Dancing In The Minefields- chapter four

England, Camden.

Friday, April 21, 1945.

5:34 p.m.

The next day, although I haven't a clue why, I kept bargaining with myself. I just wondered if maybe I had stopped my mother from leaving that night would she still be alive. Or if maybe I had followed her out there, I could've saved her. My mum always told me I couldn't reverse the past, but now I so desperately needed to.

Somethings about the night my mother died weren't adding up anymore. A head injury seemed so strange and why would she leave without telling anyone? It was out of character, normally my mother wouldn't go to the bathroom without giving a hint. Maybe she would explain it in her diary? It isn't that I felt my mother's death was anything more than an accident, it was that something just didn't feel right. Or perhaps, things naturally didn't feel right because she was dead.

Somedays, I feel as if everything will be fine and I won't cry anymore. Others, I'm a wreck. This morning I sat in the corner of my room on the floor clutching my stomach.. I gnawed on my lip until I tasted blood, and the blood tasted bitter and salty-- exactly how I felt on the inside. Then I dug my fists into the ground until I felt snap in my knuckles. I prayed silently for the courage to stop, and I squeezed my eyelids so I could suppress the pain in the back of my mind. It's the moments like those that I wish I was like my father, and I didn't feel anything.

Today also wasn't the best day of school. Arabella caught a cold and she stayed home from school. Then, I couldn't sit next to Clementime in class because our teachers believe we are in cahoots because of our secret language. Although, Clememtime's last grade was below a 'C', therefore they must have already had means to punish her somehow. Our secret language was something we invented years ago, it was usually finger wiggling or foot tapping up under the desk. Our teachers tell us we aren't supposed to talk, but they said nothing about usage with our hands and feet!

After school I immediately rushed home, and passed through all of my secret passage ways. Today was the day I would get the diary, and perhaps more answers. I peered through the front door and allowed myself in. I hung my Sinatra jacket on the coat rail, and brushed my muddy shoes on the rug in front of the door.

I walked in the living and I heard our grandfather clock ticking like madness and echoing throughout the house. I threw off my satchel and placed it on sofa, right next to the television that was never in use. Then I calmly sauntered upstairs to my room, and changed into different clothing. I slipped on my pleated dress and new pair of saddle shoes.

After, I trailed across the hallway to my father's office, and I knocked. I tapped my feet against hardwood flooring.

"The door is open, Imogen."

I swiveled the knob and the door burst open. My father's office was clustered with documents and files, but I'd already searched most of them and found nothing compelling, therefore it had no interest to me. The room omitted the stench of tobacco, and of course my father's natural scent of crisp ocean air.

"Are we about to leave?" I asked.

"Don't blow your wig!" he warned. I glanced at my father sitting at his desk. His feet were propped on it, and his favorite brand of cigar was hanging out his mouth. He held a newspaper up to his face, and he appeared to absorbing all the information it had to offer. For some reason, he seemed to be anticipating something. Or someone...

"What's on the newspaper today?" I crossed my arms.

His head whipped around. "Imogene, although I know we never talk about this stuff..what do you want as a career choice?"

"Why?" I questioned.

"Just because," the corners of his lips formed into a smile. He was unusually happy today.

As I mentioned before, my father and I never had conversations such as that. It caught me off guard, and I'm not sure if I exactly knew the answer to that. But perhaps I did, the perfect career choice may have right in front of my eyes the whole time.

I pursued my lips together, "A...detective."

It was perfect. Detectives probe deep into mysteries, which was what I did on a daily basis. It did require lots of thinking, but the kind I enjoyed.

His face made an almost sympathetic expression. "Oh, yes! And I can be a detective too." He was mocking me.

My eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to say?"

He sighed. "It's an unrealistic goal."

I placed my hands over my hips. "Loads of people say it would be a great job for me. Including Arabella." I used her as an official source.

"Arabella? It's that the same friend who claims she's in the bloodline of King George? If I were in your shoes I'd rather take word from one of those fortune tellers than what she says!" he groaned.

He was mocking me. My cheeks turned red with embarrassment. Of course being a detective probably wouldn't earn me the largest salary, but what does that matter if I enjoy what I'm doing? My father had also mocked Arabella, which irritated me.

I shrugged him off. "No more realistic than your ego.." I bit my tongue. My impulses strike again.

I just couldn't help it at times. Every time a thought popped into my head, I'd say it; regardless of how much I knew it would hurt the person. Some considered this refreshing honesty, then some deemed it bluntness. And of course, "not how a proper young lady is supposed to behave." Sigh..

