Destiny

For those seeking a quick fix, this is not the one. It is a lengthy story I'm afraid, and takes a while before there are any sexual encounters between characters aged 18 and over. For those still here and who take a chance, I hope you enjoy my latest offering. MDM

"DESTINY"

It would probably have continued to stand there undiscovered until time did its worst and nature reclaimed it. As a child growing up, David and his friends had explored every hedgerow, field, and lane adjacent to their homes. As they grew older, their expeditions took them further afield, until finally, they knew every street, alleyway and rat run around their town. As shadowy objects, they could move from one end of it to the other and never be seen by an adult. They knew the best gardens for apple and pear trees, where to find rhubarb and goosegogs, sustenance to keep their stomachs full until mealtimes beckoned.

And yet in all those years of exploration, not one of them had ever discovered the building and its surroundings. They never heard talk of it, their parents never mentioned it in conversation, they were never forbidden from going there because it was as if the building had ceased to exist in everyone's consciousness. By his tenth birthday, the town was beginning to change, fields that had lain dormant for years suddenly started to be covered by houses. At any one time, there were probably a dozen derelict buildings for them to explore, rows of old cottages, an abandoned mill and at one end of town, what was left of a disused RAF base, the hangers rusting and huts in differing stages of decay.

Fast forward, and nowadays they call it "urban exploration," finding buildings that have been forgotten and abandoned. Back then, they called it having a "Shufty," a euphemism to see if their previous occupants had left anything worth taking home or that maybe could make them a few bob, copper wire, lead piping. It was purely by chance that David came across it, one day finding a fascination in exploring the town on Google Earth, flying over rooftops and fields, memories flooding back of his childhood adventures. He'd nearly missed it, whizzing by overhead, a rooftop, partly hidden beneath a shroud of trees. Retracing his steps, David stopped directly overhead, peering at the grainy image, and then zooming in as he tried to visualise its location.

The lane was in his mind's eye as he mentally walked up and down it, looking left and right, and noting familiar points. The side of the lane there was completely overgrown, a wilderness of brambles, nettles, bushes, and trees. The gang had decided years before that it was impenetrable, a place that fought back if you invaded its privacy, scratches and stings covering your body for daring to trespass.

He was not a youngster anymore, those days had gone, memories of being a teenager, of getting married and having children of his own. And now his children had children, but that afternoon as he sat at his computer and gazed down at that rooftop, it awakened feelings of excitement and discovery from a bygone age.

Plans were made, thick trousers, gardening gloves and a stout jacket, better root out his boots as well. he couldn't exactly walk down the street carrying a machete, but a sickle would fit in his backpack, along with a torch and spare batteries. Sleep was difficult that evening, with everything laid out he was ready for departure, his head puzzling over what he might discover. Sleep eventually came and then he was awakened by daylight trying to creep through any crack in the curtains.

No one to disturb anymore as he descended to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. It was nearly two years now since Andrea had passed away, her sudden memory bringing a tear to his eye. he was the oldest family member of his generation, his grandparents, parents and then his wife had all gone. He still had a sister and brothers, but the day was getting closer when it would be his turn to leave them.

Well-equipped and with a flask and sandwiches in his backpack, he ventured forth, it was only a twenty-minute walk, his jacket being ditched as the day and his body temperature rose. He'd dressed to attack the impenetrable, not for a stroll on a warm morning and had to stop a couple of times and chug at the bottle of cool water that he'd brought with him. And then finally he was at the start of the lane, pacing its length until he came to the spot where he judged the building was hiding.

There was no way of just wading in and attacking it from there, anyone passing would wonder what was going on, and so retracing his steps, David reached the field he'd already passed. A side or rear attack was preferable he thought, climbing the gate into the field, and then heading for the boundary fence. Following it along its first edge and then around the corner, it looked like his work was going to be cut out for him as he continued to walk its edge, hoping to find a weak spot.

'Just there.' Space between two trees gave him a gap to start with as he slipped beneath the barbed wire fence, extracted the sickle, and put on the thick gloves.

