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Saturday, May 15th, 1999 — Hanover Gardens
To announce my return to Hanover Gardens, I did my level best to wake the neighbours. The roosters could never sing as beautifully as I could, though I'd never claim to sing better than birds. Heh. Vocal warm-ups alone wouldn't do anymore — I'd been reunited with my baby, my Yamaha, and I made a point of singing along with her as loudly as my sense of decency allowed. Three weeks without practice showed immediately. My fingers tripped over themselves, landing on foolish, clumsy mistakes, but muscle memory was a forgiving thing. Before long, it all came rushing back.
I drifted through soft melodies, tore into quick-fire jazz riffs, then sank into something slow and blue as the sky. My voice followed instinctively, weaving in and out, inventing new phrases, stretching bars, in rhythm and outside of it where it suited me. The piano was an endless well of invention — the undisputed king of instruments. Every key did more than sound a note, it opened a door. Some led to places I'd never been. Others ran along roads worn smooth from how much I'd trudged along them. A few revealed odd, mismatched pieces that fit nowhere at all. Out of bounds.
Even the failures had their charm. Especially the failures. They taught you things nothing else could.
Most fun were the rare melodies, played and forgotten. The ones that seemingly only existed in that moment to encapsulate my memories, my feelings.
It was intoxicating.
Intoxicating enough that breakfast passed me by entirely. Intoxicating enough that I'd not put on clothes. I'd missed this room — my makeshift studio. It was beautiful in its own quiet way, more comforting than a soft and warm bed could ever be. Felt hammer striking string, softer and more enveloping than my head sinking into the pillow.
"Wilf!"
A shout rose from up high.
I pushed harder on the pedals — or rather the pedal extender contraption I was using to reach them. The music swelled, dragging and lingering, until I was once again lost in the glory of music. Language that everyone spoke, lingua franca of the soul.
"Wilfred, you get up here. Now."
I tried to make the music match her tone. Sharp notes. A clipped pause. Clanging return. Then a sudden stop that only made it seem like the beast was right behind you. An angry grandmother, the secret that clung to us, I wondered what a listener would imagine. Perhaps that was how the fabled composers did it — dredging up old rows and their feelings into a language they could impose on others.
Intoxicating.
"Wilfred Ingrid Price. This is your last warning, so help me God."
The notes scraped against one another, clanged, then collapsed into silence. Sighing, I returned to the mortal realm where music wasn't waves of colours or fragrance you could smell. I loved my piano, but I wasn't daft enough to stay on my grandmother's bad side.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," I called, already moving.
I took the stairs four at a time. The carpet dampened the sound and I made note of the rhythm. I could swear I'd grown — or perhaps it was just Nain's voice giving me a helpful shove.
The kitchen met me with the smell of laverbread and the unmistakable damp tang of seaweed. Grandad must have been missing Welsh food, three days in a row might be the record. Cleanse from living on an English military base, or perhaps Nain was feeling nostalgic.
"Wilf!" Nain exclaimed. "What on earth are you wearing?"
I stopped short.
My eyes landed on the people at the kitchen table.
Maria stood beside Nain, apparently helping with a very late breakfast. At the far end of the table sat my destined rival, Dorothea Offermann, wearing the exact same stunned expression I could feel on my own face.
"I —"
I looked down.
Pants. White vest.
"Go and put some clothes on," Nain said, stage-whispering angrily across the dinner table.
I took one step back, then another, and when no one had laughed or said a word, I turned and bolted up to my room.
What in bloody hell Dorothea and her mother were doing in my house, uninvited, I had no idea. Someone would pay for this.
I came down five minutes later in clothing more suitable for human interaction. I must have been pulling a face because Nain and Maria laughed, while Dorothea behaved as though nothing had happened at all.
"Take a seat, bach."
There was a full Welsh breakfast on the table, cooked far too late to qualify as breakfast any longer. Grandad was already tucking in, utterly unbothered. A storm wouldn't faze the old man. I took my cue from him and attacked the plate with enthusiasm. It was preferable to engaging with whatever was unfolding around me.
"We've got so much to move across the Channel. ECB's been brilliant, though — they're paying a relocation fee that covers everything."
"Does that include a nice house?" Nain led on.
"Bernie went back and forth a few times. He wanted somewhere near where he grew up, but the commute would've been murder. I made sure we're closer to the city. It's a flat — very modern."
"Lovely. I'm sure you'll all enjoy Germany."
