Chapter 1: Residence
"This is the last box, ma'am," the mover grunted, setting the box down in a clear space on the kitchen island. There wasn't much, a few boxes of belongings and sparse amounts of furniture, to mark the collective remains of my previous life. A box and suitcase of clothes. A box of toiletries. A box of lenins. A box of kitchen apparel. An old table. A bed. A worn chair. A ratted couch. A damaged wardrobe.
I sighed, "thank you." I shook the mover's hand, passing him a small tip. He grinned, skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes, pleased by the charity.
"No. Thank you, lass." His accent slurred the words. I walked him to the door and waved him off, before closing the door and leaning against the hardwood. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. There were so many things to get used to now. So many things were different here.
Come on, Hannah! I thought, desperate to keep myself together. There's still so much to do!
I blinked back tears. New determination set my body into motion. I strode into the kitchen and began to unpack the box marked dishes. I stacked plates into my cupboard. Instead of crying, I thought. I need to get a job.
Had I already forgotten what it was like to be independent? I began my life with little, I could do so again. It was only a small bump in the road. A small, insignificant rut. I'd be fine. I always managed somehow.
My sudden relocation to England left my pocket book empty; what small, odd jobs I managed to perform and safe from barely covered the expenses necessary to move myself and things across the ocean.
On a whim, I moved from Dallas, Texas to the outskirts of Whitstable, United Kingdom on Clapham Hill. A beautiful town, sitting not far from where the River Thames spills out into the Thames Estuary. Many of the homes sat on the edge of the water, elevated to protect their homes from the tide. Despite the natural scenic view these home came with, prices were high, those came with a hefty price tag. I almost cried when she told me the average cost of a house in England. I pleaded with her, "I just want a house near the ocean! I don't care if it's even on the ocean! I don't care if it run down, I just need a house near some type of water!"
Finally, a week later, the realtor told me she had found a house. I was so happy! I was so excited! I didn't care that it need some major renovation! I didn't care that other owners had left the house, claiming it was haunted! I didn't care that the neighbors were foul! I had my house near the ocean, I would deal with the rest as it came.
Now here I was. In my new house, putting away my things. I had yet to meet the neighbors. I hadn't toured the house to examine the extent of the renovations needed. I hadn't been here long enough to see any type of apparition. But I had been down to the ocean. On my way down through the town, I asked the taxi driver to stop at the beach for a moment.
It was just as I remembered it being; the air thick with salt; the repetitive lapping of waves against the shore; the sand, smooth and plentiful. I loved water - every type: rivers, lakes, streams. But I especially loved the ocean. I grew up near it.
I finished the rest of the kitchen box, putting away glasses, silverware, my mother's tea set, and a couple of pots and pans. At the bottom of the box sat my mother's tablecloth, I unfolded it and set it on the table surface.
Done! I stood, admiring my work. It was a quaint kitchen. Narrow, but bright with many windows and a sliding glass door. The kitchen seemed more homey with my things adorned in the nooks and crannies. I would need to buy cleaning supplies with whatever money I had left when I bought groceries. Pleased, I opened a couple of windows. A breeze whistled in, smelling of sweet grass and salt, mixing with the musty wood scent of the house.
I turned and eyed the other boxes and my suitcase, undoing my ponytail and redoing it into a bun. Bedroom next, I decided. I picked up the box of clothes, set it on my hip, pulling the suitcase behind me, and staggered to my room.
The bedroom was down hall from the kitchen, adjacent to the bathroom and next to the living room. A large window inset in the right wall, the head of the bed and the wardrobe already pressed along the left. I set the box on the bed and the suitcase on the floor.
I unzipped the suitcase and started to pull out clothing, refolding and putting them in the wardrobe. Most of my clothing were more comfortable than professional; in the past I worked at small convenience stores and gas stations, therefor I never had a need for suits and dresses. In that regard, I didn't have much in the way of makeup either. A poor drop out college student couldn't afford those kinds of luxuries.
I finished my suitcase and moved onto the box, unfolding the tabs. I pulled out the sheets and quilt, setting them on the bed next to the box, and set to work on putting away the rest of the clothing that laid at the bottom of the box. Minutes later, I undid the, now empty, box, folding it and sliding it underneath my bed.
I had a habit of saving things, especially items that could provide useful for storage. Back in Texas, I had a whole closet full of boxes, baskets, and Christmas bags. My ex boyfriend thought it was childish to keep such things, but I did it anyway. The nagging thought always clinging to the back of my head, 'I might need this one day,' so I always refuted with "we'll need them when we move into the house we always wanted."
Any mention of a new house would always set my ex boyfriend off, caving way for discussion of location, distance from his parents, paint, the size of the yard, the number of bedrooms - then we'd talk about children to fill our home. He wanted one, a strong boy. I wanted three happy, healthy children. Then we'd make a compromise: two would be plenty - a strong boy and a healthy girl. He'd name the girl, I'd name the boy. That way there were no favorites.
As it turned out, the boxes came in handy - just not for its originally intended purpose.