His eyes widened. "Are we leaving or not?"

He rose up immediately and started for the door. I followed behind him, and my pace soon matched his. Once we were outside, I spotted a taxi awaiting our arrival. We didn't actually take cars very often.

We both made our way into the car. I was in the backseat while my father sat in the front with the driver. The taxi was very small, but felt roomy on the inside. Like a clown car.

"We're off to Central street." my father said.

"I'm afraid that street is under construction. Is there any other place you must go at the moment."

My father didn't say anything, he just stared blankly for a long while. Eventually, and without hesitation the taxi driver started the engine and drove off quickly. It was very rare that someone questioned my father's authority, and it wasn't that people were afraid of him, in fact my father was well respected in the town. He was once a priest of our church, and he did lots of community work. Maybe because they knew what he was capable of. I knew too, behind his mostly blank expressions there was definitely more to learn about him.

The sidewalks were crowded with people. There were construction workers on tall latters painting buildings, and I imagine hoping not to fall down. Smoke seemed to fill the air by vast proportions.

My dad glanced out the window, "Have you been reading the newspaper? About last week I found out the Russians liberated Odessa." he said.

"I'm elated that this dreaded war seems to be over!" the taxi driver said.

"Absolutely," my father sighed.

The war was terribly long, and troublesome. Although, I did feel somewhat nostalgic for the times only a few years ago when I prayed so sincerely that Hitler would bomb my school.

We arrived at the storage shop, and the car pulled to a abrupt hault. Which made my face slam against my dad's leather seat. We both climbed out, and I hoped for the best.

"This is your stop, farewell and good day!" he said.

My father waved at him and I offered a smile. We continued into the storage place, and we arrived at the counter.

"How may I assist you?" she asked. The tone of her voice was highly bitter.

"Alice Newbury's belongings, please. I'm Allen Newbury." my father demanded. She handed us a key over the counter. Again, not very many questions were asked.

We trailed back to the storage case, and my father slide the key in. Out he pulled a box, a very large one.

"I will send these out to our relatives, and here Imogene." He hesitantly handed them over to me, he drew his hand back for a moment, but he everually gave them to me. His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pressed together. But there they were. Both of them, the diary and the photo album.

I smoothed my hand over both of the books, and pressed them against my chest. They both even smelled like my mum. I treasured both of them, for maybe having them would mean my mother wasn't actually dead.

........

Later that day, after we had came home, I shut my room door and began to read my mother's diary and look through the photo album. I was laying on the bed with my shoes still on. I examined the books, and they were both thicker than the bible itself, and they both looked the same as each other. Decorated with lavender print, and my mother's name on the front in cursive letters. Then a large symbol on the back I couldn't decipher ~T/c(). I decided to read the diary first. I skimmed through most of it, until I found where I was born.

Dear Diary,

The third of january, 1931.

This morning I gave birth to beautiful and healthy child. She's a girl, and her name is Jane. Allen and the others say she resembles me. Not to me though, Jane just resembles herself in my opinion. Jane's eyes are always peering and staring at things, almost as if she's trying to solve a mystery...... possibly the mystery of life?

A warm feeling lurked in my stomache, and my eyes were bright with excitement. Reading her writing sent chills down my spine.

I wonder what she would think if she saw how beauftiful Jane is? And how happy I am? Would she forgive me?

Who was this "she" and how had mother wronged her? I flipped a couple pages back through it for any indication, and I noticed some of the pages torwards the end of the book were ripped out, and replaced with others. It was obvious because the new pages were pasted in there and they were a different shade than the rest. I continued flipping through the pages faster than I did when I read Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't getting answers from the diary, just more questions.

My father's yell interupted me. "Imogene! Come down here please!"

I hesitated then got up from my bed and morosely trailed downstairs. I marched with my fists tight in my hands.

"What is it?" I mumbled.

I stared down at my shoes. And when I looked up, I noticed a woman was standing by the door. My eyebrows furrowed and I turned to my father. The woman was light blonde, even lighter than my hair. It was almost white. Her lips were extremely thin and her eyes were greener than grass. She was also short, barely taller than me. And I was just shy of five feet tall.

She clasped her hands together in excitement and dove to hug me. My father gestured for me to hug her her back. I did, then I preceded to wipe my hands on my dress. No telling what germs she carried on herself.

Her lips curved into a thin line. "It's so pleasant to meet you! I've heard lots about you from your father, awhile ago I heard you wanted to be a detective!"

"Who are ...you?" I stared into her eyes.

"Imogene, meet your guide." my father announced.