Dorothea looked as though she might object, then thought better of it. Her eyes drifted towards mine. I focused very hard on my food until the sensation of the burning hole on my crown eased.
"Wilfred," Nain said once we'd had a few bites. "Are you not going to acknowledge our guests?"
"Hello," I said, automatically.
"He gets embarrassed very easily." Nain tried to explain.
"I do not," I protested.
"He does," Nain said, with finality. Then, to me, "They're here about the wager I told you about. They're leaving soon, and you're off on Wednesday. You won't be seeing her again for a while."
"Thea's been such a misery this past week that I'd have brought her anyway," Maria added. "Agreement or not."
"Mum," Thea complained.
"It was a wager you lost fair and square," Nain said, completely ignoring Thea.
"I agreed to let you win. That's different," Maria insisted.
"You keep telling yourself that," Nain replied, smiling.
Maria smiled back, clearly enjoying the banter.
"Wilf, if you're finished, why don't you show Thea around the house? It's the polite thing to do. Estella did the same for you."
That had happened at the Satis House. Where the Havisham estate was large, ours was tiny, where it was cold ours was warm. I nodded at Maria and turned properly to Thea, getting some excitement about returning the favour in kind.
"I should warn you — I'm a lowly working-class boy. If you're expecting anything like the tour I got, you're in for a shock."
"It's adorable how he talks like an old man," Maria said to Nain.
I ignored them. Perhaps, I'll talk to them once they went an hour without teasing me. Thea blinked a few times and sat straight.
"That was Estella. I'm nothing like her."
"I'll decide that," I said, standing. "Come on."
"Plates in the sink, cariad," Nain called.
With a sigh, I cleared my plate and washed it. Thea offered to do hers, but I told her only the host was allowed and that guests are treated as kings in the Price Estate. Naturally, this resulted in everyone piling their plates to me and the washing duty in my lap. Typical.
"This is the kitchen," I said once I was done.
"I know. I've been standing in it." She shook her head.
"Well. It's a kitchen. Not much to say. Nain hides the lollies on that top shelf. She keeps accusing me of nicking them, but I don't even like sweets."
"So where are the lollies going, then?" Nain asked pointedly from across the room.
I ignored that and gestured towards the dining area, which was barely separate from the kitchen. A round dinner table with five chairs sat in the middle, hardly leaving any space between the walls. Past it lay the windows, where comfortable sofa chairs sat facing each other. A fireplace was on one wall and the other was largely occupied by a massive brown wooden monstrosity.
"Those shelves are Nain's respectable books — the ones she doesn't mind people seeing. There's another lot hidden in her room. I'm banned from setting foot in there."
"They're perfectly normal books, it's just the ones I'm reading," Nain said. "I've told you dozens of times."
"Ignore her," I said, steering Thea into the hall, which was really just the staircase. "Up or down?"
"Up. Why are the stairs so narrow?"
"London things." I stepped onto the first stair. "Stand next to me."
It took some persuading, which was ridiculous, but we fit easily enough.
"See? Two kids are fine. Two adults would be a squeeze. Grandad reckons the stairs were split when the house was turned into two flats. Probably why they're so thin."
Once we'd gotten out of earshot, I ushered her closer to listen to a secret.
"I don't eat sweets if I could help it. It's bad for the teeth, you see. But my Grandad loves a nip. Don't tell Nain."
Her expression was at first of understanding then of suspicion. I was halfway offended by that because I made a point of not lying if I could help it and the old man was a dab hand at thieving the top shelf. He didn't even have to stand up on the island to open it like I had to. What could I do to get some people to trust me on that, I'll never know.
Thea paused when I'd kept going up. "Aren't we seeing the first floor?"
"It's just my grandparents' room and —" I paused. "Actually. Yes. Fair enough."
I steered her away from the bedroom at once. That was firmly out of bounds — proper dark forest territory. Nain's books were not for mortal eyes. If I wasn't a liar, Nain could only be described as a fabled storyteller. And she dealt in myths.
No one who was innocent shut her books whenever I walked into a room when she'd been reading.
As I led her towards the room opposite, I wondered if this might somehow be worse. Still, if it were truly forbidden, I'd have been banned from it as well. Instead, Nain had never even mentioned the room but then again I could also see her not naming it so that I'd never grown curious enough to scout out the room. With a shrug, I decided that if anything traumatising appeared, it was entirely her fault.