It wasn't an easy battle; an hour and he'd covered maybe thirty yards, sweat pouring from him and his choices few. Get rid of the bulky jacket and suffer the stings and scratches, or take a break, get his breath back and have a drink while he cooled down. At least under the canopy, the temperature was cooler as he cleared a space, put the jacket on the ground and sat. The silence was complete. The lane led nowhere and so was unused by vehicles unless they needed access to one of the few properties that dotted its length. From his location, he was invisible to any pedestrian on the lane, his only company, the birds flitting from branch to branch and the occasional sound of scurrying feet in the undergrowth.

Another half an hour saw him break through the treeline into what, once upon a time, must have been the rear garden. That part of it not covered by the canopy was far easier to attack and even though it came up to head height, he had quickly cut a path through and arrived at the back door of the property. Fate was never going to be that kind to him, twisting the door handle he found it locked. Inching his way around the outside of the house and trying to peer through dirty windows proved difficult, the brightness of the day and the darkness inside obscured any views that he came across. Again, it was a battle as the sickle swished left and right, brambles and nettles collapsing beneath its blade as he cleared a path to the front of the building.

'Shit!' The front door was also locked. He had no desire to force his way in, so far, all he was maybe guilty of was trespassing, start breaking windows and trouble could follow him home. Clearing another spot David sat on his jacket, took out his sandwiches and flask and had a spot of lunch. he'd put his heart and soul into this expedition only to be thwarted at the final hurdle. Gazing around, he estimated that the front garden must have been quite large, maybe a small lane leading up to the front gate, but nothing could be seen of it now, trees, shrubs, and weeds had taken over, the view from the front a desolate overgrown wilderness.

Six old earthenware pots on either side of the front door caught his eye, no longer did they contain plants, dandelions displayed their yellow flowers while bindweed tried to scale the walls. A flashback in time, remembering the days when homeowners would pop a spare key under a plant pot, that way a visiting, mother, son, sister, or brother could let themselves in if the owners happened to be out. he didn't hold out much hope as each one was tipped enough to disclose its base. It was the fourth pot he tried, stuck to the ground and brown with rust, staring back at him was an old mortice lock key.

Taking the handkerchief from his pocket, it got a good wipe, cleaning off shards of rust and accumulated grime. The key fit the lock, but would it turn without shearing off. He didn't force it, insignificant amounts of pressure, working the key back and forwards until eventually with a satisfying click the key turned full circle. David turned the knob and pushed at the door, swelled into the frame after many years, it refused to budge at first, a couple of good thrusts with his shoulder and at last, it swung partially open.

Gathering up his things, he returned them to the backpack, taking out the torch and putting his jacket back on. A shove at the door opened it wide, daylight flooding into the hallway as he ventured inside. There were doors to his left and right, ahead, a staircase leading upwards and at the end of the short passageway, another door. Taking the door on the right first, the interior was dark because of the drawn curtains that covered the windows. His beam swung around what must have been the front room or lounge as he carefully made his way across and pulled each blackout curtain open, the room now brightly lit.

His eyes couldn't believe what he was witnessing, despite its layer of dust, it looked as though someone had just stepped out a couple of hours ago, not over fifty years earlier. There was still ashes in the old-fashioned, large ornate cast-iron fireplace. On one side of it, a leatherette armchair, its once smooth surface now riddled with cracks, and opposite it, a matching settee. A rocking chair, all spindles with a cushion still in place completed the seating arrangements. Placing his hand on it, he gave a gentle push, the chair silently moving back and forwards as though someone was sitting there. The covered windows had preserved the wallpaper, something he could only describe as a botanical pattern that met a picture rail running along each wall and around the room. Pictures hung from it, men and women dressed in their finery stared back at him, their eyes following as he moved around the room.

There was a small table and some chairs near the window, a large wireless set over in one corner and against the wall opposite the fireplace, a large ornamental dresser. A small coffee table was littered with old newspapers, he picked one up and read the date, 8

th

of May 1944, a month before D-Day and a year before the war ended. Rugs and carpets littered the floor, gaps around the edges showed the darkened wood of old floorboards. The lounge was perfect in every sense of what he would have imagined a 1930's house to have looked like.

