There was a tree. Standing just shy of three feet tall it was clearly visible from the road. It had grown from a seed blown in by the wind some years prior. Small and unobtrusive it had found the perfect spot, warm and moist, free from competition. It had done what seeds do under the circumstances, sprout. From leaf bud to leaf fall and then through multiple winters it had grown albeit slowly constrained by its limited root space. Turned out the Green Gables roof eave was not the ideal place to grow after all.
Faith nudged Jem to point it out, "look there up there." Jem stared shocked, the tree evident against the flaking green paint, he'd known that Davy had let the place go, but this was beyond the pale.
"Marilla would be spinning in her grave and Matthew with her."
"Pretty busy down there," Faith commented. Jem just sighed in response pushing his red cowlick out of his eyes.
Jem could not recall the first time he'd been there. Visits to Avonlea had featured in his childhood from before his first memory. What was expected when he first in his mother's arms and later under his own steam he crossed the threshold was a warm welcome and a tight embrace.
He measured his growth by the angle of those hugs. When young he'd snuffle in the gentle aroma of Marilla's skirts before being lifted into her arms where he could snuggle into her neck and later as he grew, he noticed the gentle rise of her chest above her slim waist and then eventually, she was the one resting her head on his shoulder. He relished their connection. He always promised to visit more but somehow found himself going there less frequently as he grew older, and life became busier. He'd notice how much older she looked each time. Marilla was not young when she adopted his mother and though he did not think of it over much she was slowing down as he was maturing. The last time he'd visited under his own steam she was sitting down in her chair by the fire, and he'd helped her to her feet aware of her tiny frame against his tall strong one.
That had been many years ago now, but he still fancied he spied her out of the corner of his eye, though it had been a long time since he'd turned to find her. Understanding the trick that his brain played. Still, he missed her, that distinctive warm comforting smell of her lavender water and baking, her voice, her hair. She existed in fragments now. there was an old photo on the wall at his house, which had been taken one long ago afternoon. The sky had been blue with white fluffy clouds scudding by. That breeze had caused problems for all the ladies as their hats threatened to fly away and the photographer had been quite impatient to capture the moment. There was another image, that of his mother and Marilla. They had a special bond, Jem understood even from a very young age. His mother had explained it to him, how it had been strained initially but had grown and developed over time. "Strange," Anne had said. "I think Matthew's passing brought us closer than ever."
So many family memories entwined about the old place and now because it was up for sale, they had to come to clean it out. It was a mammoth task. How do you clean out a house that has been home for generations? He sighed, suppose I've been lucky to avoid this until now. Where to start?
His siblings said they'd come by to help, not Davy naturally as the reason they had to go through this rigmarole was due to his unexpected departure. Jem never got to the bottom of it. One hastily scrawled note was all they received, and Dora was no wiser, of course. Poor Dora not only had she lost her brother but her mind as well. She was being cared for by her own daughters over in town. Jem had paid a visit there the other day and Dora had called him Davy before nodding off to sleep, with her teacup sloshing precariously on her lap. So no, there was no help from that quarter, just that note of Davy's and a call from one of Mrs Lynde's nearby children that someone from the Blythe family had better come and take care of things.
Coming over wasn't a problem these days, Jem had retired some years prior so there was plenty of time. That had been an odd transition, to go from being frantically busy one day to just not, the next. He'd thought he'd enjoy it, all that time finally to do the things that brought him joy, the lack of responsibility. His father had warned him, he'd scoffed at the time, that it would not be easy to adjust, but in this as in so many things Gilbert had been right. There was another to miss, Jem took his eyes off the road to glance upwards with a wry smile.
He'd known Gilbert was failing, but it was still a shock when he did finally pass. Jem felt the weight of responsibility descend upon his shoulders; he had not even understood its existence until it settled upon him, but he felt as though he was the one they all looked up to now. He was not sure that he was up to it.
To say the house was filthy did not go far enough, for not only had it not been cleaned for decades so that it was full of mouse dirt and spiders' webs, but it had presumably never been cleaned out at all. There was little of the original property left, they'd sold it off to the neighbours when Matthew had died, but there was enough room for a bonfire, so Jem and Faith spent the day dragging decrepit furniture out of the gloomy house and depositing it in one ever growing pile.