Pushing away blame and turning myself into a victim just by re-framing the scenario. My powers seemed to be growing even as the days passed.
The room had faded yellow walls no one had bothered to repaint. The last time I'd been in here, the only furniture was a chest of drawers that looked about a hundred years old. The old thing was still there but its surroundings had changed in the year or so we'd lived here. Two large desks were pushed back to back, forming an L-shape. Shelves and drawers climbed every available dimension, each packed with plastic containers subdividing the space into even more compartments. How could one not be confused by this many containers, I could never guess at. It was strange to live a floor above a room and never once think to look inside it.
Maybe this house tour really should've been scheduled for me.
"What's all this?" Thea asked.
"I don't know…" I muttered, then glanced to the right where a large display stood. "Blimey… that's brilliant, that."
She followed my gaze and stopped short.
"This is incredible. Who made all of it?"
My eyes drifted across the display. Dozens upon dozens of figures — carved, engraved, some painted. The centrepiece sat at the top, powerful in how it captured the room. Dark stone edged in black and grey, a red dragon carved boldly into the surface right at the centre.
"I've got a guess," I said quietly.
"You don't actually know who made this?" Thea shot me a look.
"Well…" Shame crept in. "Not officially."
"Well then. Who do you think carved it?" she pressed.
As if the red dragon of Wales weren't enough, I spotted a small plaque — a bluebird set into a shield shape. Cardiff City's badge, in all its glory.
"My Grandad," I said. "I always wondered what all that noise in the garden shed was about. I just never imagined… this."
"You live here," Thea said, appalled.
"He's… secretive. I think. And I tend to my own business."
Her incredulous look made the embarrassment deepen even more. Perhaps even more than when I'd run into the kitchen in my pants. The clues had been there if I'd bothered to notice. A wooden carving of a Welsh Cob stood on a slate base in the dining room display. I'd once asked what breed it was and never once considered that Grandad had made it himself. Speaking of slate.
"I think the stone ones are slate. He must've replaced the plaques outside too. I never questioned it, thought the council handled that. Wales is famous for their slate and coal — or used to be."
The quiet thrill of figuring out things for myself was almost as nice as receiving revelations these days. It was as if I could finally live in the present rather than the mix of the past and future. Satisfaction was quickly overtaken by shame as Thea continued to stare. Distraction it was.
"Look — that's Willie." I pointed to a fox so perfectly carved it looked soft enough to pet.
"You've got a pet fox?" she asked, delighted.
"No, just one that comes into the garden. We feed him sometimes. He's called Willie because — never mind."
She didn't need to know the explanation and I think I'll just sound weird for explaining how this particular fox really liked to lick its own willy. Whenever Grandad and I saw it, we would ask "Will he?" and of course he always did. It didn't help that Grandad called it that to annoy me, being named Wilfred wasn't fun, children weren't the kindest sort.
"And these?" Thea pointed to three stone figures.
One was a bearded man seated on a low stool, heavy boots planted firmly. A hammer rested on his lap, a pickaxe at his side which he used to prop himself up. The second was clean-shaven, standing tall, chest puffed, as though William had come to conquer all of England. The third was the largest — carved from a solid block, one side left intact, showing a man drilling into rock in profile.
My eyes watered as I realised who all these men were.
"That's Elis," I said, pointing. "Big man with a big heart. And as you can see, he had a spectacular beard."
"This one's Noah. Shortest of the three. Chip on his shoulder, troublemaker too. Funniest, if I remember it right."
The last figure made my throat tighten. He'd died right before I was born. I hadn't even met his grandchildren yet. My extended family came around to London often enough but not his children.
"And that's John Price. Second youngest of the Price brothers. A miner. Fastest driller in the Sirhowy Valley. Best brother Grandad ever had — though he likes to say that's only because John lived the long enough to catch up to Elis."
A faint smile crept in despite myself. His figurine had the most detail out of the three, time had eroded Clive Price's memories and this one felt more lifelike as a result.
"We should leave it," Thea said gently.
"Yeah. I didn't expect any of this. I knew Nain enjoyed writing from time to time in her secret journal. But Grandad never showed these to anyone."
"Come on," she said, taking my elbow.
"To the second floor!" I slipped out of her grasp and bolted. "Last one up's a fat pig."
I reached the top in seconds — but couldn't celebrate, as Thea hadn't even bothered to run.
"That's horrible. You should be ashamed."
"God. What happened to the mean girl? No trading banter? Losing your edge?" I teased.
