A World Without a Voice.

A world without a voice.

At 5:51 am on the 23rd of November 1945 on a cold frosty morning in the secluded environment which we call Leverburgh, a baby was born without a voice. That baby was me.
As I was peering out of the crisp white window down at the path way, which lay between two straight cut hedges aligned with a chipped white picket fence; I was waiting for the new tutor to arrive. The sold sign that shouldn’t still be there, in front of the house glared at me, the silence was unsettling, with just the constant beat of the old grandfather clock echoing   from the hall way. Walking back from the window, to what seemed to be an empty room when actually it was fairly crowded; I stumbled across an antique box.
I found the box intriguing. The wood was warped and worn which let off a musty odour. It was the size of granny’s old blanket box. I wondered about its history and I was fascinated to discover its contents, perhaps it could reveal some childhood memories. I crouched over the box with trepidation but was bitterly disappointed to discover a large padlock securing the rusty latch which would keep me from discovering what mysteries it could unfold.
The door bell rang; the box would have to wait. It was the tutor I was expecting. As I was sitting through my maths tutorial, I wasn’t giving it my full attention; my mind strayed to thoughts of the old box. I longed to finish my lesson, the box beckoned and I was sure whatever secrets it held would be significantly more interesting than algebra.
The 3rd of January 1951 at the age of six, was one day I will never forget and I day I certainly needed my voice. Mother was in the kitchen preparing the dinner, whilst I was supervising my younger brother Max, in the living room. Max was sat up on the sofa, that wasn’t especially high but to max, must have felt like a cliff; I however was sat on the floor away from the sofa, playing with my little china doll.