I stood and, draping the quilt over the door of the wardrobe, I unfolded the sheets. I pressed the bottom sheet along the corners, folding them under the mattress, before placing the top sheet parallel against the bottom sheet, splaying it out and folding it, too, under the corners of the mattress. Then, I took the quilt from where it hung and laid it across the foot of the bed.
I smoothed it out, tracing the patterns with my fingers. It was something my mother made for me, a present to congratulate my going to college. Royal red cloth swirled with silver and black thread into an intricate tree of leaves.
"Why a tree," I had asked.
She replied with a smile, her storytelling telling smile. She told me it was the symbol of our heritage and our bonds with our past. "A family tree," she laughed. "Each leaf displaying the life of an ancestor."
"We have this many ancestors?" I stared at the number of the leaves, and to my, then, eighteen year old eyes, it seemed to be a lot.
"That and more."
Now that I was older I understood the depth of the blanket. The color, so deep and rich, accented the leaves that flowed through my veins. The black, a strong, unmovable base fed from the mulch of our ancestors; and the silver, bright with the rich lives of those who have yet to touch the earth and better the soil.
Buzzzzzzz! I jumped, the house filling with a loud noise. Buzzzzz!
The doorbell, yet another thing I would have to get used too. "One second," I yelled, walking out of my room and down the hallway. I unlocked and opened the front door, revealing an elderly woman in a flower patterned dress, a wicker basket and neatly arranged gray hair.
She smiled warmly, "good afternoon, my dear!" She transferred her basket to her left arm and extended a hand.
"Oh, um," I extended my own hand, taking hers into a firm handshake. "I'm Hannah Syverson."
"Milly Granton, a pleasure to meet you!" Our hand shake broke and she, taking the basket with both hands, extended the basket. I took it, surprised by its weight. "Welcome to the neighborhood! The neighbors and I fixed you up some fresh fruit and pastries!"
I set the basket inside the house next to the door, "Yes! Um, thank you very much!"
"No trouble at all, dear!" She folded her hand in front of her skirt.
"My home isn't all that clean, but," I started licking my lips. "Would you like to come in?"
"Why of course!"
I stepped aside to allow her in, closing the door behind her. I picked up the basket with a grunt. "This way to the kitchen." The elderly woman followed me through the hallway. I set the basket down on the counter and I gestured towards the chair beside the table, "please, have a seat."
"Gladly!" Mrs. Graton pulled back the seat and sat down. "It's not as easy to climb that forsaken hill as it used to be."
"R-really?" I uncovered the basket revealing a large amount of fruit - bananas, apples, oranges, and pears - and an assortment of baked goods. A sweet smell wafted from the basket, tinting the air with warm cinnamon. "Would you care for tea?"
"Certainly, dear." I pulled the teapot from the cupboard, filling it with water before turning the stove on and setting the pot on the burner.
"So how long have you lived her?" I put a bit of the cookies onto the plate and set them on the table.
"Almost forty years," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with pride. "My husband and I moved here after our wedding in 1973. It was such a nice time - " and she proceeded to tell me of her marriage and her children, "seven, beautiful healthy children." Only when I finally set a cup of tea before her did she slow in her story. "People come and go, dear," she said before taking a sip of her cup. "I've met so many people in my life."
I stood with my own cup, leaning against the counter and sipping my own. "Did you meet the people who lived in this house before me?"
"Oh yes, dear. Two young ladies, very lovely couple. Kind and sweet. They moved out because one of them, I think Patricia, got a job offer in France." She took another sip of tea.
"That's, um, lucky for them, I guess." I grew a bit uncomfortable. English people where very understanding towards homosexuality, a lot more understanding than Americans.
"Indeed. You know, Hannah, this is splendid tea. What blend did you use?"
"Um," I set my tea on the counter and open the cabinets to read the labels. "Black pomegranate tea and a bit of blueberry tea."
"I'm surprised you know how to make tea so well. From what I've gathered, Americans don't usually enjoy making tea."
"Oh," I closed the cabinets and returned to my spot and took up my cup again. "Most don't. But my father loved tea. I'd always make it for him."
Mrs. Graton smiled, "that's lovely, dear." She sipped from her cup and closed her eyes as if she savoring the essence of the tea instead of the flavor. Sighing, the elderly woman placed her cup on the table and looked to me. "Well, down to business." She shifted in her seat, reaching into the pocket of her skirt and pulling out a small pink envelope. "I'm holding a small party for my grandson - he's turning one - and think it would be a perfect time to meet the rest of our neighbors." She handed it to me before standing, "I best be off. My husband will be wondering where I am!" She chuckled.
We walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the front door. I opened the door for her, "I'll try to be there."
"Alright, dear," she stepped through the door and climbed down the steps. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"Sure."
I closed the door after the old woman had made it someway down the street. Walking down the hallway to the kitchen I opened the envelope. I pulled out a cute plain white little card with black cursive.
Where: 1846 Fort Wallace Avenue
Date: July 30th
Time: Twelve noon
Attire: Casual
So, tomorrow. I sighed, grabbed the tea cups and pot and cleaned them.