Books In The Attic, A Sleep Story

Welcome to this little sleepy story about finding books in the attic.

I'm Francesca,

You can call me Fran if you like,

And I'm so glad to have you here.

Let's start with a little wind down and then get right into the story.

I want you to start with a nice deep breath.

And then just take your breathing back to normal.

Now wiggle your fingers and toes.

And then I want you to tense all your muscles in your arms and legs.

Not until it hurts,

But until you can feel the tightness and tension.

And then just let go.

Doesn't that contrast feel lovely?

Now settle into your bed or chair or hammock,

Wherever you're getting cosy,

To fall asleep.

And let's begin.

You lean the trusty old ladder up against the ledge of the attic hatch.

We call it a loft in the UK,

By the way,

But for the purpose of the story I'm going to call it an attic.

And test it for its sturdiness on the landing floor.

You've got to go up there at some point and clear some space,

Ready for the roof work,

So it may as well be today,

While you have some free time.

Lantern in hand,

You ascend the steps,

One by one,

And rest the light on one of the higher steps that you haven't reached yet.

With a free hand,

You push the hatch lid off and into the attic,

Which sends a little plume of dust along down with the rush of warm air.

Taking a quick peek,

You continue up the steps,

Now with your lantern in your hand,

Ready to hook onto the nail sticking out of one of the nearby beams that the previous owner must have hammered in for that exact purpose many years ago.

The old bulb casts a warm,

Soft glow over all of the bags and boxes piled high in your attic.

It's a bit messier than you remember,

But that's what attics are for,

Aren't they?

You think back and you can't really remember anyone having a perfect looking attic.

It's comfortably messy though,

You don't mind.

And that smell,

The dusty,

Warm scent of familiar belongings that haven't been moved around much,

Gives you that content feeling.

Getting your footing on the supporting joists,

You take a look around you.

Here's where everything you've ever collected rests,

Ready to be picked through when you need that old camping gear or Christmas decorations at the end of the year.

You can spot the tree,

The tinsel and the baubles in their marked boxes.

You still can't believe it all fits inside that old soundbar packaging you saved.

There are suitcases filled with boxes that you can't bear to part with,

Bin bags of old clothes,

And of course,

Piles of your old childhood toys.

You told yourself that at some point,

When you make the time,

You'll hang some shelves and arrange your old favourites on them to display.

You smile at the idea of bringing all that nostalgia down into the rest of your house to enjoy looking at.

For now,

You know you need to focus on clearing some of it out of the way,

So that when the workers come to repair that little spot on the roof,

They'll have room to move about.

There's no windows up here like some of the bigger,

Older houses,

So you'll have to rely on the light from your lantern to organise the mess into piles.

You decide that it makes most sense to move some of the smaller items out of the way,

Into the deeper parts of the attic,

And then take down boxes and bags that are closest to the hatch first to clear a little path.

You set to work,

Shifting piles of old magazines,

Tubs of Lego,

Clothes packed into vacuum-sealed bags,

And boxes of random cables,

Until there's a bit more room to move about.

It doesn't take long,

And the warm attic isn't stifling like you anticipated.

It's a comforting sort of warmth,

A contrast to the sharp air of early spring outside.

You're getting close to the spot where the repairs need doing now,

And this is where a lot of your childhood belongings are stored.

You catch your breath for a moment,

And kneel down to get a closer look at everything.

You run your hand over the tattered cardboard,

Reading the labels school written on one,

Toys on another,

And one that doesn't have anything written on it at all.

You can't help but let your curiosity get the better of you,

And tear off the sticky tape holding the unmarked box shut.

It's a bit tricky,

Considering its age,

And the fact it's been taped over several times,

By the looks of things.

You pick at the edges and finally get it open.

It looks like loads of old books stacked up in a pile,

And some filling the spare spaces around it.

Your old books!

You treasured these as a little kid,

Remembering how proudly you organised them on your little bookshelf in your bedroom.

You can instantly smell that old book smell,

Like the scent of the old second-hand bookshop in town.

Sort of a dusty,

Decay smell,

But a pleasant one,

Not damp.

You start picking up each title,

Turning them over to marvel at the old cover designs.

Some have cheerful printed images,

Faded with time.

Others have leather covers and gold writing.

You leaf through your old favourites,

The pretty illustrations and passages instantly taking you back to your younger years,

When you'd sit on your beanbag chair,

Surrounded by teddy bears,

Reading until bedtime.

And of course,

There were the books you read as you reached your teenage years,

Too.

