They say that walls have ears.
There is more to it than that. Look around your home, those inanimate objects, are they really what they seem, dull and lifeless, mere decorations. Ah, but could you be mistaken? Could they be observing you going about your daily life? They can’t possibly have feelings, that mirror cannot see, that chair cannot feel, that bed cannot hear? Can it? Are you really sure? Well then, let’s look a little closer and see things from their perspective. Let’s hear their stories.
The Chair
It’s the big ones I hate most. You know the ones that plonk themselves heavily on you and spread themselves around your edges. Skinny ones aren’t great either. Their bones seem to dig in and it really goes against the grain. Then there are the fidgety ones – they are very irritating, moving here and there, getting on and off and making my legs wobble. And as for young children with their grubby hands and deadly crayons- I can’t stand having a sticky back. I get very nervous when they run around, crashing into things and upsetting my friends. Sometimes they deface with chewing gum and other unmentionable things. I don’t like Goths – you never know if you’re going to get scratched by their safety pins and chains. Sometimes dark denims leave their mark too – I especially dislike studs that can really leave a dent. Stilettos dangling, resting and sliding along my lower limbs are another pet hate.
A terrible thing happened last week. A sixteen-stoner. I groaned inwardly when I saw him approach. NO! Not me! Choose someone else! Too late, CRACK.
I’ve been in hospital for a few days now. The carpenter is such a caring doctor. He’s repaired my broken leg and massaged my creaking joints and cares away with some soothing linseed oil.
Why can’t all humans be so considerate?
We may have wooden hearts, but we’re not made of stone.
The Mirror
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the cruellest man of all?
Evie, she speaks to me, when no one is there. Sometimes I think I am her only friend; her confessional. I listen and wish I could do more than just reflect her misery. The concealer, Yves St Laurent Touche Eclat comes out of its tube, yet again. She pumps the liquid onto her finger and daubs beige colour under and over those purple bruised eyes.
Why she stays with the brute I do not know. He bullies, shouts and sometimes hits her if his meal is not up to scratch, according to him, of course. He allows her to go to work, bring in the wages which he spends down the pub but she is never allowed to socialise and I have never seen any friends or family of hers.
Sometimes she props her elbows on the dressing table, rests her chin on her hands and talks to herself or rather to her reflection, which is of course me. “Dear mirror, shall I tell you what has happened today and can we keep it a secret, just between us?” Of course, I would never tell, betray her innermost thoughts, after all, how could I, a mere sheet of glass coated with a thin, reflective layer of silver, protected by copper and paint. I just listen to the tales of misery pouring from her delicate little mouth and feel for her.
Things have obviously taken a turn for the worse recently. The bruising, together with a bloodied lip, being so apparent, meant she could not go into work today. It enraged him even more. Now she really is opening her heart to me and starts to sob, “Oh mirror, I can’t, can’t take any more. I have to leave or he’ll end up killing me.”
I see the bedroom door open quietly, inch by inch, but Evie is so wracked with sobs she cannot hear or see what I can - a bloated purple face and eyes bulging with rage - the brute creeping through the door. He has been listening. How I wish, with all my glass heart, that I could save her.
“Stop talking to that bloody mirror. You’ll never leave me, bitch, I’ll fix you! Good and proper!”
He picks up a wooden ornament and hurls it at me. Crash. I fall, in large broken shards, onto the floor. He bounds threateningly towards her. Sobbing, Evie picks up a sharp piece of glass and turns to defend herself from the blow she knows is coming.
Closing her eyes she shields herself from his looming presence and thrusts blindly at her attacker. Like an avenging angel I feel his flabby flesh give way as I penetrate deeper, deeper, into his jugular vein.
The Bed
I was there at the very beginning and now, here I am again, at the very end.
Louise’s loud moans and panting, her writhing and sweating - I can hear and feel it all, still vivid in my memory. My sturdy mahogany frame supports her despite all the flailing about in her birth throes. One last shriek and another sound, the piercing cry of an infant entering this world. They call her Amélie, how apt for a child born in a French sleigh bed. Well, I like to think so.
Over the years, dear child, I get to know you so well. First, the baby gurglings, then the flapping of blankets kicked off during tantrums. The breath holding, the yelling, loud enough to burst eardrums, if I had any.
Growing up, the sounds now become more complex, more keenly felt and I am there with you, through the years, listening to your heart’s emotions. The sighing, the crying, the sweet whisperings, the giggling, the shrieks of laughter – I live through them all.
Various amours come and go. Some you care for most - fleeting romances. Teenage years; difficult. Arguments over dinner end with you being dispatched angrily by your father, a strict man, to your room. You take out your anger on me, but I forgive your relentless pounding fists. Louise is there, sitting on my blankets, plumping the pillows, consoling and comforting when the occasion demands it.
And then came Claude, handsome, kind, eminently suitable, adored by parents and deeply loved by you. Another bed hosts your wedding night but then you came back to me and the noises are very different. Mindful of your privacy I draw a veil over the sounds I hear during those brief months. Suffice to say the music of your love is the sweetest.
All too soon the clamour of war rudely interrupts your peaceful lives, takes Claude away, never to return.
If a bed can drown in tears, then I come close to it. Unconsolable, you weep for him, day and night. When you eventually succumb to sleep, exhausted by grief, then I am satisfied. I have helped. New, unwelcome sounds arrive. Nightmares haunt you and, in despair, you cry out. My heart would break, but it is wooden and cannot.
Time passes. Grief subsides a little but you never love again. The house and its contents, myself included, eventually pass on to you after your parents’ sad demise. Mattresses come and go but I remain steadfastly supportive.
As you enter your fortieth year, fate deals another blow. Your slight frame never weighed heavily on me but, in the space of a short time, it feels like a feather is sleeping under the blankets. Visitors crowd your bedroom, as never before. Doctors clack their stethoscopes, pills rattle in boxes, nurses sigh but nothing helps. You are adamant. Knowing your time will be short you insist on staying in your own bed. Nothing can induce you to enter a hospital.
And so it comes to pass. Dear Amelie, nursed in my warm embrace, who slept so soundly on my comforting mattress, awakes no more.
How I miss her. Years go by, how many I cannot tell you as time, for me, can only be measured by the people who lived here. Now there is no one. No voices, just the cooing of doves nesting in the overgrown cherry tree. Sometimes, when the wind whistles through the broken windowpanes, leaves and twigs are blown onto my decaying frame.
Eventually, .... strange voices, harsh and insistent, interrupt the shrouded silence.
“Alright Stan, let’s get on with it. My God, this bed’s too heavy to move, get the old saw out.”
“Seems a shame Arthur, nice bit of wood there.”
“Well, you can take bits out of the skip for your bonfire later. Now, lad, look lively!”
And so, dear Reader, the screeching of a mechanical saw was the last sound that I, a magnificent mahogany French sleigh bed, ever heard.
Helen Griffiths