Out of the front room and through the door opposite was the snug, a room smaller than the lounge. The focal point was a small tiled functional fireplace, a couple of comfortable armchairs and another rocker. At one end, a folding-leaf table and a couple of straight-backed chairs, and by the window, also covered by blackout curtains, another radio set.

The door at the end of the passage was the kitchen, it's interior far lighter than the other two rooms, only a moth-eaten net curtain covering the window and disintegrating as he tried to move it to one side. Beneath the window was a stoneware sink, hot and cold taps protruding from the wall above it. He turned them and they squeaked but no water was forthcoming. Beneath the draining board was a large tub, some kind of water heater he presumed. There was another table and chairs in one corner and against the opposite wall, a large green old fashioned electric cooker. Lino covered the floor and sickly green tiles covered the walls up to chest height, the rest of the wall and ceiling were whitewashed, the surface now pockmarked with patches of damp and mould.

Doors off to one side proved to be a pantry and broom cupboard, the cabinets on the walls opening to display products which although he knew what they were, bore names and marketing which were from way before his time. Just like the front room, it was neat, everything covered in a layer of dust. In a way, it was eerie, as though someone had just walked out and had never come back.

Another door next to the back door opened to reveal a staircase, a winding set of steps that led upwards and were gloomy. The torch was back on as he carefully mounted each step, testing it for his weight and listening to them squeak as he ascended.

At the top of the first landing was another door that led into a passage, two doors on one side and three on the other. Choosing the one directly on his right, he turned the handle slowly and eased it open. Probably the master bedroom he suspected, but again it was dark inside because of the curtains covering the window. Crossing the floor with cautious steps, he made it across the room and drew them back, allowing light to flood in after who knew how many years. The room was bigger than those in most modern houses and against the right-hand wall was a double bed, the old-fashioned type with a wooden head and footboard and an angle iron frame. It was still neatly made, cotton sheets, blankets, and a cover-all on top of horsehair mattresses.

In front of the window was a dressing table, one of those with three mirrors. Hairbrushes and bottles of lotion were still carefully placed across its surface. In the far left-hand corner and standing diagonally was a wardrobe, the door opened to expose dresses and coats on hangers, the shelf above the rail still holding a fox stole and making him jump as the daylight sparkled from its glass eyes and on the floor below were pairs of shoes. They were the fashions of the late nineteen-twenties and early thirties, all splendidly preserved. The wall opposite the bed held a cast iron fireplace, a smaller replica of the one downstairs in the lounge.

The near left-hand corner housed a matching wardrobe and next to that a large chest of drawers, its twin was to the right of the bed. He opened the second wardrobe, men's clothes this time, suits, jackets and trousers, leather brogues and oxfords side by side on the floor of the cabinet. Leaving the room for the moment, he recovered the curtains, the lack of daylight had kept everything protected for years and he had no wish to change that.

The second bedroom opposite the first was smaller, a single bed, again neatly made, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers were the only furniture in there. Back out into the passageway, the other doors led to a bathroom, an indoor toilet, relatively new back then, and then the third bedroom which was kitted out similar to the first. At the end of the passageway was the main staircase leading downstairs.

Making his way back to the rear stairs, he continued upwards, repeating the process, and testing each step as he went. The beam of the torch illuminated another door, but there, David's exploration ended. The knob spun in circles, refusing to operate the lock and the door stayed closed. The small space was insufficient to allow him to exert any force as he turned around and descended.

He glanced at his watch, early afternoon already. Such was his excitement that he could have stayed there longer and explored but determined that he would stop for the day and return tomorrow with some tools and see if he could ease the uppermost door open. He also wanted to photograph everything before passing all the information to the local historical society, the house was a moment in time, its contents needing to be preserved for prosperity.