Scrabbling around in the pantry, Faith's fingertips chanced upon something unexpected with a smooth cold surface. Recoiling briefly, she reached out once more curious and pulled the object towards her. Sloshing it gently Faith knew that it still contained liquid of some sort. Upon quick examination she determined it could even date back to Marilla's time, but the light was too dim to know for sure.
Wincing as something unidentifiable crunched underfoot Faith made her way out to the veranda where she found Jem sitting on the sagging seat a bottle of beer in his hand. "Just needed to get out of the dust," he said apologetically. "What have you got there?" She smiled and handed over the bottle careful to know that he had it safely in his hands before she let go. Jem whistled lowly, "what does it say?"
"Don't know, it was too dim inside to read."
Examining it carefully between the fly specks and mould, Jem could just make out, M…r… …hb..t 1.8. "Can't read it, do you suppose it's raspberry cordial?"
"Wasn't she also famous for blackcurrant wine?"
"There's a story there. You must have heard it?"
"Something about Anne and Aunt Diana?"
"Yes, one of those awkward moments when there was nothing Mum could do to make it right even though it wasn't wholly her fault. Mrs Barry assumed Mum was the guilty party and nothing they could say would change her mind."
"I always thought it was a crime to assume your children were complete saints or sinners," Faith remarked.
Jem nodded, "exactly. They all have a bit of each in them. Drink?"
"Yes, please." Jem got to his feet and found a small bottle of dry ginger ale next to the brandy in the cool box they'd brought along. The familiar hiss of its opening brought a smile to Faith, and she smiled again when Jem passed the tumbler over listening to the ice cubes clink in the glass.
"So, the bottle," said Jem looking down at it once more.
"Don't tell me you want to try it after all this time?" Faith was incredulous.
"I suppose not." Jem picked it up again. "In a way it's Schrodinger's Bottle. Until we open it, it could still be wine or cordial, but more than likely it's vinegar."
"I rather love that Marilla brewed wine. It seems so out of character."
Jem grinned, "yeah well, we know she wasn't completely strait-laced. She did adopt a girl by mistake you know. You knew her."
"Only tangentially when she came to visit you. I remember a tall, slim woman, handsome in her own way. Blue eyes, snow white hair in a bun. Seemed stern, but she loved you. What was she like?"
"I was only young when she passed."
"But looking back now, with all your experience?"
"Hm, well she didn't suffer fools, but she had a dry sense of humour. She was loving but, in a calm, undemonstrative way."
"How did she and Anne get on."
"Mum liked to tease her, but she listened to her advice, you know. They were incredibly close. Mum was real cut up when we lost her. And her baking was second to none."
"Better than Susan Baker?"
Jem paused considering, "well similar," he acknowledged. "They each had their favourite recipes."
Shirley arrived next having left his wife, Claire at home with their kids. Striding up to the house he whistled in shock. "Hi, there," he called up. "Looks like there's a little bit of work to do."
His arms full of moth-eaten rug Jem rolled his eyes saying, "that brother, is the understatement of the century. Come and see for yourself."
Sitting at the front door in the warm scented summer dusk after a hard day's work. They watched the twilight come down and the white moths fly about in the garden as the odour of mint filled the dewy air much as their long-departed grandmother had loved to do. With dust smudged cheeks they enjoyed a well-deserved drink and talk turned inevitably to the earlier inhabitants, though by mutual but unspoken agreement they blurred over the latest ones. "It just smelt of home," Jem commented. "All warm and comfy."
"Can't say I really remember, but I know what you mean," Shirley replied.
"I suppose not, you were pretty young when she died weren't you. And you didn't even join us that time Mum and Dad went away. Mum left you home with Susan."
"Yeah, it was pretty wild when I watched you all disappear. I watched you drive off for a few moments before Susan drew me back into the kitchen and I suppose we baked a cake or something."
Jem looked at him quizzically, "maybe she thought all six of us was too much for Aunt Marilla, but she even sent Rilla."
Shirley sucked on his beer bottle, "what are you implying?" He stretched his long legs out crossing his ankles.
