A Rough Homecoming

 

“The old one is dead.”

            “How do you know,” her daughter asked.

            “There are ravens on the roof of the big house,” announced the mother, squinting at the sky, as if to find more ravens there. “They’ll need to get him into the ground soon.”

            “You never gave a care for old Archie did ya,” said Lissy. “And now he’s likely gone.”

            “Oh, yea, he’s gone. Cook told me early, there being no need to make his breakfast,” the mother shook her head, glancing at her daughter. “There will be a lot of hard work now, cleaning up the house. I hear that he would not have anyone touch a thing since Margaret died so long ago.”

            “Who will be laird now mother,” asked Lissy.

            “There is no one but young Alex. I don’t suppose you remember him very well, since he was sent to his mother’s brother a good ten years ago,” said Annie to her girl.

            Since Lissy was barely 16, no, she did not remember Alexander a bit. What’s an older boy from the big house to a child playing dollies in the yard?

*0*

            So, Alex was coming home. Word of his elderly dad’s demise had come as no surprise. He always realized that at some future date he would have to go back and run the farm. That day had arrived.

            It was still summer in the fields and woods. Not quite harvest. A bright, warm day. Thankfully it had not rained, so the farmers were cautiously optimistic. It was a pleasant ride. An easy distance from his aunt and uncle’s place. He even dawdled a bit on the way, being somewhat less than eager to put on the harness at home.

            Uncle Thomas had given him an oldish sorel mare to ride. His possessions, not many, would be brought by cart the next day. He didn’t create a grand vision at all. Here he was, a sandy headed fellow of 21 years, riding a second best horse, in rather plain brown clothing made by his aunt’s maids. He looked more like a prosperous farmer than anything else.

            But, perforce, eventually he arrived at the old house where he had been born and lived with his parents for ten years, give or take a few months. He sighed.

            “Well, dear horse, it doesn’t look any better than the last time I saw it,” observed Alex.

            In fact, it looked worse. Riding up, he saw that the chimney seemed off center, tiles were missing on the outer edges of the roof. Several chickens of varied colors and types explored the untidy grounds. No one had cut the grass in from of the house. He had serious doubts about the fields in back.  There would be plenty of time to explore that subject. He hoped that there would be some kind of a harvest. He wondered about the farm laborers. Who were they now days.

            No smoke issued from the canted chimney. So, no one was cooking today. His first order of business would be a talk with Cook. Alex was hungry and it was late for supper.

            Alex dismounted, and keeping hold of his mare’s reins he walked to the front door and pulled it open. A scene of disorder met his eyes. His home appeared almost frozen in time. The windows’ heavy draperies covered the glass, so that the room was dark. It smelled closed in, musty. A flash of anger rose up in his mind for a second.

            “Hello! Hello!” Alex shouted into the dark room. “Is anyone here at all?” Where was his father’s housekeeper? Was there a housekeeper? Was she too old to work?

            Getting no answer, he went back out and tied the mare to a sapling growing right in front of the house. Then he went back in, heading for the kitchen to see if there was anyone home.