ERASED

By Winifred Dawson

Jeremy paused at the rusty gates, his fingers traced the lettering on the old sign, The King’s Roost, what a stupid name for a house. He could see the cottage through the wrought iron bars, exactly as he had remembered. It was almost entirely covered in ivy, peeping out from behind a mix of trees; apple, horse-chestnut, and some others he couldn't name. He fumbled with the latch as a rather plump looking robin sidled along the wall away from him, looking quite disgruntled. Seven years ago, he had walked through these gates and had not been back since. He had learned of his Mother’s passing through Facebook only six months later, two days after she had been buried.

The old gates gave up their challenge easier than he was expecting and Jeremy stumbled forward into a sea of buttercups and bluebells. Although the garden was wildly overgrown, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the beauty of it all. Huge balls of dandelion fluff floated around him and a giant bumble bee hung buzzing in the air beside him. Birds chattered and whistled back and forth and everything smelled like spring. Jeremy allowed himself to enjoy the serenity of the moment until he was snapped out of his thoughts by a loud screech coming from the high branches of a nearby apple tree. He looked up and his eyes were met by the determined stare of a large grey crow. He began to move towards the house, his feet searching for the old stone of the curved path through the morning haze. The mist twisted around his ankles, suspended just above the ground by some unknown force as he walked. Two large stone owls stood as they always had, perched upon two hefty flagstones, one on either side of the front door. Even through a thick covering of cobwebs, their eyes seemed to follow his approach. As a child he had played with them, held imaginary conversations with them, but now he felt uneasy in their presence. He was here to have one last look around and perhaps salvage anything of value, not that he expected to find much. His father’s funeral had taken place just three days before, Jeremy did not attend.

A shiver crept along his spine as he reached the once glossy red door, the paint now faded and flaking. Jeremy brushed away a tiny spider dangling on the end of a single silk strand from the door knob and turned the key. The door was stuck, it took his full weight to push it open. As he entered the hallway, old emotions stirred inside of him. He felt let down, abandoned. His childhood had been ok, he thought, at worst, it could have been described as uninspiring. Of course he had felt lonely at times, his father, although present, had always been very much distant towards Jeremy. Any love he had felt had come from his mother, but even that had proved to be conditional.

The old wallpaper was peeling at the corners and a thick coating of dust rested on every piece of furniture. His nose wrinkled as the fresh air was replaced by the musty fragrance of ‘old house’. The grandfather clock was stopped at half past twelve, it was much too big for the narrow hallway but his father had insisted upon it. To Jeremy it had always appeared tilted forward as if it was about to tip over, but it never had. He pulled it towards him and let it fall back into place. The displaced dust made him sneeze as it sparkled in the air, Tick, Tock, the old clock was working again. He paused, wanting to find meaning in this, before deciding he was overthinking it and moving on. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back but a part of him needed closure. He wanted to believe that his father had loved him on some level, but he knew the truth. The room to his left was dark, his father’s study. He could just about make out the old bookcase, overflowing, stuffed full with papers and magazines. This was where his father had spent most of his days. Jeremy walked past without entering.

He paused at the bottom of the dark mahogany staircase, he wanted to see his old bedroom one more time. Looking up, he noticed that the old family portrait, the one taken when he was about eight or nine, was gone. It had always hung at the top of the stairs, his mother had been wearing a green floral dress, and it was, he thought, the only photograph he’d ever seen his father smile in. In its place hung a rather uninspiring painting of a castle.

His footsteps echoed on the bare wood as he climbed the stairs and walked down the dark landing, passing the closed door of his parents bedroom. Jeremy paused at the door to his old room, before turning the knob slowly. The door swung open, revealing a hollow space. There was nothing, no old toys or books, no hurling medals, no posters on the walls. Not even a square of dust where his bed had been. Jeremy had been erased. His own parents had turned their backs on him for being different, for not being enough. He had always accepted them for what they were. Had they really believed as parents that they had ever been enough? Jeremy wiped away a tear that had formed defiantly in the corner of his eye before making his way back down the stairs. He stopped before an old mirror, intrigued by the reflection gazing back at him. He had left this place a boy, but had returned a man. ‘It was never your fault’, the words spilled loudly from Jeremy’s mouth before he continued on his way.

