The rain lashed down in sheets of grey. The steady throng of traffic battered against the wind, the windscreen wipers set to high-speed. From the window of the darkened house few pedestrians could be seen running along feet splashing at the merciless downpour. One woman’s desperate plea with an umbrella pulls and then pushes her into the nearest shop for safety. A dark sepia colour falls over the town as the rain continues. The grandfather clock shows three twenty, a deceptively dark afternoon. It is the kind of afternoon which has repeated itself over and over for almost three weeks now, an eternity for a young girl alone during the holidays. She sits by the Victorian bay window holding with one hand onto the yellowing net curtain looking out onto the miserable scene. She takes a deep breath and exhales with a crumpled expression turning to face the room. It is dark with no lights on and an orange dim from the street lamps filtering through the curtain. It is autumn, the world seems to be dying and as though through some mark of respect the large sitting room appears to mourn for it. The beige floral print wallpaper peels in places and sags in others. The furniture, made from a dark mahogany wood stands to attention; formal and uncomfortable. In the centre of the square coffee table a cake stand displays old hard scones, around it someone’s finest tea set. But this display is purely for show, these items must not be touched. The girl eyes this with a flash of imagination and senses the satisfaction which would come with smashing the entire set piece by piece then standing with the bay window ajar throwing the scones onto the cobbled streets below. They’d probably not even crack in two. She sighs and tugs at her skirt. Her appearance is somewhat awkward this is not her chosen wardrobe. A dark navy pleated skirt stops short of her knee high cotton socks of the same colour. Her feet forced into black leather box-shaped shoes. The white shirt buttoned uncomfortably near her neck is completed with a black ribbon tie. She may as well wear her uniform but that is an argument she lost when she first arrived here. Instead her clothes are picked for her and laid out each morning at seven O’clock sharp waiting to be put on. These clothes come from an era, which even then were seen as unfashionable. This is how it has been since her semester ended at Haricourttes School. A car waited in the private grounds and her bags were packed and waiting in the office. It was her time to leave as the Head Mistress put it; “Elizabeth, I want you to meet Miss Graceson”, she informed her in clip tones. A tall slender yet formidable woman rose from the seat facing the desk. She looked down from her great height a shadow forming across her very lined face. The girl smiled weakly not knowing where to look. “Miss Graceson has come to fetch you and your belongings for you will now be staying with your Uncle” said the Head Mistress brightly. “Great Uncle” corrected Miss Graceson coldly then turned to leave the room. “Yes of course, well Elizabeth you must take your things and follow, there is a car waiting.” A small squat gentleman wearing a hat took the bags and placed them in the car. Miss Graceson was already sitting inside looking at her watch. “The appropriate forms shall be sent to your new address” called the Head Mistress from the arching doorway. “Forms for the next semester ma’am?” enquired the girl. The Head Mistress looked startled then glanced at the car. Straightening up she smiled “we’ll just see what happens, shall we?” then leaning forward helped to close the door.
The black estate car moved slowly at first from the grounds. The building of Haricourttes School grand and well maintained moved from view as they turned onto the avenue and through the tall metal gates. The journey from that moment onwards was faster along the narrow country roads, speeding through several towns until reaching the new home. This may have been a deliberate action by the driver to avoid the long silence between the three. On arrival at the old townhouse Miss Graceson was quick to inform her of the rules and appropriate behaviour and took her to her room where she would spend most of her days. It wasn’t until two days had passed did the girl get any response. Miss Graceson was an older woman, perhaps late sixties with all the energy of a young lady but with none of the fun. She was short in her temper, which was readable from her expression. Although she never raised her voice her words were stinging enough. “My name is actually Libby. My Head Mistress never mentioned to you” silence. Libby had caught her in the hallway leaving for church. “I wanted to know if I shall be meeting my Great Uncle at all?” more silence. “Will I be getting my books soon, it’s just the school expects us pupils to read during break and this year we are writing on the plays of Chekhov, which means that I must purchase the first….” Miss Graceson was glaring at Libby her mouth stern her top lip curled. The clench of her jaws only too visible; taught across her scowling face. “Libby? Is that your name?” spat the woman. “While you live under this roof you will not address me so freely there are rules” Libby stood wide eyed and began to open her mouth in protest. “Do not interrupt me you insolent girl I am speaking” her voice threatened to erupt into a higher pitch “you are not wanted do you hear me? You are a burden and a financial drain on your Uncle and should show more gratitude” and with that finished her top coat button and slammed the front door behind her. The force of which, sent dust rising up like a mouldy grey cloud and danced all the way to the floor. From that encounter Libby had learned to keep her dialogue to a minimum. Turning back to the miserable view of the street she began to sigh and found herself disturbed by the noise. How long had it been since she had spoken? What did her voice sound like? Had it aged during her residence here? Libby’s eyes met the piano on the far wall- the temptation to break the silence was tangible.