The Gift Room Page 3

  “Now I feel like my parents have been stalking me,” Alexander thought to himself.

  Your Mother and I have never forgotten your birthday, Christmas, and also those of your three children. In fact we even appreciated and recognised when you married Julia. The reason for this letter to be read now is that we would like you to go upstairs, if you have not already done so, and enter the spare bedroom on the right on the landing. Alexander, please realise we have never stopped loving you. Perhaps you just never realised. The room is a testament to our feelings.

  Thus, leaving you everything in our estate has seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  Regards,

  Dad

  Alexander placed the letter down on the table and stared down at the sheet with his father’s handwriting feeling a greater mix of emotions than he had known for a very long time. Was it anger mixed with a level of betrayal? Could his parents not have expressed their feelings whilst they were alive? Did they have to virtually pretend he did not exist? Did they have to ignore his children and wife all these years and then assuage their guilt by leaving him their bloody money? Well why should he let them off the hook that easily? Their money would not buy his love and understanding after all these years of being ignored. He wanted to pick up the letter and screw it into a ball but something inside him said no. Perhaps he should first follow his father’s request. “Calm Alexander,” he thought to himself “…calm.”

  He stood up and walked across to the kitchen door, through the hallway and up the stairs. He arrived at the door on the right of the landing and turned the knob without pausing. As he walked in he saw a room with no furniture at all, but everywhere he looked neatly piled presents of all sizes, covered with a variety of wrapping paper; some with Christmas style, some clearly birthdays, here and there a gift bag with something in it unwrapped. The window sill had lined up a succession of what were clearly bottles, all gift wrapped and labelled.

  The room was clean as though his mother had regularly attended to hoovering what parts of the carpet were not covered with piles of presents and the surfaces of the top presents on each pile were dust free. Some of the gift wrapping showed signs of fading as though they had sat in direct sunlight for some time whilst the sides furthest away from the window still showed the paper off in all its glory, as though wrapped just a few weeks ago. A few presents had paper that looked slightly crumpled, perhaps they had been moved several times since first being wrapped?

  Alexander was not used to surprises - he rarely found himself lost for words - but he just stood and stared. He did not cry, he did not say anything; he just stood and stared. He looked at the pile of presents closest to the doorway where he was standing. A large box on the bottom was clearly covered in wedding paper and three or four boxes above it was another, wrapped up in christening paper.

  “Fuck,” was the only word he found himself able to muster, after several minutes. Then he felt the vibration and heard his phone ringing. He reached into his pocket, pulled it out and saw “Home” flashing on the screen.

  He pressed answer and felt relief as he heard his wife’s voice.

  “Darling, have you arrived? Have you opened the letter? I thought you were going to read it to me over the phone? Are you ok?” Julia asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks… Arrived: yes. Letter read: yes. And now I am standing in front of a pile of presents. Sorry, no, not a pile of presents… a room, a bloody room full of presents.” Alexander struggled to find the words to describe what he was looking at.

  “What do you mean a room full of presents?” Julia sounded concerned, her husband was not used to strange outbursts, in fact he usually kept his emotions very much in check. What could Alexander mean by this description… she understood the words he had used, but somehow they did not convey the picture of what he was looking at.

  “Christ darling. I don’t know how to put it any other way. I am standing in the doorway of a spare bedroom of my parents’ house and the room is full of presents, wrapped up, and they look like they are all labelled with who they are to and even the year they were for. Some are Christmas presents, some birthday presents, etc. Shit, love, I can even see one wrapped up in wedding paper.” Alexander tried not to sound short with his wife; he realised that this would be difficult for anyone to comprehend unless they were standing, looking at the room as he was.

  “So what did the letter say?” Julia enquired.

  “Well, basically that they have always loved me and that they wish us well, and over the years have always brought us presents for birthdays and the like and have kept them in here.” Alexander paraphrased the letter as best as he could.

  “You mean whatever you are looking at right now in terms of this room full of presents are gifts to us as a family from your bloody parents who have never bothered to be in contact? Rather a sick mausoleum, if you ask me. Can you send me a picture on the phone?” Julia still could not really picture what her husband was looking at.

  “Yes, darling, that is it. All the presents are for us, sorry, I did not make that clear, for our family; to me, to you, for the kids’ birthdays - everything! Mausoleum is not a bad way of putting it, actually. Let me ring off, take a picture, ping it across to you and then call you back.”

  Alexander rung off without waiting for his wife’s reply. He switched his phone to the camera setting and snapped half a dozen pictures. He then started to walk downstairs and as he did so studied his phone to send them to his wife as text message attachments. He opened the front door, pulled it closed behind him and continued to walk out into the front garden, whilst completing his task. He felt he needed a breath of fresh air. It was not that he was going to faint… more that he needed to clear his head after what he had just seen.

  Alexander looked at his watch. It was just gone 11am and he had noticed a small village shop as he had driven to his parents’ house earlier.

  “Right then,” he said to himself. “As I wait for those to send, I shall wander down and get a pint of milk so I can have a cup of tea.” And with that he started to walk down the drive, phone in hand, transmitting the images he had just taken to his wife.

