Sally Gulford - Daddy's Died

(Please note that Sally Thomkin is actually Sally Gulford as a child, pre-marriage!)

Daddy's Died

The little girl surveyed the chaos and young though she was, knew then that her life had changed forever. She stood before the large pillared portico, alone and bewildered amid the frenzied activity surrounding her. Cars had been travelling up and down the gravel driveway it seemed forever and people were scurrying up and down the steps, carrying something different each time. Everything had changed, that much she knew, but she was unsure of exactly what had changed or how she would feel.

Her blonde curls glistened in the morning sun as she searched the scene, desperately seeking familiarity and finding nothing. She stood for a moment, thinking perhaps to venture beyond the steps, to begin a search. Her hesitation lasted only moments and she took a sharp breath, leaning a small pudgy hand against the unyielding marble column to steady her descent to the gravel below, toward the garden beyond.

She had always adored the garden. The whole family would gather there on weekends and play amongst the finely manicured lawns. Mummy and Daddy would roll among the leaves, laughing together and she would giggle, looking on happily. They would stretch out their arms to her as she tottered through the plant beds, anxious to be a part of the fun. When she reached Daddy's arms, he would toss her high into the sky; so high her voice would escape into the clouds and she could only gasp for air as he brought her back to earth and held her tight. She loved that bit. Daddy was always so strong and held her close. The garden, she knew, would be normal - nothing would have changed there. If she could get to the garden, everything would be right.

Assured in her purpose, she began a childish sprint towards the familiar, her face set in anticipation. As she began to scamper over the gravel, a shrill voice called from the porch behind, commanding her to cease her quest and return immediately. The young child's shoulders stooped in dismay. She needed to reach the garden, to play again, to make everything normal. She didn't want to turn back. The solid, stern voice held her still, immobile, too afraid to continue, yet uncertain about obedience.

"Sally Thomkin! You come back inside this instant!" The voice was becoming more insistent, it's tone stern, echoing with authority. The little figure, dreams of the garden thwarted, slowly and reluctantly began the trek back to the house. She reached the enormous oak doorframe and immediately felt a strong bony grip digging into her soft young flesh. The grasp was so tight to prevent further escape, she supposed. Sally bit her lip, holding back the tears. She had learnt long ago that tears would provide no release with this woman. She wanted to wriggle free, but remained compliant. Experience had taught her well.

She looked up at the woman, now marching her purposefully up the staircase. The woman looked after everything, she was always in charge. Everyone was afraid of her - except Daddy. Even Mummy, Sally thought, Mummy was scared unless Daddy was there. Her whole demeanour spoke of authority, purpose and command. Her dress was clean, grey and starched and was emphasised by her tall, rigid posture. Like a soldier, thought Sally. Sally surprised herself as she let out a small involuntary giggle as she imagined Mrs Clarkson with the tall bearskin worn by the soldiers of the English queen. Mrs Clarkson glared sharply at the little figure in her grasp. She was exasperated and annoyed at having to watch the child at all in the midst of all the upheaval of the past few days. She sniffed with displeasure, and wrenched open the nursery door.

"Now, little Miss. THIS time, you stay here," she instructed, hissing the words directly into the child's face, ensuring that she was received and understood. "Don't go downstairs. Stay out of the way until your mother comes for you. And DON'T go outside again - you understand?" She stood before the child and grasped Sally's shoulders, shaking them as she stared into the child's eyes, ensuring submission. "I do not want to have to get you again - clear?"

Sally began to shake involuntarily, desperately trying to hold on to the tears that were threatening to escape. She tried to say something to make Mrs Clarkson understand, but no words would come. She simply nodded slowly, accepting defeat hanging her head, hiding her despair, as a tear began to roll down her cheek. Mrs Clarkson stood and looked down at the child, her lips tightly pursed and assured now of the child's obedience, she turned and headed back towards the chaos, waiting for her to restore order.

Young Sally didn't understand any of this. All she wanted was for everything to be back to normal. She wanted to go back to the garden where it was always normal. She didn't know why Mrs Clarkson had left her in this room. She didn't belong in the nursery any more. Daddy had said she was a big girl now and could sit in the lounge with Mummy and Daddy. She hadn't been in the nursery for weeks; she had a big bedroom now, like Daddy's. She didn't know why the house had descended to this melee. She could not comprehend the lack of order that was all around the house. Mrs Clarkson never let anything like this happen before. Sally simply did not understand and stood alone, trying to make sense of her little world.

She wanted to turn back time, return to time before this utter confusion had descended into her existence. She longed to hear laughter, she yearned to feel freedom. She prayed for Daddy's fingers through her hair; for Mummy's kisses on her cheek. Instead, she had Mrs Clarkson's bony grip and steely face. Nothing was normal any more. She wandered listlessly across the room and moved the thick heavy curtains to one side to look on the driveway below and began to cry. The tears that she had struggled to control refused to be held any longer and began to run down her cheeks, silently at first. Then, as she saw the cars and the sadness below, grief and realisation began to take a hold of this young, vulnerable spirit. She clung to the brocade, sobbing as the sadness inside her grew deeper and more overwhelming, it seemed with each tear.