The novels with dog-eared corners,

And spellbooks with some of the corners folded down to mark the important parts.

A box filled with memories from different points in your life.

As you reach the very bottom of the box,

A thin,

Fabric-bound book catches your eye,

And you pull it out.

You don't remember owning it.

It looks like the oldest book in the box by far.

Perhaps it was one of your gran's old books,

Mixed in with yours.

The olive green cover is a little worn at the edges,

But you can still make out the navy and emerald painting of a mermaid on the front,

With the words,

Intrigued,

You pull a moving blanket onto the floor to make a comfy spot to sit.

And in the dim but comfy glow of the lantern,

You open the cover and begin to leaf through the yellowed pages.

The binding is a little fragile,

So you take care not to detach the pages from the threads.

The first story you settle on is called,

Mr Possum lived in a tree in the woods,

Where Mr Bear lived.

And one morning,

Just before spring,

Mr Possum awoke very hungry.

He ran around to Mr Squirrel's house and tried to get an invitation to breakfast,

But Mr Squirrel had only enough for himself.

He knew that Mr Possum always lived on his neighbours when he could,

So he said,

Of course you have been to breakfast long ago,

Mr Possum.

You are such a smart fellow,

So I will not offer you any.

Mr Possum of course said he had,

And that he only dropped in to make a call.

He was on his way to Mr Rabbit's house.

But he met with no better success at Mr Rabbit's,

For he only put his nose out of the door,

And when he saw who was there,

Said,

Will you come in and help sort seeds?

Mr Rabbit knew the easiest way to be rid of Mr Possum was to ask him to work.

I would gladly help you,

Replied Mr Possum,

But I am in a great hurry this morning.

I have some important business with Mr Bear and I only stopped to say how do you do.

Mr Bear,

I am afraid,

Will not be receiving today,

Said Mr Rabbit.

It is rather early for him to be up,

Isn't it?

I thought as the sun was nice and warm he might venture out,

And I thought it would please him to have me there to welcome him,

Said Mr Possum.

Besides that,

I wish to see him on business.

Now Mr Possum knew well enough that Mr Bear would not be up.

He wanted to find him sleeping and soundly too.

He went to the door and knocked softly.

Then he waited,

And as he did not hear any moving inside,

He went to a window and looked in.

There was Mr Bear's chair and pipe,

Just as he had left them when he went to bed.

He looked in the bedroom window and he could see in the bed a big heap of bedclothes,

And just the tiniest tip of Mr Bear's nose.

Mr Possum listened and he trembled a little for he could hear Mr Bear breathing very loud,

And it sounded anything but pleasant.

Oh,

He is sound asleep for another week,

Said Mr Possum.

What is the use of being afraid?

He walked around the house until he came to the pantry window.

Then he stopped and raised the sash.

He put in one foot and sat on the sill and listened.

All was still,

So he slid off to the floor.

Mr Possum looked around Mr Bear's well-filled pantry.

He did not know where to begin,

He was so hungry.

He became so interested and was so greedy that he forgot all about that he was in Mr Bear's pantry,

And he stayed on and on,

And ate and ate.

Then he fell asleep,

And the first thing he knew a pair of shining eyes were looking in the window,

And a big head with a red mouth full of long white teeth was poked into the pantry.

Mr Possum thought his time had come,

So he just closed his eyes and pretended he was dead,

But he peeked a little so as to see what happened.

The big head was followed by a body,

And when it was on the sill Mr Possum saw it was Mr Fox,

And the next thing he knew Mr Fox came off the sill with a bang and hit a pan of beans and then knocked over a jar of preserves.

The noise was enough to awaken all the bears for miles around,

And Mr Possum was frightened nearly to death for he heard Mr Bear growling in the next room.

While Mr Fox was on the floor and trying to get up on his feet,

Mr Possum jumped up and was out of the window like a flash.

Mr Fox saw something but he did not know what,

And before he could make his escape the door of the pantry opened,

And there stood Mr Bear with a candle in his hand looking in.

Oh ho!

He growled.

So you are trying to rob me while I'm taking my sleep!

And he sprang at Mr Fox.

Wait,

Wait,

Wait!

Said Mr Fox.

Let me explain my dear Mr Bear.

You are mistaken.

I was trying to protect your home.

I saw your window open and knew you were asleep,

And when I got in the window the thief attacked me and nearly killed me,

And now you are blaming me for it.

You are most ungrateful.

I shall know another time what to do.

Mr Bear looked at him.

