Usually fully shut off from the world, today the blind slightly raised brought with it a golden glow, enhancing the treasures held within.

A small step down as I slowly pulled the roller door across as silently as possible so as not to disturb the peace above and below. Because this room was ‘off limits’, a sanctity, a haven, only meant for one person.

But I slept I the adjoining room and the hidden secrets, books and records were just too tempting for this inquisitive little girl. If I was quiet, quiet as a little mouse, full of stealth, I could visit this forbidden cave of creativity, mystery and indulgence.

On the left of the door were rows and rows of little filing boxes, in columns of 10, each labelled in familiar pencilled script. Of course, in alphabetical order and full of ‘bits and bobs’ crucial to every day life. Buttons, envelopes, paper clips, tiny pencils, stamp mounts, stamps, stamps, and more stamps! Some waiting to be invited into a cherished album, some that would never gain that privileged status. Staples, typewriter ribbon, each drawer a delight of discovery, fascination and intrigue time and time again.

And then, in front of the back shelves, packed with historical papers, books and maps, there was the real prize, the true reason for crossing the forbidden boundary. The reason for the breaths held, the carefully placed squeaky floorboard avoidance manoeuvres and ears on full alert.

There on the desk, in all its glory, honoured by the deep red ‘spinny’ chair was… the typewriter.

Something so coveted by its owner I was only allowed to see while escorted and never allowed to touch unless under specific command.

Some of the letters on the keys were so worn you could only tell what they were when you pressed them and saw the evidence from type bar to paper.

The paper roller that clicked as it turned to load and move the intended parchment, the rest positioned to keep it in its rightful place. The ribbon, part used, the only visible evidence of what had been written before.

The joy of even just taking in that magnificent piece, made this all worth the nerves. And then there was the seat. Oh! The seat! Well worn, on wheels and a spinning base to make any corner, drawer or shelf accessible without having to leave its comfort. Three spins to the left, then three spins to the right to “unwind”. And then it was time to type, but so gently that not a sound could be heard in case it alerted anyone to the forbidden acts being carried out.

Holding my breath, my finger hovered over the keys. What to write. Maybe a letter of love for this man; stern, staunch and feverishly protective. A man of music, of history, of life experiences never to be asked about or uttered out loud. A man of love rarely demonstrated but always there to those who knew.

As always, no letter came from the heart, just my name, the typewriter keys in order and maybe a test to see what the shift key might deliver.

Holding my breath at the end of each line to pull on the return handle, covering the end to muffle the unmistakable ‘ding’.

Did I hear movement? Voices?

I crept over to the porthole window to have a look. The visitors were leaving. My time was up.

I had a few moments to remove my evidence, shut the opened drawers, and sneak back through the roller door.

Breath held, I turned the paper roller to remove my script, something to secrete under my pillow and look at that night by the light of my window and the roadside lights; delighting in my secret little journey into that mysterious and intriguing world.

Was that the front door shutting? I could hear my Grandma walking back to the dining room to clear the cups, saucers and cake plate. My Grandpa speaking, but not helping. He’s “off to do some research…”

That’s my cue; he was on his way up to his study. If I was caught there I would be in serious bother.

I tried to move a bit more quickly. Could I jump the squeaky floor? Yes! Landing like a feather on safe ground.

Just the door to navigate, I rolled it as slowly as possible to keep its silence. But then it jammed! Listing to one side as it stalled.

I start to panic, my breath rushing. Any minute I’d hear him on the 6th stair, the one no one can ever avoid, and which acted like a siren warning if you’re out of bed at night or going somewhere you shouldn’t be.

I worked with the door again. This time it glided open, not too far but far enough for me to squeeze through. And then I gently returned it.

My heart pounded as the 6th star creaked. I jumped on to my bed, quickly folding my precious piece of swag, sliding it under my pillow. Sitting cross legged, I reached for my storybook from my windowsill opening it quickly as Grandpa turned at the top of the stairs.

Opening my bedroom door, he saw me & smiled. “Are you going to help your Grandma out in the garden? I think there are some beans to pick for tea.”

I smiled at him, how could I not. “Of course,” I say, jumping up and giving him a hug on the way through the doorway.

A hug that offered him love, a hug that I knew he cherished, a hug that said a quiet ‘sorry’ for crossing his secret threshold & trespassing into his other world, even just for a few moments.

A hug that would make him smile, as he always did, when he realised I had visited his study. How? Because he could always see my footprints on the typewriter ribbon.