Secrets

If walls could talk, what would we tell you.

We would tell you that walls are forever. Walls are immutable. We divide communities, keeping people apart. We keep people safe, holding up the roof and giving shelter from storms. We are famous – everyone has heard of the Wailing Wall, the Berlin Wall, the Walled City of Jericho, the Great Wall of China. From time immemorial we have kept out invaders, kept your animals safe from predators, kept those people you deem a threat - whether through their crimes, their beliefs or your prejudices - apart from society. We protect your wealth and privilege, making those inside feel secure and those outside feel rejected and unworthy. When we fall, we cause devastation and despair. When we stand, we are praised for our strength and endurance. And we keep your secrets.

What you don’t know, though, is that your secrets hurt us. When you have to repoint a wall, or replace mortar, or fill in a hole, or repair a brick, it’s not due to wear and tear. Weather doesn’t harm us much – we are waterproof, and as long as our foundations are good we should be able to withstand wind. Cold doesn’t bother us, and heat feels good. We like rodents, their holes just tickle. Moss is like hair, it keeps us warm and we don’t notice it once it has grown. Obviously if a car drives into us we might fall down, but then again wouldn’t you?

Secrets, though, they burrow inside you. They go deep, deeper than you would think possible. So deep that you forget about them until they start to worm their way out again. But the thing is, they never come out the way they went in. Maybe they come out in a different direction, digging holes to make their way to freedom. Maybe they grew when inside you, so the initial hole grows bigger and causes more damage. Maybe the damage came from you fighting to get the secret out, knowing the suffering caused by keeping the secret. Maybe you never forgot they were there, but fought so hard to keep them inside as the damage they would cause if you were to let them free would be insurmountable to those on the outside. Instead you keep the secret inside you, digging away and hollowing you out.

I have sheltered four families in my current incarnation. Oh sure, in the past some of my stones were used to keep sheep in their field. Others were stepping stones helping children cross the river. The timber in my joists came from an ancient oak tree that gave shelter to countless nameless people over the centuries, letting them whisper their stories and carve their love into its bark. The experiences of the lovers, the animals, the children, all worked their way into the materials, making it stronger. I am full of the gratitude of the children who could cross safely, of the security of the sheep who did not get lost, of the lovers who could share their happiness. And they are good things to base a house upon. A house is not a home without security, without gratitude, without love and happiness. They make me stronger.

Paul and Diane were my first family. They were newly weds with a baby on the way, and were overjoyed to have a house. A new home for a new life. I loved watching their love for each other and their delight in their growing family, as one child became two then three. I knew all of the children’s secrets. They told of their friendships and feuds. I knew their crushes and worries, their hopes and dreams. I tried to share with them my own abilities. The wisdom of the stepping stones, that the river stops for nobody but we can always find ways to get through any obstacle. The security of the stone wall, keeping danger at bay. And the strength of the oak tree, standing strong through calm and storm. I like to think that I helped them grow and become the wonderful, successful adults they are now. I sometimes see them pass by and they always give a little nod of thanks to the first home they knew.

Meanwhile their parents went from strength to strength. I saw their giddy excitement at planning surprises for each other, and believe me if walls could giggle I certainly would have at some of their antics. Seriously, they were adults behaving like teenagers with their first crush. The boxes of chocolates, the bunches of flowers, jewellery, favourite dinners. They never stopped trying to find a way to make the other one happy. I’m sure they would be very glad that walls don’t talk, because I witnessed their love and passion for one another. Under their watch, my walls provided warmth and safety, where family meant love and happiness. I absorbed this, and I hope I was able to share it with them. Strangely enough, I was happy to see them move on. The children were growing and needed more space than I could offer. I knew they would be happy wherever they went and would spread that joy around them. I could only hope I had taken in enough to share with my new family.

Family number two was a completely different experience. Charlie was a horrible man. Abusive to his lovely wife Anne and a bully to his children. Like them, I learned to read his moods, to know when he was going to explode and attack one of them. He hated mess and would fly into a rage if anything was slightly out of place. A crumb on the floor was evidence that poor Anne had done nothing all day and deserved the beating he gave her. I hated watching it. It is so difficult for walls to actually do something, to be more than a passive observer. So I encouraged the rodents in the walls, let them burrow into me if they would help tidy up and make sure there was no mess on the floor. Once again I shared my strength and endurance, and helped them be brave enough to do the necessary.

It seemed to work. For a few weeks there were no rages and no beatings. Anne even seemed to be happy sometimes and the children began to grow bolder. I hoped my strength was getting through and helping them. Their connection developed and improved, and whenever their father was not at home they were happy. Once again love and laughter filled the house and seeped into my stones.