His mouth did not show any signs of food,

And Mr Fox opened his mouth and told him to look.

I wonder who it could have been,

He said.

When he was satisfied that Mr Fox was not the thief,

It may have been that Possum fellow.

I'll go over to his house in the morning.

The next morning Mr Bear called on Mr Possum.

He found him sleeping soundly,

And when he at last opened the door,

He was rubbing his eyes as though he was not half awake.

Why,

How do you do?

He said when he saw Mr Bear.

I did not suppose you were up yet.

You didn't?

Asked Mr Bear,

And then he stared at Mr Possum's coat.

What's the matter with your coat?

He asked.

You have white hairs sticking out all over you,

And the rest of your coat is almost white too.

Now Mr Possum had a black coat before,

And he ran to the mirror and looked at himself.

It was true.

He was almost white.

He knew what had happened.

He was so frightened when he was caught in Mr Bear's pantry by Mr Fox,

And he heard Mr Bear growl,

That he had turned nearly white with fright.

I've been terribly ill,

He told Mr Bear going back to the door.

I've been here all alone this winter.

It was a terrible sickness.

I guess that is what has caused it.

Mr Bear went away shaking his head.

That fellow is crafty,

He said.

I feel sure he was the thief,

And yet he certainly does look sick.

After that,

All the opossums were of dull white colour,

With long white hairs scattered here and there over their fur.

They were never able to outgrow the mark the thieving Mr Possum left upon his race.

What a fun little story,

You think.

And then flick through the pages to land on another story,

To see if somehow it'll jog your memory of this book,

And up to this point,

You're pretty sure you've never read it before.

You land next on The Mirror's Dream,

And scan read the first line.

How fun that this should be the story of an old attic,

When I'm up here doing mine.

The Mirror's Dream The very idea of putting me in the attic,

Said the little old-fashioned table,

As it spread out both leaves in a gesture of despair.

I have stood in the parlour downstairs for fifty years,

And now I am consigned to the rubbish room.

And it dropped its leaves at its side with a sigh.

I was there longer than that,

Said the sofa.

Many a courtship I have helped along.

What do you think of me?

Asked an old mirror that stood on the floor,

Leaning against the wall.

To be brought to the attic after reflecting generation after generation.

All the famous beauties have looked into my face.

It is a degradation from which I can never recover.

This young mistress who has come here to live,

Does not seem to understand the dignity of our position.

Why,

I was in the family when her husband's grandmother was a girl,

And she has doomed me to a dusty attic,

To dream out the rest of my days.

The shadows deepened in the room,

And gradually the discarded mirror ceased to complain.

It had fallen asleep.

But later,

The moonlight streamed in through the window,

And showed that its dreams were pleasant ones,

For it dreamed of the old and happy days.

The door opened softly,

And a young girl entered.

Her hair was dark and hung in curls over her white shoulders.

Her dark eyes wandered over the room,

Until she saw the old mirror.

She ran across the room and stood in front of it.

She wore a hoop skirt over which hung her dress of pale grey,

With tiny pink ruffles that began at her slender waist,

And ended at the bottom of her wide skirt.

Tiny pink rosebuds were dotted over the waist and skirt,

And she also wore them in her dark curls,

Where one stray blossom,

Bolder than the others,

Rested against her soft cheek.

She stood before the mirror and gazed at her reflection a minute.

Then she curtsied and said with a laugh,

I think you will do,

He must speak tonight.

She seemed to fade away in the moonlight.

The door opened again,

And a lady entered,

And with her came five handsome children.

They went to the mirror,

And one little girl with dark curls and pink cheeks went close and touched it with her finger.

Look,

She said to the others,

I look just like the picture of mother when she was a girl.

And as they stood there,

A gentleman appeared beside them,

And put his arm around the lady,

And the children gathered around them.

They seemed to walk along the moonlight path and disappear through the window.

Softly the door opened again,

And an old lady entered,

Leaning on the arm of an old gentleman.

They walked to the mirror,

And he put his arms around her and kissed her withered cheek.

You are always young and fair to me,

He said,

And her face smiled into the depths of the old mirror.

The moonlight made a halo around their heads as they faded away.

The morning light streamed in through the window,

And the mirror's dream was ended.

By and by the door opened,

And a young girl came into the room.

Her dark hair was piled high on her head,

And her dark eyes looked over the room until they fell upon a chest in the corner.

She went to it and opened it and took out a pale grey dress with pink ruffles.

She put it on,

And she let down her hair,

Which fell in curls over her shoulders.

