3.‘SHROUD’ – a hidden word, can also be tied up in knots.

Bathers with sails. Illustrator Sarah Keen

My great-grandfather died and his good deeds lie quietly. In all the family archives, memoirs and stories, I have found not one scrap nor shred of anyone remembering his kindness kindly. He is dead and Elworth Hall lies in ashes, shrouded by earth.

The grandfather clock reminds me. Time has moved on. Another place  calls me. I love my cottage but I am seduced by houses as by lovers. Houses greet me and some speak.  I can sit in a house quietly and hear its voice. These are not ghosts, I think, but sometimes I am not so sure.

Salt Marsh House stands at the edge of a wasteland, threaded by golden grasses. Strange birds flap through them, disturbing the seeds that flow freely into the gardens and set rebellious fruits. From the roofs, on the far horizon you can just  glimpse the sea and sails. The mists roll in from the marshes and shroud the house, protecting it from prying eyes, supporting those who wish to enter and leave without being seen.

I am summoned to Salt Marsh House , where my dear friend lies dying. I run along one of the few  firm tracks that wind from the town,through the marshes to the great house and I am shown into her peaceful room. We have to say good-bye, but I don’t want to.

“Don’t go,” I plead silently – she who has been our mainstay for so many years.  “Stay longer.”

Choiceless, she ties her Shroud Knot and checks the main sails. She unfurls them and casts off, the firm tracks disappear in her wake.

When I next see her, her frail body is covered by a linen cloth: shrouded in mystery.

She left behind a household desolate and more lost than we could yet know.