"That was —" She looked away. "It was a character. I'm sorry if I was rude then."
I stared. An actual apology from that pursed lips.
She'd been softer all morning. I'd just been too embarrassed to notice. It was still a whiplash trying to reconcile this girl with the one I'd gotten used to during filming.
"Huh. I keep confusing you with her." I held out a hand. "How about we start over? I'm Wilfred. Wilf, if you like."
"Dorothea. Thea," she said, smiling.
"Nice to meet you. Welcome to the second floor — also known as Wilfension… actually no, that sounds like pension. This is my floor. Wilf's Wings… That should do for now," I said, gesturing ahead. "That's my terrace."
I opened the doors onto a small terrace with a garden table and two chairs that had apparently been there long before we ever moved in. The theatre that I'd rehearsed for Dolittle was visible from here.
"It smells like an ashtray out here," Thea said, pulling a face.
Our eyes couldn't help but notice the flower pot by the corner which was filled with cigarette butts.
"Probably the last tenants. I don't really come out here," I shrugged.
"You keep saying this is your floor," she said. "Do you actually live up here?"
With a sigh, I dragged her away from the terrace and towards my rooms — plural. I had two of them, though both were tiny, like every other room in this house. The top floor lost most of its space to the terrace and the rest was divided in two which made it one of the smallest rooms in here.
"This is my study."
"There's nothing in here except a desk," she went up to open the drawers, finding it empty. "Nothing in it too."
"Exactly. Nothing to study. No homework when you're tutored on set." I grinned.
She glanced back at the terrace through the window, then opened the door leading into my bathroom. That, in truth, was the room's main purpose. I only came in here to do my business. I really should have called it the business room. If I ever gave a house tour again, I'd definitely use that.
"That is my bedroom," I said quickly, turning towards the stairs.
She stopped me.
"You're not going to show me your room?"
"It's messy in there."
"That's fine. Mine is too. We're still packing."
"Er — there's a wasp nest in there. Best leave it alone."
"How do you sleep in there, then?" she asked, unmoved.
"They know me. I'm not charging them rent," I insisted.
"I'm not stupid."
She marched off towards my room. I was already on the stairs and couldn't stop her. Somehow, I managed to get there first and block her view as she opened the door.
"Alright. Fine. But don't be judgy."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise." She fluttered her eyelashes.
"What was that?"
"What was what?"
"That thing you just did with your eyes."
"It's called blinking," she said deadpan, some of the Estella was still in there.
"Right…" I narrowed my eyes in suspicion, then stepped aside and let her in.
My bedroom was essentially a smaller copy of my grandparents' room downstairs. Theirs was one large space — mine had been split into two uneven parts. Even so, it always felt enormous to me.
"That's a massive mirror," she said, impressed.
It was. Grandad had it installed between two large windows, full length wide thing. I'd spent hours pulling faces in it, practising expressions. The neighbours probably thought I was the neighbourhood special kid.
"I practise acting. Sometimes dancing. Though you can't move much in here with the bed, but I've truly mastered spotting right here," I said, proud.
Her attention shifted to the other obvious feature — an open bookcase embedded into the wall with an old-fashioned writing desk beneath it. Unlike my unused study, this table was covered in papers. I believe it was called a Davenport desk and like many things in here, this furniture was probably as old as the house.
Thea's eyes checked over the books that I'd collected over the last year.
"Have you read all of these?" she asked, then squealed, "You read Harry Potter?"
"Obviously. Every kid in Britain has," I said, rolling my eyes.
"It's so good. The next one comes out in July." She reached for it.
"Nope." I shook my head. "See the glass? The cover cloth's fallen off or you wouldn't have seen it. And, it's not for reading."
"Why buy a book if you're not going to read it?"
Wow, she really asked a lot of questions, didn't she? I was starting to get irritated. Though most of the irritation came from my protectiveness about these books.
"They're genuine first editions, first prints too. I've got two. Only five hundred were ever made. I'm keeping them to get signed. The case is for protection."
I lifted the velvet bag that came with my tap shoes, draped over the glass to keep the sunlight off — a makeshift sun cover. My precious couldn't be tainted even by the sun. Ward off the evil, velvet underground.
"Why was the cover down there if you don't read it?"
"It probably fell. Seismic activity. Micro-earthquakes. Subsidence. Take your pick."
"Subsidence? What does that even mean?" Thea's confused face was a lot better to look at than her Estella face.