She ran to the old mirror and looked at herself.

I do look like grandmother,

She said.

I will wear this to the old folks' party tonight.

Grandfather proposed to grandmother the night she wore this dress.

Her cheeks turned very pink as she said this,

And she ran out of the room.

Then one day the door opened again,

And a bride entered,

Leaning on the arm of her young husband.

There were tears in her eyes,

Although she was smiling.

She led him in front of the old mirror.

This old mirror,

She said,

Has seen all the brides in our family for generations,

And I am going far away and may never look into it again.

My brother's wife does not want it downstairs,

And I may be the last bride it will ever see.

And she passed her hand over its frame caressingly.

And then she went away,

And the old mirror was left to its dreams for many years.

Then one day the door opened again,

And a lady entered.

With her was a young girl.

The lady looked around the attic room until she saw the mirror.

There it is,

She said.

Come and look in it,

Dear.

The young girl followed her.

The last time I looked into this dear old mirror,

The lady said,

Was the day your father and I were married.

I never expected to have it for my own then.

But your uncle's wife wants to remodel the house,

And these things are in the way.

She does not want old-fashioned things,

And they are willing I should have them.

Oh mother,

They are beautiful,

Said the girl,

Looking around the room.

We will never part with them.

We will take them to our home and make them forget they were ever discarded.

And so the mirror and the sofa and the table and many other pieces of bygone days went to live where they were loved.

And the old mirror still reflects dark-haired girls and ladies who smile into its depths and see its beauty as well as their own.

You sit for a moment,

Thinking again about all the stories the items around you hold.

What would have been the last thing they would have each heard or seen before being stored up here and having blankets thrown over them?

You sit in a bit of a daze for a few minutes,

Your mind drifting to this and that,

Before settling on one more story from the little olive-coloured book.

Once upon a time,

There was a little girl named Tearful,

Because she cried so often.

If she could not have her own way,

She cried.

If she could not have everything for which she wished,

She cried.

Her mother told her one day that she would melt away in tears if she cried so often.

You are like the boy who cried for the moon,

She told her,

And if it has been given to him it would have not made him happy,

For what possible use could the moon be to anyone out of its proper place?

And that is the way with you.

Half the things for which you cry would be of no use to you if you got them.

Tearful did not take warning or heed her mother's words of wisdom and kept on crying just the same.

One morning she was crying as she walked along to school,

Because she wanted to stay at home,

When she noticed a frog hopping along beside her.

Why are you following me?

She asked,

Looking at him through her tears.

Because you will soon form a pond around you with your tears,

Replied the frog,

And I have always wanted a pond all to myself.

I shall not make any pond for you,

Said Tearful,

And I do not want you following me either.

The frog continued to hop along beside her,

And Tearful stopped crying and began to run,

But the frog hopped faster and she could not get away from him,

So she began to cry again.

Go away,

You horrid green frog,

She said.

At last she was so tired she sat on a stone by the roadside,

Crying all the time.

Now,

Replied the frog,

I shall soon have my pond.

Tearful cried harder than ever.

Then she could not see,

Her tears fell so fast,

And by and by she heard a splashing sound.

She opened her eyes and saw water all around her.

She was on a small island in the middle of the pond.

The frog hopped out of the pond,

Making a terrible grimace as he sat down beside her.

I hope you are satisfied,

Said Tearful.

You have your pond,

Why don't you stay in it?

Alas,

Replied the frog,

I have wished for something which I cannot use now that I have it.

Your tears are salt,

And my pond which I have all by myself is so salty I cannot enjoy it.

If only your tears had been fresh,

I should have been a most fortunate fellow.

You needn't stay if you don't like it,

Said Tearful,

And you needn't find fault with my tears either,

She said,

Beginning to cry again.

Stop!

Stop!

Cried the frog,

Hopping about excitedly.

You will have a flood if you keep on crying.

Tearful saw the water rising around her,

So she stopped a minute.

What shall I do?

She asked.

I cannot swim,

And I will die if I have to stay here.

And then she began to cry again.

The frog hopped up and down in front of her,

Waving his front legs and telling her to hush.

If you would only stop crying,

He said,

I might be able to help you,

But I cannot do a thing if you cover me with your salt tears.

Tearful listened,

And promised she would not cry if he would get her away from the island.

There is only one way that I know of,

Said the frog.

You must smile.

That will dry the pond,

And we can escape.

But I do not feel like smiling,

Said Tearful,

And her eyes filled with tears again.