  “No doubt they will take an age to send as I am in the back of beyond,” he thought to himself as he walked past the open gate at the end of the drive and onto the village lane.

  Alexander reached the village shop just five minutes later. He opened the door and walked in. It was small, with a couple of glass-fronted fridges, a display chiller and some rather tired wooden shelves, packed mostly with tins and dried goods. There was a range of daily newspapers on the counter and a very elderly lady standing behind the till wearing a blue pinny. Alexander took a pint of milk from the fridge and walked across to the till. He could not help noticing the copy of the local paper, which must have appeared at the end of the previous week, with the headline “Elderly Couple Die in Car Accident.”

  “Just that, please,” Alexander said as he placed the milk on the counter and dug into his suit pocket for some change. He then picked up the local paper. “Oh, and I’ll take a copy of this as well, please.”

  “That will be £1.20 please… I don’t suppose I could interest you in a nice fresh loaf of bread,” the lady asked. “They’ve just been delivered by the bakery van about ten minutes ago and if you don’t take one now they’ll be gone by lunchtime.”

  Alexander’s eyes followed the lady’s pointing figure to a range of loaves in their white paper bags at the end of a shelf opposite the counter.

  “Yes sure, good idea,” Alexander replied as he reached across and placed one on the counter with his milk.

  “That will be £3.60 then please,” said the lady, somewhat triumphantly as though the extra sale had been important for the day’s takings.

  “Are you here in the village to look at property?” she continued. “It is just we don’t often serve gents in business suits, so I am guessing you are one of those estate agents?”

  Alexander looked at the lady and wa
s struggling to come up with an answer when the door of the shop opened and the little bell fixed at the top tinkled announcing a new visitor. The vicar walked in.

  “Hello Doris, and how are you on this fine March day?” he asked in a friendly tone. This gave Alexander his opportunity to escape. He passed a five pound note across the counter and picked up his milk, loaf and newspaper.

  “Thanks,” he said hurriedly, and made for the door without even waiting for the change. The vicar held it open for him and he walked briskly through it and away from the Devon village version of the Spanish Inquisition.

  “Your change… you forgot your change,” called Doris as she held her hand out, the till still open in front of her.

  “That chap looks oddly familiar,” said the vicar as he closed the door behind Alexander. “I suggest you pop his change into the collecting tin for the Air Ambulance.” The vicar pointed at a bright yellow plastic pot that was standing on the counter. He then glanced down at the same headlines in the local newspaper that Alexander had noticed a few seconds earlier.

  “Perhaps if we’d had a few more helicopters they could have saved poor Mr and Mrs Talbot after that terrible accident.” Doris placed the coins for the change in the collecting canister.

  “Well, I don’t know why you think that chap looked familiar; I think it’s just another of those blasted estate agents,” replied Doris. “I blame all those TV shows - Escape to the Country, Location, Location, Location and the like, whatever they are called. Well, I wish they would not escape and would stay put in the cities where they belong. My Gerald works hard on the farm and he can’t afford a place to live here and he was born and bred in Godfrey St John. It’s just not right, if you ask me.”

  Clearly Doris was starting upon a pet subject, as the vicar recognised only too well.

  “Well, I know these problems are tricky, Doris, but I only popped in quickly for my copy of the Daily Telegraph and a packet of stamps. Unfortunately my sermon for Sunday will not write itself.” The vicar proffered a ten pound note and took the change after Doris processed the payment through the till. He was not in the mood for a long conversation covering the vagaries of the free market in property transactions whether in Devon villages or elsewhere in the country. Taking his stamps and folding the Daily Telegraph under his arm, the vicar turned and walked out of the shop, the bell above the door tinkling again as he closed it behind him.

  CHAPTER 3

  As Alexander walked back to his parents’ house with the milk and loaf in his left hand and the local paper folded under his arm as well, he quickly dialled his wife’s mobile. “At least if I bump into any other locals I can be talking on the phone and won’t have to enter into a conversation,” he thought to himself. Alexander had always been confident in a work-based environment, but hated chatting to people he hardly knew. Having to make small talk was one of his most feared social occurrences. Even when they had moved into their new house, he had relied upon his wife to make the family introductions to the neighbours. He felt too self-conscious, perhaps even shy. A few Christmases before Julia had bought Alexander a book on introverts and he had read it cover to cover on Boxing Day. So much of its contents rang true and seemed to explain his own feelings and anxieties. The phone was ringing for just a few moments when it was answered.

  “Darling, I am so sorry I did not ring back straight away,” Julia started. “It’s just that when the pictures came through, Anna arrived to do the house and ironing. By the time I had run through some things with her, frankly I needed to sit down and have a coffee and look through them again. Well, what can I say? I always said your parents were bloody weird.”

  “Don’t worry, I have just braved the Spanish Inquisition in the village shop and all I wanted to do was buy a pint of milk!” Alexander replied.

  “Oh God, don’t tell me they had issues with your parents as well!” Julia sounded less concerned and more mischievous.