"Oh nothing, it's just a bit rum when I think about it. I can't imagine separating one of my children from the rest is all."
Shirley shrugged, "well I guess we'll never know. What did you do here all that time?"
Jem paused, casting his mind back. "I suppose we just did the usual stuff, helped out, ran around. I liked it here, but it was no Rainbow Valley and I missed Jerry and Faith. Did you see much of Carl and Una while you were alone?"
"I expect so. It was a long time ago, Jem. Can't say I remember it much." Shirley picked up the old bottle Faith had found earlier. "What do you make of this?"
"It's impressive isn't it. That it's stayed intact all this time."
"Want to try it?"
"We discussed it," Faith responded. "But it'll be off by now."
Shirley's eyes glinted in the lamplight, "c'mon. When do you get the chance to drink history?" Forcing the issue, he got to his feet and went to locate some glasses. Jem and Faith waited for him somewhat surprised at the turn their night had taken. "Couldn't find any clean, not that I was prepared to drink out of anyways," said Shirley upon his return. "But I'll give these old teacups a rinse, they'll do."
Pulling his trusty Swiss army knife out of his back pocket, Shirley thumbed out the corkscrew and inserted it into the bottle. They watched entranced as the cork disintegrated under the pressure. "Damn. Never mind, trust your brother Shirley, this is not the first old cork I've had to deal with." He sniffed the bottle and grinned up at them both enigmatically.
"Well?"
Shirley disappeared back inside where they could hear him puttering about for a little while. As night had fallen and it was getting dark Faith and Jem joined him inside. Jem shivered in the cold room and turned around to find some wood. While he set a fire, Shirley worked on the bottle and Faith set out some food they'd brought along. After about half an hour they sat down to dinner by the fire, liquid of some sort nestled in Marilla's old rosebud teacups.
"Bottom's up," declared Shirley with an evil smile. Faith paused tentative, watching the men try and when they sat their cups down sipped gently. "Oh my."
Shirley poured another for each of them, "what do you think?"
"It's…"
"Delicious," finished Faith. "Incredible, after all this time."
"I think Marilla deserves a toast," Jem said.
"I'll say," replied Shirley. "To our wonderful Aunt Marilla, brewer of the 1800s best raspberry cordial. Mrs Barry can go and get stuffed."
Faith burst into laughter. "Absolutely, you old bore. S'nothing wrong with a little after dinner libation." She waved her cup at Shirley suggestively.
"More?"
"You know," said Jem feeling the effect, "I think it might just be blackcurrant wine after all. We've got a big day tomorrow. You don't want a hangover."
"Y'reminding me of Mrs Barry," Faith said, pouting.
"It's powerful stuff. No wonder Aunt Diana got drunk. Mum told me she had a few glasses. I think Marilla said anyone who was that greedy deserved what they got."
Shirley smiled and Faith giggled, definitely affected. "Save the rest for another night," Jem suggested. "Got to say, I'm pleasantly surprised."
Shirley picked up the bottle again, "sure is the oldest booze I've drunk."
They found beds to sleep in and while their night was disturbed by sounds of animals scrabbling around in the roof they slept soundly enough, exhausted by their day's endeavour, and buoyed by the blackcurrant wine.
The next morning after a quick breakfast they separated to sift through separate rooms, calling out to each other about various finds. Faith found herself in Marilla's old bedroom, the boys apparently somewhat squeamish to enter. Davy evidently had not been thus affected so the room was in the same state of disrepair as the rest of the house. However, it appeared as though the wardrobe was relatively untouched even after all this time.
Like stepping back in time, Faith thought as her hands brushed past ancient dresses. Moth eaten by now and far too musty. She pulled one down and marvelled at the tiny waist. In an old trunk she found Marilla's under things and shuddered at the corsets, fancy wearing those all your life, she murmured.
Higher up were boxes upon boxes. She pulled them down reverently and placed them on the bed, ready to explore the contents later. One box was far back on a high shelf, dustier if it were possible than the rest. Intrigued she pulled it down swearing when it slipped out of her hands and the contents fluttered to the floor. Sitting cross-legged in the wardrobe Faith took up the first piece of paper to read the faint copperplate: I dream of tracing featherlight kisses across the landscape of your back…
