Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

me, working vigorously on mixing bread dough, kneading, pressing, forcing a wet lump into something good. Why don’t they simply speak?

“Hammond.” Mr. Bleu spoke from the corner. I had not seen him there. “Just tell the girl.”

Uncle cleared his throat. Aunt covered the bread dough and left the room. “Your mother lived here when she was first married.”

“Oh?” Odd, since I’d heard newlywed stories of the house I’d recently left. “I can’t imagine father slopping the pigs, such a man of paper and ink!” I grinned, but no one else did.

Uncle tucked his thumbs behind his suspenders, head down. “Your father never lived here.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Uncle was exasperating. He sat down and didn’t expound.

Mr. Bleu held out his hand. “Come for a walk.”

“I’ve just been on a walk.” Headstones, Father lived here, but Father didn’t live here? “Answer me, Uncle.”

Mr. Bleu grabbed my hand and led me outside. At least I’d get a blunt answer. I hoped. His hand held tight around mine as a father holds a child’s lest they run. I’d already been running from this birthday, but time takes us where it will.

We went as far the fence by the road. His grip softened into a warm hold. At that moment, I remembered my father’s hand. Large, slender, warm. I pulled away and held the fence instead. “Speak on.”

“Your Uncle is not the coward you think him.”

“I wonder how he fought in the war at all.”

“Wasn’t in his nature. Still isn’t. He hates hurting people, he forgets how withholding news can also cause damage.” Mr. Bleu puffed frustration.

“So, you fly to his rescue.”

“Yes. As he has flown to mine more times than I can count.”

“In the war?”

He gave me hard stare, then nodded.

“Just say what needs to be said.”

“Your mother married someone else before your father. Had a family, lived here.”

“What?” The pieces fell together. Chills crept through my body.

“Ernest was supposed to tell you while at the graveyard. Obviously chickened out. You see, your mother’s first husband farmed this land, but a train accident killed all of them. Her husband and their children.”

I barely made out his words. Mother. Father. A man she loved before him? How is this possible? Children before my brother and myself? She never came back here because she couldn’t. Her incredible pain presses too close to mine.

Clouds darkened and thunder rumbled. Birdsong ceased. Mr. Bleu gently took my elbow and led me back to the house and up the stairs to my bedroom where he had hauled a large trunk. “Your mother’s things that she left here. I’ll leave you to it.”

I stared at the old trunk as if it were a coffin carrying the bones of someone else’s past. Had I really known Mother? He turned to walk away.

“Mr. Bleu?”

“Yes?”

“Always be honest with me. I beg you. I can’t stand this...this...” My chin quivered. I closed my eyes.

“Miss Trafton, I promise.”

Tears blinded my eyes.

Minutes later, Aunt brought me a tray of delectable tidbits. Pickles, olives, buttered bread with jam, another slice of spice cake and a pot of tea. She set the things down on my desk and wrapped her arms around me. The loving warmth and the spread before me only made me ache more for what I’d lost. Why had she walked out of the kitchen when I needed her presence the most?

I am the sole survivor of Mother’s tragedies. The bearer of her heritage. The whole of it.

Aunt poured a cup of tea and placed it in my hands. “When you are ready to hear about them, I will tell you. We grew up together, you know.”

She left me alone. I sat by the trunk for a while, building up the courage to see Mother’s life and loves before Father and me.

My throat began to sting.

I did not delay opening the trunk. No mice had been there the twenty-three years these things lay dormant. Carefully covered in cedar sachets, a soft bundle of clothing covered the top. I set them aside, for I could guess them to be baby’s things. Wrapped in a shawl was the wedding photo. Mother, so young. Mr. Birch, tall with a top hat held to his side—the first face she loved. He was exceedingly handsome. I hate to admit that, because Father’s pleasant manner and a kindly beard made him attractive.

I found a stack of letters, but I dared not read them. Could not. I set those aside also. Various childhood knickknacks followed. Were they Mother’s or her children’s? My other brother and sisters...

I lifted a sketchbook found in the bottom dated 1840. First page inscribed by Abraham Birch, aged 15 years. I turned the pages. Life in detail! I wondered how this man chose farming rather than pursuing illustration.

My younger boy cousins bounded down the hallway in a chase, knocking a picture off the wall, bringing me back to the present. I set everything back and latched it closed.

My throat began to sting and I could hardly swallow a bite of bread as sickness took hold. A slow soft knock presented. “Yes?”

Ernest opened the door. “I’m sorry, Dorothy.” His eyes were sad.

I shrugged. “It’s a history neither of us can help.”

He waited, as if needing a benediction. But what can I give him?

“I best be at chores.” He retracted his steps back and handed me a blooming crocus in a tiny vase. A bright yellow forbearer of spring.

Yesterday was too much and I am ill. My throat plagues me, my eyes burn. From fever and tears. Aunt has brought me willow bark tea—I’ll drink any imposter to push away this pain.

Mr. Bleu still plays—how long will he? Strum after strum, King David...Oh what an odd thought. His nickname rankles me. I doubt Uncle will ever tell me the story if he can’t manage to tell me about my own mother. My parents had always been forthright. At least until they died and revealed what I’d never known.

Helen brought two hot bricks and tucked them into the