Today's Reading
They set to work, Beatrice sorting books into piles, and he wrapping and boxing the breakables. She invited him to take what he wanted of those and he set aside a pair of moulded crystal candlesticks.
Around noon, a woman stopped by with a basket containing sandwiches and bottled ginger drink. This was Gracie from the church; he remembered her from previous visits. Gracie seemed to be, in contrast with Beatrice, doing very well. She, too, was shorter, perhaps by an inch—the village was shrinking in more ways than one—but she stood ramrod straight whereas Beatrice was showing signs of a dowager's hump.
She wouldn't stay to join them ('Women's Institute today. They're still fighting over the compost speaker. I'll come back and help if the row doesn't go on too long') but as she left, Beatrice turned to him and said, 'If you're going to go up to the attic, you'll need to do it before the sun moves too far behind the trees. It's dark up there—just a single bulb, and one small window. Right now would be the ideal time.'
He thought it interesting that she had memorized the changing seasons and the movement of the sun to such a precise degree, but of course she'd grown old along with the house, had moved here with her husband when she was little more than a girl.
He made his way upstairs carrying a torch she provided. The attic door was in the ceiling, the steps brought down by a rope. Nothing about it suggested that anyone had ever bothered to try the door for ages, and he was rather hoping to find it stuck permanently shut.
But tugs on the rope finally released the steps in a shower of fine dust. He was certain going up there would be like entering the Sahara. Fortunately, his job had had him crawling around enough attics in old homes that he had no fear of spiders and their webs, although a tarantula in a museum in Key West had nearly undone him.
When his head cleared the attic opening, he took a quick look around. The space contained the expected overflow of the years, masses of it. She had said the paintings she wanted him to retrieve were in a cabinet.
'It's in the corner,' she'd told him, a wooden cabinet meant to keep the dust off what were her husband's prized possessions. Flyte did stop to wonder why, if they were so prized, they were hidden away where no one would ever see them, but maybe that was the nature of hidden treasure. He found he was now curious to see what they were.
He pulled his weight up to a seated position on the attic floor, legs dangling over the side, holding the torch in his right hand. He was getting too old for this kind of carry-on.
He wished he were wearing some form of head covering and a lab coat. At least a face mask. He really should have thought of this beforehand. He stood upright on the attic floor with very little grace, swatting away as much dust as he could from his clothing.
He located the single light bulb she had mentioned and found it was working. His vision augmented by the torch, he was able to take in his surroundings more fully. The expected jumble of steamer trunks, disused chairs, spooky mirrors, and collapsed boxes met his gaze. In the far corner was the promised cabinet. It looked like it might be worth something to an antiques auctioneer. He'd have a word with Beatrice about getting someone in to appraise at least some of the things going into storage, if only for insurance coverage.
Pulling open the doors to the cabinet, he saw some old dresses and coats hanging from a rod, and beneath them several parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Seven of them in total, he counted, as he pulled them from their hiding place.
One by one he carried them to the ledge of the attic door and from there down the stairs. They were small but Flyte didn't trust himself to carry more than two at a time.
She was still in the parlour, making fitful attempts to sort the books. It was clearly a painful process. She could only hold one good-sized volume in her hands at a time, and even that small effort made her wince in pain.
'I found the paintings,' he said. 'Shall we have a look?' '
Certainly, let's—' There came a knock at the door.
'That'll be Gracie again,' said Beatrice. 'Why don't you just take them with you so we can get on with things? Finneas was keen that you should have them, and I'm glad to know they'll be in such good hands. If anyone will know how to judge them, it's you. As I recall there's one in there— Well, you'll see. I thought it was rather too good to be hidden in the attic, but Finneas's collections came to take over the wall space. That's all been set aside for the Harvest Fayre's "bits and bobs" table.'
Flyte recalled with a shudder the sentimental Victorian art that once had covered the walls. He walked to the front door to admit Gracie.
'Thanks so much for your help,' he said, showing her in. 'You've no idea...'
'Oh, but I do. But it's what she'd do for me. Tomorrow we'll get some of the villagers in to supervise the removers and carry out the lot being donated to the Harvest Fayre. I'll soon get her settled. Don't you worry.'
...
