Chaz Brenchley - The Keys To D'esperance

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2024-11-24 0 0 35.51KB 16 页 5.9玖币

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The Keys to D'Espérance

a short story by

Chaz Brenchley

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Actually, by the time the keys came, he no longer believed in the house.

It was like God, he thought; they oversold it. Say too often that a thing

is so, and how can people help but doubt? Most facts prove not to be the

case after all, under any serious examination. Even the Earth isn't round.

One day, they said, D'Espérance will be yours. You will receive it in

sorrow, they said, and pass it on in joy. That is as it is, they said, as

it always is, as it should be.

But they said it when he was five and he thought they meant for Christmas,

they'd never make him wait to be six.

When he was six they said it, and when he was seven and eight and nine.

At ten, he asked if he could visit.

Visit D'Espérance? they said, laughing at him. Of course you can't, you

haven't been invited. You can't just visit. You can't call at D'Espérance.

In passing, looking at each other, laughing. You can't pass D'Espérance.

But if it was going to be his, he said at twelve, wasn't he entitled?

Didn't he have a right to know? He'd never seen a painting, even, never

seen a photograph...

There are none, they said, and, Be patient. And, No, don't be foolish, of

course you're not entitled. Title to D'Espérance does not vest in you, they

said. Yet, they said.

And somewhere round about fifteen he stopped believing. The guns still

thundered across the Channel, and he believed in those; he believed in his

own death to come, glorious and dreadful; he believed in Rupert Brooke and

Euclidean geometry and the sweet breath of a girl, her name whispered into

his bolster but never to be uttered aloud, never in hearing; and no, he did

not believe in D'Espérance.

-------------------

Two years later the girl was dead and his parents also, and none of them in

glory. His school would have no more of him, and the war was over; and that

last was the cruellest touch in a long and savage peal, because it took

from him the chance of an unremarked death, a way to follow quietly.

Now it must needs be the river, rocks in his pockets and thank God he had

never learnt to swim. There would be notice taken, that was inevitable; but

this would be the last of it. No more family, no one more to accuse or cut

or scorn. The name quite gone, it would simply cease to matter. He hoped

that he might never be recovered, that he might lie on the bottom till his

bones rotted, being washed and washed by fast unheeding waters.

Quite coldly determined, he refused to lurk withindoors on his last long

day. At sunset he would go to the bridge, rocks in my pockets, yes, and no

matter who sees, they shan't stop me; but first he would let himself be

seen and hissed at and whispered about, today as every day, no craven he.

It was honour and honour only that would take him to the river; he wanted

that clearly understood.

So he walked abroad, returning some books to the public library and

settling his accounts with the last few merchants to allow him credit. He

took coffee in town and almost smiled as the room emptied around him, did

permit himself the indulgence of a murmured word with the cashier on his

way out, "Please don't trouble yourself, I shan't come back again."

And so he went home, and met the postman at the door; and was handed a

package, and stood on his doorstep watching as the postman walked away,

wiping his hand on his trousers.

-------------------

The package was well wrapped in brown paper, tied with string and the knots

sealed. It was unexpectedly heavy for its size, and made softly metallic

noises as he felt its hard angles shift between his fingers.

Preferring the kitchen in his solitude to the oppressions of velvet and

oak, of photographs and memories and names, he went straight through and

opened the package on the long deal table under the window.

Keys, three separate rings of keys: brass keys and bronze and steel, keys

shorter than his thumb and longer than his hand, keys still glittering new

and keys older than he had ever seen, older than he could believe, almost.

For long minutes he only held them, played with them, laid them out and

looked at them; finally he turned away, to read the letter that had

accompanied them.

An envelope addressed to him in neat copperplate, nothing extravagant;

heavy laid paper of good quality, little creased or marked despite its

journeying in with the keys. A long journey, he noted, unfolding the single

sheet and reading the address at the top. His correspondent, this remitter

of keys was apparently a country solicitor; but the town and the company's

name were entirely unfamiliar to him, although he had spent two months now

immersed in his parents' affairs, reading everything.

My dear lad, the letter said - and this from a stranger, strange in itself

- I believe that this will reach you at the proper time; I hope you may

learn to view it as good news.

In plain, you are now the master of D'Espérance, at least in so far as such

a house may ever be mastered by one man. The deeds, I regret, you may not

view; they are kept otherwhere, and I have never had sight of them. The

keys, however, are enclosed. You may be sure that none will challenge your

title, for so long as you choose to exercise it.

I look forward to making your acquaintance, as and when you see fit to call

upon me.

Yours, etc.

-------------------

His first impulse was to laugh, to toss the letter down, his resolution

quite unchallenged, quite unchanged. Just another house, and what did he

want with it? He had one already, and meant to leave it tonight and

forever.

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Chaz Brenchley - The Keys To D'esperance

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