The house keys had gone home with him, the one he'd found under the plant pot and the back door key which had still been in the lock. Calling in at the ironmongers on his way, he'd had two new ones cut. The next morning, even though it looked a little stormy outdoors, his rucksack was loaded with an assortment of screwdrivers, a couple of spanners and a small crowbar as well as a full flask and several rounds of sandwiches. Slinging his camera bag around his neck, he shrugged into the straps of the backpack, put on his cap, and set out, it was early with very few people about as he retraced yesterday's route.

This time it was far easier reaching the property, the path he had cut the day before aiding him to reach the back door without a struggle. A spray of oil into the lock and he tried the new key. Working the lock back and forth soon freed it up as with a satisfying click it unlocked and the door swung open. He'd no idea why he did it, just a natural reaction he supposed as he called out, 'Hello.' Of course, no one answered, why would they, it seemed this house had lain dormant most of his lifetime, he was the first in many years he presumed, to venture inside.

Drawing back the lounge curtains, his first job was to take pictures of the room from various aspects. Next came each of the different pieces of furniture, hanging pictures, a case clock on the wall that was silent, brass candlesticks on the mantlepiece. Assorted porcelain ornaments were scattered around the room, each one had its picture taken. The large sideboard contained linen for the table and place settings, the cupboard on the opposite side of it, shoeboxes full of letters, photographs, old bills and all the paperwork that people seemed to save. The three drawers down its centre held a myriad of detritus, the stuff we are all guilty of keeping, old keys for locks long discarded, cigarette lighters that didn't work, old watches and fountain pens. A box of assorted buttons and collar studs, another box of pre-decimal coins, pennies, halfpennies, sixpences, and threepenny bits. he wasn't going to sort through it all, happy to take several photos of the contents or anything special that caught his eye.

Pulling the curtains partially shut, the snug was the next to receive his attention, replicating what he had done in the front room. Anything and everything was photographed, a picture index of the contents of the property. From there, it was the turn of the kitchen, opening cupboards and taking pictures of their contents. It's surprising how fast time passes when you are engrossed in exploration, a glance at his watch reminding him it was nearly midday. After a drink and sandwiches, he had a decision to make, photograph the bedrooms, or try and get the door to the attic open. A decision was made, the attic door was his priority, if he managed to open it, then it could wait for another day, and he'd return to his exploration of the bedrooms.

It was difficult by the beam of a torch, but after removing the outer knob and pushing the spindle through the door, he was able to get a slim bladed screwdriver into the lock and after a lot of jiggling and twisting, the door popped open. Stepping inside the dark space, he picked up the knob and spindle and removed the surface-mounted mortice lock. he would take it home and hopefully mend it before re-attaching it tomorrow.

There was just time to photograph one bedroom before he must leave and so decided on the smaller of the three. The wardrobe was the same as the one he opened yesterday, jackets and pants, maybe a Sunday best suit, two pairs of shoes and a pair of boots. The chest of drawers held underwear, vests, long johns and knee socks, the next one down, union shirts and spare collars, best shirts on one side, work shirts on the other. The third drawer was jumpers, long sleeves, but predominately, tank tops with the odd cardigan all folded neatly. The bottom drawer was full of knickknacks, personal letters, assorted penknives and with the look of it, a complete set of cigarette cards. Again, there was the type of items that people couldn't bear to throw away even though they were no longer required or of any use.

Despite his enthusiasm, tiredness had overcome him, 'Enough for today.'

Re-covering the curtains, he switched on the torch and made his way downstairs, standing in the kitchen and wondering about the lives of the people who had lived here, who were they and what had happened to them? Why had they walked out one day and never returned, leaving all of their possessions abandoned?

Much to his disappointment, the following day was miserable and so instead of going to the property, David decided instead to spend some time on the internet and see if he could try and work out who had lived in the house. His first port of call was the genealogy sites, the 1911 census. It was fairly straightforward, and he quickly found the occupants of the property. "Travellers Rest. Alfred Philips, Head, age 34, Railway engineer. Gladys Philips, Wife, age 28, Kitchen assistant."