It couldn’t last. Charlie came home from work in a mood. I could see the aggression in the way he drove up the street, hear it in the screech of the brakes and slam of the door. I wanted to let them know he was coming but they didn’t recognise my warnings. He barged into the house and caught Anne and the children at play. His fury was spectacular. He raged at his wife and children, accusing them of making a mockery of him, of laughing at him behind his back, of taking his money and doing nothing to deserve it. He turned to pick up a cushion and it was the one hiding the mice. Which of course made things a thousand times worse. He began to beat his wife, while the children tried their best to shield their mother. It was worse than ever before. I wanted to help, I wanted so badly to do something to stop his rage. But walls cannot move. I tried to turn down the heat, make the room colder and freeze the rage out of him. Maybe, given time, it would have worked. Instead the eldest son got in the way of his father laying hands on his mother. The shove sent him into the marble fireplace.

The sound of his head meeting the marble will never leave me, nor will the silence that followed. I’ve heard people say that time stood still. I have seen centuries pass, but never before had I realised how long a second could be. Charlie recovered first, checking on his son. He told Anne there was no point in calling an ambulance, he was already gone. He told her to tidy up, that the authorities would need space to work, and would need to understand that the boy had fallen accidentally.

I wanted to rage at him. I wanted to do something, anything, to help. I wanted to fall apart, to fall on top of Charlie and make him hurt as he had hurt his child. But I couldn’t. I was too well built. I couldn’t fall apart, and instead had to stand and give security to this evil man.

Maybe it was my fault. Maybe if I hadn’t tried to meddle then he wouldn’t have gotten so angry. The beatings and bullying would have continued but his fury and aggression would not have built up to such an explosive rage. Maybe I could have done something differently and saved the child.

The family left and the house lay empty. I never found out what happened to them, if Charlie paid for his sins or if Anne ever escaped. I was glad that nobody moved in. I had no idea how to move on from this. Had I absorbed the aggression and fear that permeated this family’s tenure within my walls? If I could provide strength and love to one family, why could I not do the same to another? And was I destined to pass Charlie’s evil along to the next family. A year passed. Locals walked quickly when they had to pass me, refusing to look up at me. I felt cursed, and heard the thought echoed by many others when passing. How could I fix this.

One day it happened. I gained a new tenant. A single man this time. I was glad, because at least if he was on his own then he would have no opportunity to hurt a wife and children. And I resolved to be a passive observer, perhaps as I always should have been. I would watch and remember, but would not try to intervene. I would keep his secrets inside me, and refuse to ever let them out.

His name was James and he had recently moved here. He had lost everything in the earthquake in his home country; his family, his home, his career. He was starting again with nothing. I could feel his sadness as it seeped into my cracks and crevices. I couldn’t understand what he said as I didn’t understand his language, but I understood his emotion. The urge to help, to somehow fix his sorrow and make him happy, built up again, but I knew I couldn’t. My “help” had caused so much suffering in the past that I couldn’t risk it again. All I could do was watch and absorb his pain.

Years went by. I learned to understand James’ language and listened as he spoke of his life. He told me of his late wife and family, of his career back home and the destruction caused by the earthquake. How I wished that I could laugh at some of the stories he told of his home. He sounded so happy, making the grief of today more devastating. I listened as he told me his secrets and watched as he struggled to make a new life for himself. He got a new job and gradually found friends and hobbies, but still was lonely. I think he missed talking to his wife and sharing details of their day with one another. It’s the only reason I can come up with for why he would ask me about my day. All I could do was listen to him talk, and listen to his awful singing in the shower.

One day a sign was nailed to my wall. I couldn’t see what it said but suddenly there were lots of people coming through the door, discussing the house and the state of it. From eavesdropping on James’ conversations on the phone, his landlord had decided to sell up and James was going to have to move out. I was devastated for him. He had already lost one home, and now someone else was taking the home he had made here from him. But once again I could do nothing but observe.

It was an awful experience. Can you imagine how hard it is to have people talking about you day in and day out? Coming in, talking about the work that they would need to do, and how I had been neglected and unloved. I wanted to scream at them, telling them how unfair they were being and that I knew what it meant to be loved. But that was impossible. All I could do was stand there and take in their comments of my appearance, my quality, my workmanship. It hurt.

From James’ conversations on the phone I understood that I had been sold. The buyer was someone local and James was going to need to go. I watched as he filled boxes and bags, crying and laughing with him as he relived memories and experiences. I listened as he told me again of his life and his loves, and for the first time I heard of his plans for the future. He was to return to his home country and rebuild his life there. I was heartbroken to think that he felt his new life here was not strong enough to continue, and devastated that I had failed in my job as a wall to provide security as he was once again losing his home.

Today I met my new owner. She and her three children came in just as James was taking the last few boxes to the car. With a beaming smile he handed over a beautiful plant to welcome her home. And I listened, absolutely stunned, as he told her that this is a happy home. He told her of how he came at the lowest point of his life, with nothing to show for his life so far and nothing to look forward to in the future. But in this home he had felt safe and secure. He knew that I was strong and that I could provide the haven he needed while he rebuilt his life. I had listened to him and kept his secrets, and given him the strength to think of going back home and helping others. He wasn’t going home a failure, but rather was hoping to pass on the warmth, love and strength he had gained here to those who needed it. He hoped she would be as happy here as he had been, and to remember that walls make good listeners.

Then with a gentle pat on my lintel and a whispered “thank you”, James left for his new life.