Look out,

Said the frog.

You will surely be drowned in your own tears if you cry again.

Tearful began to laugh.

That would be strange,

Wouldn't it,

To be drowned in my own tears,

She said.

That is right.

Keep on smiling,

Said the frog.

The pond is smaller already.

And he stood up on his hind legs and began to dance for joy.

Tearful laughed again.

Oh,

You are so funny,

She said.

I wish I had your picture.

I never saw a frog dance before.

You have a slate under your arm,

Said the frog.

Why don't you draw a picture of me?

The frog picked up a stick and stuck it in the ground.

And then he leaned on it with one arm,

Or front leg,

And crossing his feet he stood very still.

Tearful drew him in that position,

And then he kicked up his legs as if he were dancing.

And she tried to draw him that way,

But it was not a very good likeness.

Do you like that?

She asked the frog when she held the slate for him to see.

He looked so surprised that Tearful laughed again.

You did not think you were handsome,

Did you?

She asked.

I had never thought I looked as bad as those pictures,

Replied the frog.

Let me try drawing your picture,

He said.

Now look pleasant,

He said,

As he seated himself in front of Tearful,

And do smile.

Tearful did as he requested,

And in a few minutes he handed her the slate.

Where is my nose?

Asked Tearful laughing.

Oh,

I forgot the nose,

Said the frog,

But you don't think your eyes are nice and large,

And your mouth too?

They are certainly big in this picture,

Said Tearful.

I hope I do not look just like that.

I do not think either of us are artists,

Replied the frog.

Tearful looked around her.

Why,

Where is the pond?

She asked.

It's gone.

I thought it would dry up if you would only smile,

Said the frog.

And I think both of us have learned a lesson.

I shall never again wish for a pond of my own.

I should be lonely without my companions,

And then it might be salt just as this one was.

And you will surely never cry over little things again,

For you see what might happen to you.

I feel much happier smiling,

And I do not want to be on an island again,

Even with such a pleasant companion as you were.

Look out for the tears then,

Said the frog,

As he hopped away.

On that note,

You shut the book,

Thinking about what a funny little story about friendship that was.

You're sure you've never heard it before,

But it was very sweet and a nice message all the same.

In a bit of a daze,

You pop the book back in its box where you found it,

And close the flaps.

You figure time must be getting on,

And you were only supposed to be up here to clear a little space for when the repair people come.

Never mind,

You've done most of it now.

To finish the job,

You grab those boxes,

The ones labelled school,

Toys and the blank one that contains all your books,

And carefully bring them down from the attic,

One by one.

You're surprised that on descending the ladder,

It seems to be getting dark.

The bright sun is now low,

Casting warmer colours through the windows,

Like when logs in a fire have burned down to embers.

It's a cosy sort of light,

A light that makes you want to switch the lamps on in the house and start cooking something comforting for dinner,

Which,

You think,

It must be about time for.

Grabbing your lantern and shutting the hatch,

You come back down to the landing and down the stairs.

How dusty your clothes are,

What a perfect excuse to get into something more cosy.

Your dressing gown,

Perhaps,

And make a comfy spot on the sofa.

First,

You head to the kitchen,

Pull out some veggies from the cupboard under the drainer,

And begin chopping.

With a heavy pan on the heat,

You add a little bit of butter.

Fry off some onions and let the savoury smell mingle with the comforting,

Dusty smell of the attic that's on your clothes.

Crumble your plump orange cat.

Weaves between your legs as you prepare food,

Purring his joy at having some company after a day on the sofa,

Fast asleep.

You'll pop some biscuits in his bowl after.

In a few moments,

You've added the celery,

The leeks,

Peas,

Mushrooms,

Carrots and potatoes to the pot,

Along with some stock.

Your stomach rumbles loudly.

After all,

You've been upstairs for a long while.

With a twist of a bunch of dried herbs you grew yourself,

Add it in for good measure.

You pop a lid on the pot and turn it down to a simmer.

You take a moment to appreciate the fact that you got what you needed done in the attic.

Dinner's smelling moorish already,

And you're off to have a nice hot shower while it simmers down into a thick gravy and soft,

Sweet veggies.

You should feel proud of that.

Plus,

You indulged in some forgotten childhood tales too.

Bickies in the cat bowl satisfy Crumble as he trots straight to it at the tinkle of the kibble hitting the ceramic.

And now all you have to do is get comfy and relax with your meal,

After you've washed the attic smell and dust away.

What a perfectly contented end.

To a productive day.

The End