  “Nothing like that, they just wanted to know who I was etc. And I was saved by the bell, so to speak, or at least by the local vicar opening the shop door,” Alexander reassured her. “They thought I was some bloody estate agent!” Alexander could hear Julia laughing down the phone. He knew she would find the situation funny and sympathise with how affronted he was.

  “Well, I guess you have a house to sell in the village now, so it is not that far from the truth,” Julia was quick to continue the joke.

  “Well, actually it is a rather nice house. A little tired and could do with some modernisation here and there - you know, a new kitchen and the like. But I thought it would work well as a kind of weekend pad, away from the hurly-burly.” Even as Alexander was speaking, he realised that he had not really thought through the implications of his suggestion; in fact it had not even been in his conscious mind until he had started the sentence.

  “I am not setting foot in the sodding place.” Julia sounded beyond cross. “They can take the sodding house and stuff it! They have ignored me, ignored my children and, what is more, treated my lovely husband like shit for years. How dare you even suggest such an idea of keeping their house? That has really upset me.”

  “For the love of God, calm down! I was only kidding around.” Alexander wanted to defuse the situation quickly. He needed his wife’s support down the end of the telephone today; and he knew she was right, as she almost invariably was. His family loved him and demonstrated that to him every day. They didn’t hide presents away in a room for twenty-something years.

  “Sorry, I overreacted. Somehow your parents are still able to cause difficulties from beyond the grave!” Julia calmed as quickly as she had snapped. “I just don’t want this to come between us. We are so strong together and I love you so much. I realise this must be so hard for you. What are you going to do about the presents, then? Do you have to go back to the solicitors or can you just come home?”

  “Well, I have just reached the house,” Alexander said as he started to walk up the drive. “And I think I will make myself a cup of tea and have a wander round. Check the post and see if anything has to be done there. I reckon I will start to make my way back home in around an hour or so. As for the presents, I really don’t know. I also picked up a copy of the local newspaper. Their deaths made the front page.” As he spoke, he placed his phone between his shoulder and ear and then opened the newspaper, and stood on his parents’ drive.

  “Well, the picture of the car is a bit of shock… Christ, I don’t think I can even tell what make it was.” Alexander was feeling quite sick at the picture as it dawned on him that he was looking at the scene where his parents had died.

  “Does it say if anyone else was hurt or involved?” Julia asked.

  Alexander quickly scanned down the story.

  “No, it seems they hit some standing water, skidded, lost control and hit a tree. Pronounced dead at the scene. I should think it was pretty well instantaneous, thank God.” Alexander started to refold the paper as he walked up the steps to the front door.

  “God, that sounds awful, darling. Look, have your cup of tea but don’t stay long in the creepy house - particularly if it upsets you,” said Julia. “And ring me as soon as you leave.”

  “It’s not creepy, darling. I never said it was creepy… I think, at nearly 50, I can manage to stay sane in an empty house alone for a couple of hours. I’ll call you as I leave. Love you, bye.” Alexander turned off his phone as he opened the front door. He walked through the hall to the kitchen and found the kettle on the side. He placed the milk and bread on the worktop along wth the paper and then picked up the kettle and walked across to the sink. He emptied it and refilled it from the tap. Then, after it started to boil, he looked around for a mug and tea bags or coffee. He found both tea and coffee quickly, close to the kettle in a wall cupboard, and took a mug from a stand on the work surface. He poured in some milk and left the carton standing on the work surface next to the kettle.

  Alexander picked up the newspaper and laid it down on the kitchen table, ad
jacent to the letter from his father. He turned to walk back to the kettle but, as an afterthought, turned back to the table and flipped the paper over so the picture was facing down. He had no wish to look again at the damaged car that was smashed against the tree with police tape cordoning off the area.

  After he had made his tea, Alexander picked up the steaming mug and started to explore the house. The ground floor had a separate sitting room, dining room and a small study. He sat at the desk in the study sipping his tea and looking out at the front garden. The study felt like quite a comfortable room compared with the sitting room which he had wandered into and seemed formal and not at all welcoming. The study, by contrast, seemed well lived in, the back wall by the door from the hallway had a large open bookcase almost all the way along and contained a range of books on gardening, political biographies and some military history. Alexander had remembered his parents’ joint interests in gardening and current affairs. He had swung around in the chair to survey the room and now stood up and wandered across to the bookcase. At random he reached for a fat copy of a book on roses. He casually opened up the inside and read an inscription:

  George, Happy Christmas. Love Sue, 2001

  Undoubtedly their choice of reading would have supplied a ready source of gifts between them for Christmases and birthdays; the latest garden book from Chelsea Flower Show or another biography from a recently deceased politician from the 1970s or 1980s.

  “How odd,” Alexander thought. “They must have bought books for each other and given them at lonely Christmases celebrated without family and yet never sent all those gifts upstairs.” He mused. “Did they wrap them and immediately place them in the room or did they make some special visit perhaps on Christmas Day itself, moving them from under a tree to upstairs, an act of giving the presents to the room.” Alexander realised he would never know what ritual they followed, if indeed they did follow one. What was quite clear is that they purchased gifts for each other and Alexander and his family and chose merely not to send the latter, but to place in a room, another layer of presents to reflect another year of separation and non-communication.