Sometimes I liked to take off the cover and gaze in contentment at my first editions. People said money never grew on trees but these books were once a tree and as the earth turned, the value of it only kept increasing. If that was an odd thing to do, I couldn't feel any shame at it. Though I would never admit that I sometimes did that.
One day, I'd get them signed by the author. One day.
"Anything else catch your eye?"
Her gaze drifted sideways, then the column below. She shook her head.
"Half of these aren't even in English."
"I like to practise languages by reading. It almost feels like you're not practising at all."
"Oh. Which languages?"
I was fully prepared to demonstrate my clear and undeniable linguistic superiority. Normally this is where Estella Havisham would attempt to outdo me immediately — probably in three more languages and a dead language for good measure.
But this wasn't that.
Instead, she just… looked impressed. Properly impressed. Like I'd just performed open-heart surgery with some duct tape and a teabag. And proud too, which was frankly unsettling. What bothered me most was that I liked it. The praise, I mean. Coming from her, of all people.
It was strange seeing this version of her — the real one, apparently.
"And those?" she asked, pointing to the mess on the table.
I sighed.
"They're scripts. Things I've done or might do. Mostly sides though because productions only send the script once you book the role. I read them and work on characters using the mirror here."
"Who's Billy?" she asked, nodding at the handwritten page that stood out from the rest.
"It's an audition for a film called Dancer. I went to Newcastle last Sunday. The scripts aren't out yet, so I wrote the sides from memory so I can practise."
It wasn't even a lie. The script was different from the film I knew. Even the audition scene wasn't the same anymore. The worry I'd been trying to ignore flooded back. Nearly a week had passed. No call. Filming started late August. Surely they'd have been in touch by now if they wanted to have some cushion.
"Wilf," Thea said gently. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Just nervous. This is the one. If I get it, I'm the lead for the first time. On screen almost the whole time. It's about dancing too, the story really speaks to me."
The words spilled out. Talking to this Dorothea felt really easy. No more judgements or snipes.
"It's only been a week," she said. "I'm sure you'll hear back."
"I sure hope so," I said, with none of her enthusiasm. "Anything else?"
"Well…" she hesitated. "Why is there a basin in your bedroom?"
I'd been hoping that she'd not mention that. I made to look confused. Then my face displayed a dawning realisation.
"Don't tell me you don't have a basin in your room," I said.
She pulled a face. "No. Because that's weird."
"Be serious," I waved her off. "And you call yourself English."
"That's a freestanding basin just by itself… Hey — wait up."
I led her down, down and down. To my very favourite place in the entire house. The room that I spent most of my waking day in. The place where I'd stashed my most prized possession.
The terraced houses in this area — and most like them — had been built by digging only halfway down to form a basement, then raising the road level with the freshly unearthed dirt. It meant you got a full-sized lower floor without all the effort of digging it properly. A time before machinery and the ingenuity it required — imagine that. We called it the lower ground floor, but really, it was a basement.
Oddly, this level also had our tiny garden. Set below rest of the earth around it. Many Americans would probably find that baffling — I had, and I was meant to be English. London simply developed differently as did some of the bigger cities. People used whatever space they could get and when one couldn't build wide, they had to build vertically.
"Front or back?" I asked, already drifting towards the front.
"Front… I suppose," Thea said, sounding unsure because it wasn't really a choice.
"Excellent choice. Welcome to the cinema." I pivoted and swept an arm grandly towards the doorway.
"This is not a cinema," she said flatly when she'd entered.
"Don't be so posh. It's a cinema to me, and if it works for me, it works for anyone."
Inside was a squat little room with a large sofa and an enormous television — a proper chunky 32-inch widescreen CRT. The VHS players sat beside the DVD player like honoured relics. Though in this house, they were being put to a lot of use.
"It's odd keeping all this down here," Thea said, glancing around. "What if it floods?"
"Not you as well. Nain says that all the time. Grandad and I explained about the slope. We're not even in the flood zone… except in the tidal zone."
"What was that?" Dorothea asked because I'd muttered the last part.
I pointed towards the lightwell and probably the most luxurious part of the property.
"You like the fountain?"
A small Roman-style drinking fountain stood there, wedged neatly against the wall. Barely anything grew in there but I liked how a vine had somehow found life there from the water that dripped from the tiny fountain sometimes. I always loved the look of a stone wrapped in green leaves, the moss and even the coppery look that it got from the algae.
