment. I shuddered and shot a couple pictures, shutting the door when I had done.
Behind the closed door at the end of the hall, I found a room containing a grand piano, and as much, if not more furniture than the drawing room. When I opened the shutters to let the light in I noticed that one wall had a huge, ornately framed mirror hanging on it and opposite, a glass-doored bookcase that ran floor-to-ceiling. A long-dead brown-curled aspidistra occupied a pot on a stand next to a chair, on which was a small box, bound with a faded pink ribbon. Spider webs drifted down from a chandelier, once glittering with light, now hazed with dirt. There was a stuffed penguin, a Chinese-painted cabinet, a card table, a chaise longue, a rolled up carpet, a gilt bird cage, an oil lamp with delicate glass shade, a carved armoire, and a writing desk on which stood a group of silver-framed photographs: Berthe with an older woman, both in costume; Berthe with a very smart young man in uniform; Berthe posing, much as I remembered the postcard picture Michel Pascal had given me; Berthe and the man from the photograph I had found in her bedroom; Berthe and a small boy – in this one she was bending down to look at something he was playing with; Berthe and what looked to be the cast of a show – all in costume; Berthe and a small woman who had moved during the taking of the shot, so that she was blurred; Berthe and a very stately looking man in evening dress.
I placed the photograph from her bedroom next to those on the desk and sat on the leather-covered piano stool. My feet
… I heard her breathing. I could not see her, but she was there all the same. The bed was unmade, the covers pushed back as if someone had just gotten up. I stood transfixed by the sound…
Eventually, I plucked up the courage to say: “Berthe?” No one replied. I listened, and after a while I could not be sure anymore if it was my breathing I had heard, or that of my ghostly companion.
I fitted the new roll of film in the camera and took a few pictures. The dressing table mirror was opaque with dust, and the bottom drawer was missing. To one side stood a small chair and next to that a heavy walnut armoire. When I opened its doors I found a row of faded calico clothing bags hanging inside, and peeping out from the bottom of each, a drift of moth-eaten silk.
Her clothes were still here. Everything was still here.
I photographed the contents in situ. I could not bring myself to open any of the bags. That would have to wait. Her shoes were lined up in a row. I dared to lift one out. She had such small feet. I put it back in place.
On her nightstand by the bed I found a glass, a bottle of pills, and a silver-framed photograph of the same woman as in the painting, arm in arm with a hard-faced man in a hat. She was staring up at him adoringly, but he had eyes only for the camera.
“Berthe,” I whispered again. I took up the frame and crossed to the window to get a better look. Yes, it was one and the same. I clasped the picture to my breast. So… if this was Berthe, if the painting was of Berthe, if the ghost was Berthe…
But she had been an old lady when she died, and I doubted that ghosts could choose at what age they haunted. I laughed nervously at myself. It sounded ridiculous. Perhaps what I needed was not so much an antique expert as a clairvoyant - or maybe even a priest.
I took the photograph with me into the next room, which contained a brown-stained bath, sink and water closet. The piping was intricate, like something from a Victorian insane asylum. At any minute I expected white coated attendants to enter and hustle me into the bath for ‘treatment. I shuddered and shot a couple pictures, shutting the door when I had done.
Behind the closed door at the end of the hall, I found a room containing a grand piano, and as much, if not more furniture than the drawing room. When I opened the shutters to let the light in I noticed that one wall had a huge, ornately framed mirror hanging on it and opposite, a glass-doored bookcase that ran floor-to-ceiling. A long-dead brown-curled aspidistra occupied a pot on a stand next to a chair, on which was a small box, bound with a faded pink ribbon. Spider webs drifted down from a chandelier, once glittering with light, now hazed with dirt. There was a stuffed penguin, a Chinese-painted cabinet, a card table, a chaise longue, a rolled up carpet, a gilt bird cage, an oil lamp with delicate glass shade, a carved armoire, and a writing desk on which stood a group of silver-framed photographs: Berthe with an older woman, both in costume; Berthe with a very smart young man in uniform; Berthe posing, much as I remembered the postcard picture Michel Pascal had given me; Berthe and the man from the photograph I had found in her bedroom; Berthe and a small boy – in this one she was bending down to look at something he was playing with; Berthe and what looked to be the cast of a show – all in costume; Berthe and a small woman who had moved during the taking of the shot, so that she was blurred; Berthe and a very stately looking man in evening dress.
I placed the photograph from her bedroom next to those on the desk and sat on the leather-covered piano stool. My feet
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