Two lives

It was the third day in a row that Margaret and Sally had been in the university library preparing for the last physics exam of the term. After closing the last book they had revised that morning, Margaret left her seat to borrow a few more books. She had a natural talent for the field, and both friends were among the few women in her class. While queuing to talk to Ms Sanders, the librarian, a guy took a thick old book out of his rucksack and placed it on the counter with a dull slap. A black-and-white photograph fell off one of the pages of the book and slid under the counter next to Margaret’s shoes. Nobody else noticed it. The picture caught her attention. Margaret bent down and picked it up. The image depicted a family of three outside a detached two-storey house with stone walls. The father, wearing a dark tailored suit, a highly buttoned waistcoat and a neatly knotted tie, was sitting in an upright position next to a woman in a long skirt that fell to her ankles. Margaret was filled with a strange, almost magical sense of recognition for the image. For some reason, the year 1937 crossed her mind. Margaret thought she knew the man and the woman in the picture. She stared at the photograph.

‘Excuse me! Is it your turn?’ the librarian asked.

‘Oh, yes. 'Sorry,' Margaret said. ‘I’ll return these books. And, uh, I found this photo. It fell from the book you have just taken,’ Margaret answered, handing over the books and the photograph. ‘I like this old image,’ she added, hiding the strange feeling she had with it. ‘Can I take it?’

‘Sure. People leave so many things inside books, you know. They never come for them. You can’t imagine all the things I’ve found. Boarding passes, tickets, business cards, love notes, even bills and unpaid cheques. They are all in this box here, and nobody has ever come for them.'

‘Thanks. That’s very kind of you,’ she said and came back to the seat where she had been the whole morning.

‘What happened to you? You look concerned. Whose photograph is that? asked Sally when noticing she had the image in her hand.

‘I dunno. It fell off a book. There was a guy there that returned a book, and I saw this fall, but you know, something strange happened to me when I picked it up, so I asked the librarian if I could take it.’

‘Yeah, you look kind of scared.’

‘The thing is that when I look at this photograph, these people seem familiar, as if I had met them. I think I know these people.’

‘What? How can you know them? This photo was taken decades ago. Are they famous people?’

‘It’s not that. It’s just that everything in the image looks familiar to me, as if I had lived in that time.

‘What?’

‘You don’t understand. It’s like a type of déjà vu. I even think I know the place, the house. Every time I stare at it, I remember something new.' She used air quotes around the word ‘remember’.

‘Tell me more,’ said Sally, getting interested now.

‘Well, I’m sure this house is Ludlow, on Bromsfield Road.’

‘This is too strange, Margaret. I think you are making it all up.’

‘Come on! What for? You know I have never been to that town.

‘Well, I gotta go. Let's continue studying tomorrow afternoon,’ Sally said and went to the counter.

‘Alright. I’ll give you a ring later.’

Margaret stayed there looking at the photograph. How had she known all that information? A memory—no, a sensation—came over her every time she gazed at it. A basement workshop was clearly in front of her. Manuscripts, iron pieces and machines filled the wooden counters. Clinking, scratching, and creaking noises reached her ears. The tools were carefully arranged on the walls. Clock parts, brass gears, and blueprints were lying on an aged oak workbench. She gave a sharp blink. Though the memory was broken, its afterimage persisted. She had never visited Ludlow before. There were no family members for her. However, she was familiar with the interior of that house. Its hallways were dark enough for her to walk. And her father had constructed something in that workshop—not the man who reared her now, but someone else, someone from earlier. A significant thing. She just knew that it was important, but she had no idea what it was. She just felt she needed to locate that house. What if there was something hidden that I need to know? How can I explain all these details to someone?

Margaret picked up her bag and walked out of the library.

On the tube, she retrieved the photograph from her bag and contemplated it in silence. That night, she booked a train ticket, determined to find the house the next morning.

#

And there it was. The house she had seen in that black-and-white photograph the day before, but with a modern look. The shape, however, was distinct. Margaret knocked on the door. No response. She was determined to stay there until she talked to someone. A few seconds later, the door opened.

‘Morning, madam,’ a man in his fifties said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Good morning, sir. My name is Margaret. I’ve come all the way from London to find out something. There’s nothing wrong—I just… I need a moment of your time.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Go ahead.’

‘I lived in this house before. A long time ago.’

The man let out a dry chuckle. ‘That’s not possible. I’ve lived here for fifty years. And you’re what, thirty?’

‘You won’t believe me, but I mean before that. Almost ninety years ago. In my past life.’