She didn't know how long she had stood at the window, nor how long she had been crying. She felt that she could never cry again, but the darkness in her soul would not let her stop. There was no end to the depth of her grief, wrapping it around her soul, snuffing out the light of memories, as it seeped deeper into the recesses of her very being. So young, so tender, too small to feel such depth of emotion. Little Sally only knew that nothing could ever be normal now, not even if she went to the garden. She had been betrayed, let down by those she loved and trusted. She hadn't understood - they said he'd gone away. They had all told her it would be OK. Everyone had hugged her and told her it would all be fine and he'd just gone away. Mummy had cried but even she had said it would be OK.

Eventually, the sobs subsided and little Sally sniffed and drew her sleeve across her face as she fought with the realisation of truth. They had all lied. Even Mummy. Daddy wasn't coming back - he was in the box. Daddy hadn't gone away - he was being taken away. And it would not be OK, it would not be fine. That's why everyone had been crying and that's why not even the garden could make things normal. Daddy had gone and he had taken her world with him. And they had all lied.

Sally looked out from behind the curtain, reflecting on the destruction of her tiny world. At five years old, she possessed a detachment unusual for her years. Other children might cry for their mother in their desperation for normality. Sally knew that her mother would be unable to return life to the even pace she had always known. Mummy always followed Daddy, she cuddled Daddy, she copied Daddy, she played with Daddy while Daddy played with Sally. Sally knew that her mother would return, but she knew that Mummy would not be able to play with her, not even in the garden. The lies had changed everything.

She stood quite detached, watching the scene unfold below the nursery window. She saw her mother, distraught, wailing, clinging to the shining wooden box as it was carried into the grim vehicle, waiting on the stones. Nobody came for Sally as she watched the procession leave. First, the cars were filled with flowers, then the car carrying Daddy's box and finally, the cars full of people. So many people were in the cars, she wondered if she were completely alone. She didn't feel any fear, the question was just that - a question in her mind. If she were alone, then she could leave the room. Mrs Clarkson wouldn't know. Sally determined to leave, she wanted to get to the garden. She knew it wouldn't be normal, she hoped the garden might stop the darkness she was feeling.

The house was deserted as Sally tiptoed down the sweeping staircase. With each step, she prayed "Please God, please make Mrs Clarkson gone." She took each step slowly, deliberately, ensuring no creaks, no noise, as she made her way toward the door. The house stood in silence and the sound of her feet on the polished tiles seemed to echo around the hallway. Sally drew her breath, expecting to hear Mrs Clarkson's stentorian voice from the nearby servery. She stood, transfixed, silent, waiting for the inevitable reproach. She let out a sigh of disbelief when no sound came. She couldn't believe that she was actually alone, they had all gone! For a moment, her mind reeled with the prospect of being forgotten, alone in the house, everyone else gone with the box. She expected to feel something at this sudden realisation, but the sadness had taken everything. The realisation drove her onward toward the door and the freedom beyond. Turning the handle, she pulled against the wooden door with all the strength her little body could muster, managing to shift it just inches, enough to edge through and begin her quest for the garden.

Her mind raced past the darkness she felt inside, as she began to allow herself hope, perhaps the garden would be the answer. The darkness had provided no answer to her confusion, the garden would be her saving grace. She held fast to the forlorn hope that she could find relief from the despair threatening to overtake her. She headed out toward the column, toward the steps, driven by purpose, each step taking her closer to the hope she had decided lay in the garden. She reached out to steady herself down the steps and slumped, all energy drained, as she felt the familiar grip on her shoulder. Where she had felt freedom, she now felt defeat. She wasn't alone at all, there was no hope. There was just Mrs Clarkson.

Sally began to sob; frustration, loss, hopelessness all overwhelmed the little girl. Sally leant into Mrs Clarkson's grip as wretched grief and despair stole the child's body. The older woman stood, stunned at the child's emotional outburst. She had intended to return her to the nursery with a stern word to wait for the mother. This current spectacle was uncomfortable and unexpected and she found herself descending to the child's level.

"Where are you trying to go?" she asked, almost gently, a tone alien to her, causing her to squirm uneasily as she tried to acclimatise to these unaccustomed emotions and feelings. "You've done this twice now, you know," she said sharply, although without the shrill edge that Sally was used to hearing. "Where are you off to, child?"

Sally stared wide-eyed in between gulps of air and tears. She shook in disbelief as the prim, upright old lady repeated her question.

"T-t-to to ... to the garden," she stuttered, "I just want to go back, that's all."

"Come, child," and she felt her hand enfolded by the same bony fingers, the grip softer than before, leading her down the steps toward the garden. As the pair reached the gate, Mrs Clarkson pushed it open and led the child through. Sally stood on the pathway, immobile. She couldn't run through the leaves; there were no outstretched arms waiting for her, nobody to giggle and play with. Only Sally and Mrs Clarkson remained.

Even here, it had gone, nothing remained, just the sadness, only the lies, the shadows and darkness. Nothing would be the same. Not even Mrs Clarkson. Sally looked up, wiping the recalcitrant tears, and offered a watery smile toward her one-time foe. Mrs Clarkson, eyes now misted with new revelation, nodded back. "Come child, there's nothing here." Sally agreed and followed as Mrs Clarkson led the way back to the house. Sally waited in the nursery, waited for the future, for her mother, as her past was snuffed out and the memories muffled by the grief and sadness that would never leave.






Sally was (and may still be for all I know) but a plot has just revealed itself to me and for now, this will be another story, perhaps appearing in a minor form. Perhaps I can leave this as a short story?