"It looks rather sad," she said. "No one can even use it. You'd break a leg trying to get in or get impaled."
She was looking up to the lightwell where the road lay. Terraced houses in London always had these fences around it, but unlike Thea's suggestion they served the purpose of safekeeping. Guard rails so that drunks wouldn't fall six feet down.
"But it looks brilliant. Like a museum piece." I waggled my eyebrows.
She just shook her head, deeply unimpressed. Her shaking head must've let her see our collection because she was suddenly impressed. I couldn't help but feel the pride for all the stuff I'd purchased over time. I'd been paid well, especially for the last five months I'd been Tommy Stubbins. We'd found the bookcases out on the side of a road and made proper use of them. The glass was removed and I'd given them a good wipe down. Now they housed the collective accomplishment and shame of humanity's love with the silver screen.
I kept a strict review system. The left one was for all the ones I'd not seen yet, every time I put one away, two seemed to pop in its place. To be great at something, I needed to know what I was competing against and learn all the good and the bad. The right bookcase, converted into a shelf, was all the ones I'd watched. At first, I'd used a system that my grandparents and I'd developed back in the day. This was the headquarters of the Price's House of Critics. The best ones were put at the top, perfect ratings, some absolute classics were in there but it was the thinnest shelf so far.
The shelves below had stickers that I'd placed to denote their ratings because there were just too many around the middle. The very bottom was for the terrible films, someday I would have to get rid of them except for a few that were genuinely hilarious in how bad they were or educational in what not to do.
Regardless, this represented almost all the films I'd seen over the last year. All purchased with my own hard work for the purpose of improving my craft further. If that came with the side benefit of entertainment, no one could really fault me.
"Working-class boy… Far out. Have you seen all of these?"
"I did work for all of them." I said even more proud than before.
I proceeded to explain everything and how I'd eventually even changed the right-hand bookcase so that it was strictly just my rating. Nain and Grandad still gave me their opinions but arguing about the final number was causing too much tension to be truly worth the trouble.
"What's your favourite film ever?"
"It's actually not in the top row." My fingers slid over all the covers before coming to a stop. "Withnail and I, 1987. It's about struggling actors who go on a vacation."
"Sounds interesting. Who's in it?"
"Also very relevant to us as actors. Richard Griffiths plays a supporting role and Paul McGann, if you know him, is the lead. It's a comedy and it's just so hilarious. Best Richard Griffiths role ever."
Mr Dursley's actor as an eccentric and very touchy gay uncle? Absolutely hilarious and probably his crowning achievement. The film must've been made on bootstraps and a few pennies compared to the big-budget ones but it really showcased how good a film that a passionate group of people could make.
"Can you lend it to me then? I want to learn more about the acting world. They must show the real hardships."
"Well… It's not really about acting, they're just actors but the whole thing is about their vacation and directionless life that they're living. I don't think you're old enough to watch it though."
"You're younger than me." She pointed out the obvious.
"Yeah but I'm more mature than you."
"Give it." She held out a hand.
"Okay." I cracked immediately. "But you have to ask your Mum first. It features drugs and excessive drinking. I'm not sure if she'll let you see it."
Thea stared at me until I'd handed it to her. M-15 rating for swear words and drug references. I was fairly sure Maria would reject her watching the film, so I didn't bother putting on a fight. Let someone else be the villain for once.
"Any picks from the top pile?"
So many good films were in there. Shawshank Redemption, Ben Hur, Lawrence of Arabia, early technicolour films that changed the industry, all the Kubrick greats, some new directors who were taking the world by storm like Quentin Tarantino or Paul Thomas Anderson. Oddly some of the best directors had some entries in the bottom shelves too. But being the best picture wasn't the same as the best story and even that wasn't the best one to watch. Regardless, I already had better films in my revelations from some of them so I couldn't even choose one to show her. One of them was a famous actor who'd just started their directorial career.
"I couldn't choose even if I wanted to." Truth.
Thea took my answer easily enough.
"It's really cosy in here."
"Yes. But it's got nothing on the next room."
She followed after me holding her borrowed VHS tape with a curious expression. This time I didn't dip down to sweep her inside the room. I watched her expression carefully. Her mouth opened as the door did. Eyes widened even as the sunbeams hit her pupils. She crept in with slow careful steps as her neck extended to almost see directly up. The room was a paradise for hoarders and hell for anyone else.
This was the furnace of chaos.