His expression soured. ‘Utter nonsense,’ he muttered, beginning to close the door.

‘Wait! Please!’ Margaret stepped forward. ‘There’s a basement in your house. My father used it as a workshop. It’s hidden. I need to see it, please.’

‘There’s no basement,’ he said. ‘Never has been.’

‘Please. Just let me show you.’

A voice called from inside. ‘Fred? What’s going on?’

An older woman appeared beside him. Her grey hair tied in a bun, her eyes sharp and inquisitive.

‘This lady thinks she used to live here ninety years ago,’ Fred said. ‘She says there’s a basement in this house.’

The woman turned to Margaret. ‘Good morning. I’m Helen. We’ve lived here all our lives, dear. I’m 83 years old and I can assure you there’s no basement in this house.’

‘There is,’ Margaret insisted. ‘The entrance is hidden beneath the pantry. It leads to a workshop—what used to be my father’s workshop. I remember every detail.’

Helen studied her face. Something flickered in her expression. Margaret continued, confidently.

‘The floorboards are uneven near the back wall. There is a brass ring you can lift. The walls, I remember, were lined with tools. Clock parts. Blueprints. I—’

Fred folded his arms. ‘That’s enough!’

But Helen raised a hand. ‘Wait.’ She looked at Fred. ‘What if… we just let her look? We can stay with her. Just in case.’

Fred sighed. ‘What if this girl —’

‘Fred!’ Helen interrupted.

‘Five minutes. Then you go,’ he replied.

‘Thanks,’ Margaret said.

Margaret nodded, heart pounding. As she stepped inside, the scent of the place hit her like a wave. Something familiar. Without hesitation, she walked toward the back of the kitchen. Toward the pantry. Toward what she already knew was waiting beneath. Margaret knelt in the narrow pantry. Her fingers slid gently along the floor. She closed her eyes for a moment.

‘Here,’ she whispered.

Fred stood behind her. His arms crossed.

‘What exactly are you looking for?’ he asked.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed her thumb firmly against a knot in the floor. A faint click echoed beneath her, followed by the slightest give in the wood. She looked up at them.

‘There’s a latch under here.’

‘That’s not possible. There’s no basement,’ Fred said.

But Margaret was no longer listening. Her hands moved with purpose, prying up the board. A cloud of dust rose as the plank gave way, revealing a tarnished brass ring embedded in a square of heavy wood.

Helen gasped softly. ‘Fred...’

His face had gone pale. ‘This... this has been here all this time?’ he said.

Margaret hooked her fingers through the ring and pulled. The panel came up revealing a dark hole in the floor and a steep, narrow staircase that led down. Cold air drifted up like a breath exhaled after decades of silence.

‘Eleanor,’ said Margaret.

‘Helen. My name’s —’

‘Eleanor was my name when I lived here,' she interrupted. ‘I have to go down there. You don’t have to follow me.’

She took a deep breath and descended. Each step creaked under her weight. The air grew cooler. The scent of oil, wood, and rust hung thick around her. Halfway down, she turned on the flashlight on her phone. The beam revealed tools hung on hooks. Shelves lined the walls, still stacked with boxes and jars. Blueprints pinned to the far wall. Margaret stepped off the last step and into her past. She moved slowly. Her fingers brushed the surface of the table. The memories came rushing back. Margaret crossed to the far side of the workshop until she reached her father’s desk. Her heart pounded. She opened the desk drawer. To her surprise, a little rag doll bore the passing of time along with a folded yellowish slip of paper. She unfolded the note and angled the phone until the flashlight revealed the handwriting.

Dear Helen,

I’ve been extremely sick in the past year. You haven’t been born yet, but I already love you with all my heart. If you found this letter, you might have seen a little doll. That was your sister Eleanor’s precious toy. Keep it in her memory for me, please. She passed away three years ago, just a month after the big war finished.

I hope you have a happy life. I love you.

Your dad.

6th September 1942.

Her father’s voice echoed in her mind now, clearer than ever. Margaret put both objects in one of the pockets of her jacket. She headed towards the stairs. Back in the pantry, Margaret handed the doll and the message to Helen. She took the yellowish note and read it.

‘This can’t be true. You made up all this. Why?’ Helen asked.

‘How can you say that? I showed you this is all true. Tell me, when you were a child in the 40s, did you ever go to St Mary’s Lane to get milk from Pipe’s farm? Or do you remember Mr Morgan’s sweetshop on Corve Street?’ asked Margaret.

Helen took some time to answer, her eyes widening. ‘Yes, Eleanor. I remember,’ she said and hugged her.

THE END