The Staircase

The smell of lavender wax hung in the air. The servants had polished the railing and the steps of the staircase into gleaming perfection. The carved columns of the railing shone with the loving attention bestowed on them, the steps glistened with the depth of several layers of wax. It was a wonderful piece of carpentry, he reflected, winding gracefully up to the next floor, an elegant curve teased out of the wood, the columns turned just so, with taste and a cunning hand.

It was an old staircase, it had seen generations of people walk up and down; seen their first ventures on all four, their first wobbly steps, the trampling of young schoolboys off to their first hunt with their fathers, the sweeping of young women in their finest dresses, hearts pounding at the prospect of seeing their lovers, the impatiently hurrying feet of young husbands, eager for their brides, the slowed down tread of matrons in mourning, the three legged struggle of the old and infirm, and that last leaving, the pallbearers walking sedately, carrying down the coffin.

He set a foot onto the first step, wriggling it around. It moved with ease on the shiny steps. Only yesterday had he remarked to his wife, “Those steps are dangerous. There should be a carpet on them. How easily could someone slip on it and have an ugly accident”.

She had laughed and patted his knee. “It would be a shame to hide the wood. And a carpet is so difficult to keep clean. The staff would rightly complain about the additional work it would cause.”

He had left it at that.

At the top of the staircase he could hear shuffling steps. Above the railing the grizzled head of his father appeared.

“There you are. I've been waiting for you. Have you prepared everything?”

“Yes, Father. Everything is ready. The documents are in the library. Mr Trevelyan should be here shortly.”

“Very well. I know, you are not happy with my decision, but considering the financial problems I think my decision is for the best. The house has to be sold.” The grizzled head began to move towards the stairs. The son went back into the library. On the long oak table was a tray with a decanter and several glasses, and a briefcase. He opened the briefcase and took out the document that would rob him and his family of their home.

Out in the hall he could hear the tapping of the stick his father used these days. It had been a long time before he finally conceded to use it. His proud spirit accepted only slowly that his body was giving out on him. He would use it, but only because holding on to the furniture or other people was even more loathsome to him.

The son looked back at the document and his throat tightened. Losing the house was worse for him than losing the business. He had grown up in it, his past was intimately linked to it. His father couldn't understand that he preferred the house to the business. And he had never really understood or forgiven his son's indifference towards the business he had built up.

The son laid the document back onto the table and sighed.

There was a sudden, dreadful clatter out in the hall, a shout and then a terrible thumping noise. It seemed to go on forever.

“Father!”The son ran out into the hall. At the foot of the stairs his father lay in a crumbled heap. A dark stain slowly spread across his grey hair. The son hurried over and touched the side of the throat. The skin under his probing fingers was silent, not even the flutter of a pulse. A servant came running into the hall.

“Run for the doctor. Quick!” The servant dashed off. The son hurried up the slippery stairs, while alarmed and questioning calls echoed through the big house. He unwound the trip wire and pushed it into his pockets before returning to his father's silent form.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I couldn't allow you to sell the house.”