At the back of the house, the small kitchen was frozen in time. An old black kettle sat on the stove, the kind that whistled when it boiled, and a basket of logs rested on the terracotta tiles. His eyes caught an old framed photograph on the sideboard. Jeremy picked it up, his mother’s sad eyes peered back at him, his father, as usual, held a vacant stare. He threw it across the room, landing it with a clunk in the old cast iron sink. It didn’t break. He had already decided that he didn’t want anything from this place, the one thing he had needed, his parents had not been able to provide. His father had been a self centred bigoted man, his mother, he concluded, had simply been weak. He pushed against the back door and after dealing with a curtain of cobweb, Jeremy stepped out into the hazy sunshine once again. A line of swallows perched on the clothesline to his right, their gaze drawn to him by the crunching of gravel beneath his feet as he walked. The small greenhouse was falling down. Through the dusty glass, Jeremy could see an old radio with the antenna still extended. A large moth flew up from a green coffee cup with the word MUM in pink lettering on the front. It circled aimlessly before disappearing into the left boot of a pair of red wellingtons by the door. This was where his mother had preferred to spend her time.

The repetitive voice of a cuckoo echoed in his ears and Jeremy became aware of a buzzing sound as he continued on past a line of decrepit sheds and outhouses, all of them quite overwhelmed by ivy and moss. Soon he was standing beside a sturdy oak tree near the bottom of the garden. He reached up and grabbed a branch which had once held a large tyre, this was where Jeremy had spent his days as a child. He liked to pretend that he was king of

the forest and ruler of all birds and animals that lived there. His eyes searched for the old fort he’d tacked together as a child. It was nothing more than a mishmash of wooden crates, tyres and plastic, but to Jeremy it was his castle. He’d laughed, cried, played and hidden there, but there was no trace. Erased, he thought. He almost lost his balance then as the old branch suddenly gave way, falling to the ground with a thump. A thousand flies all at once, rose into the air around him, startled from their hiding place beneath the leaves near his feet. Jeremy stood frozen, equally amazed and disgusted as he was momentarily engulfed. They disappeared as quickly as they had appeared and silence took over. Complete stillness, no birds, bees, nothing. A solitary black feather drifted from above, brushing his shoulder before continuing its journey to the ground. Jeremy looked up, his eyes bounced from branch to branch, starlings, crows, blackbirds, all sat mutely in the branches staring back at him. He felt a strong urge to leave this place now, there was nothing here he wanted, nothing he needed anymore. A feeling of unease began to build inside of him as he made his way back through the garden. He was filled with an eerie sense as if he was being watched. Passing back by the old sheds, his footsteps on the gravel seemed louder than before. He felt vulnerable, he was no longer king of this wilderness, he did not belong here. He glanced once more through the dirty glass of the little greenhouse, remembering his mother, he didn’t stop.

The kitchen door made a loud thud as he closed it behind him. He did not pick the photo up from where it had landed in the sink, it was time for him to go. He walked back through the house, Tick, Tock, the old clock was still working. Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled the front door shut behind him and passed by the ridiculously oversized statues. The mist no longer hid the winding path as he walked away from the house, away from his old

life for the second time, only this time he knew it would be forever. He was very aware now of the strange silence, his footsteps on the stone paving made the only sound. Once again he encountered the giant bumble bee, stopping briefly as it crossed his path. Its buzzing filled the empty quiet for a moment and then it was gone, allowing the silence to return.

Jeremy was glad to be on the other side of the gates once more. He closed the latch without looking back. The rotund robin, still perched on the wall, now sidled back into its original position. Tick, Tock, the sound of the old clock lingered in his ears as Jeremy walked away and The King’s Roost stood empty once again.

Author Bio: Winner of the Frank McDonald short story prize 2022 and published in Ireland’s Own,
Winifred comes from a beautiful rural part of County Kilkenny. Her writing is inspired by the
quiet beauty of her surroundings and an appreciation for life’s smaller, overlooked moments.