Hepzi could feel the stillness outside. The wind had stopped its shouting and there was rain now pitter-pattering on the shutters. It was the rain she feared most after snow and a quick thaw, with all the weight of snow on top of them, but she said nothing to frighten the bairn.
They must not open the door yet, though the child in her fervour was convinced that her mother was close at hand. Much as she herself wanted to see to the creatures frozen and starving in the barn, she knew that the straw and dung would keep them warm and they could peck at the snow. Suddenly she felt so utterly alone, with only common sense and an instinct for danger to guide her.
The snow would insulate them for a time, and with its melting would come rescue. There was water enough to drink and a larder of food, safe provisions that this ‘wise virgin', as the Bible story advised, had laid up against such harshness, but it was the blasted roof that worried her. She did not trust the sodden timbers.
‘Keep close to the hearth, child, and no more talk of opening doors.’ The fire was out and she must think of burning her best ark and box and chair. They supped the elderberry fruit cordial and looked at each other in horror as a huge creaking groan filled the room. ‘Into the chimney breast, child,’ Hepzibah screamed, grabbing her precious charge. After blizzard and blast, no rotten beam was going to get them if she could help it.
The inglenook, with its stone arch and hollowed fire hole, the little oven, the fancy decoration of carved figures, leaves and suns around its border, must save them now. Now was the test of its craftsmanship as the rafters crumbled in front of them, crashing down snow and wetness, dust choking them, but there was sooty air coming down from the chimney.
‘Lord have mercy on us, miserable sinners, our very refuge and trust in times of trouble. Sing, Anona, sing praise to God who reigns above, the Lord of all creation,’ Aunt Hepzi whispered, holding her hand tightly, thinking this test was not how it was meant to be, but she could do no more now but pray. ‘Lord, if we survive this deluge I will see to it that Christ’s birthday will be for ever honoured in this house in the old way, with merriment and feasting, and the parson can go hang. ‘Twas he that hath stirred up Thy wrath by his wilful neglect of goodwill and charity! Have mercy on us …’
From the parish records: 12th January 1654 A great drift of snow fell on Wintergill Farm demolishing all but the chimney.
Mistriss Blanche Norton, reliq. of the late Mr Christopher Norton, esq. was found close by the thatch, snow dead.
Hepzibah, Wife of the house, and female were hidden in the chimney and saved.
They buried Blanche’s frozen body when the thaw came. It took pickaxes to cut the sod in the churchyard. She was but thirty years in the world. Anona stood speechless for many months, unable to talk of these terrible things, so Hepzi kept her close by while Nate and his men rebuilt the roof that had so nearly killed them. Nonie’s presence brought a strange joy to the household and the Lord blessed Hepzi with a quiverful of sons: Samuel, Jacob, Reuben, Silas and Thomas. The farm rang with their noisy doings. Yet she knew they were but dust in the eyes of the Lord, blossoming and flourishing like leaves on the tree.
Then the second King Charles took back his father’s throne and ruled the land, and all was as it was before the Commonwealth. Those who had prospered under Cromwell felt the chill wind of change. The candles once hidden decorated the altar of St Oswald’s. Christmas was proclaimed as a holy day of feasting. The country folk were glad to welcome the mummers and dancing troupes once more.
Hepzibah could never return to the steepled church, and joined in fellowship with a band of Seekers after Enlightenment who worshipped in barns and houses. She preferred a simpler pathway to eternal truths. Nate was raised up for his fairness and honour and made a constable, despite his wife’s new religion. They prospered and Nonie alongside them. It was a joy to teach her spinning and fine threadwork along with a little lettering so she might keep a good household. She was always one for animals and hounds and anything with four legs. She would run after her brothers as if she were a boy for a time until she grew into such a comely maid it was thought only seemly to send her to her uncle Norton near York to be a lady, not a farm girl.
It grieved Hepzi’s heart to let her go but she was only a borrowed child. How she prayed that Blanche might know her Nonie was safe in the world and rest in the quiet earth, but there were troublesome tales of maids lost on the hills. It was in the first winter of her demise that Seth, the shepherd who rescued Nonie, was betrothed to a young widow with a little maid. She was out in the fields with him when a stray beast came from a cave and savaged their hound. The girl leaped between them and was bitten so savagely for her kindness that she fell into a fever that no apothecary could heal. She screamed like a beast caught in a poacher’s gin. It was a mercy when the Lord took her spirit unto Himself. There was no sighting of the hound ever again and it set Hepzi to wondering if Blanche’s fury was in the bite on that poor lass. Only a mother knows how to tear out the heart of another.
It was an ungodly thought to carry within, but much as it was grieving her heart, there were other accidents and sightings, and Hepzi felt sending Nonie away was right and proper, for once Nonie was removed to a higher plane she would never return.
Anona was in her sixteenth summer when the King was restored. There had been much pestilence but none had trespassed over the high fells to Wintergill. The Snowdens gave her refuge and had prospered. There was a fine slate roof on the stone house and a new stone hearth with a broad inglenook to replace the one that had saved their lives all those years ago.
She was kept busy stitching linen for the baby sons who appeared every year, wearing poor Aunt Hepzi to skin and bone. Now she was to leave the house to serve in her Uncle Bevis’s household near York.
‘You’re a Norton and must be trained up as such so you can marry well as your mama would have wished,’ smiled Aunt Hepzi. ‘But I shall miss you.’
None of them had ever forgotten the night in the snow or the finding of that poor frozen body so near to rescue, and they wept many a night that they had been parted by that cruel priest. He had left the district in disgrace and now King Charles would appoint one of his own for the village church.
Sometimes Nonie thought she could hear her mama’s voice calling out to her and she would spin round, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but there was nothing, just the crying wind on the fells howling a gale.
As the coach rattled over the muddy tracks, carrying her away from Wintergill, she turned to wave to her dear kin, knowing she might never see them again, and her heart was sinking with fear at what lay ahead. Her hands were coarse and her accent thick but she would not have swapped the Snowdens for any other folk. They were the closest link she had to Mama and to her past.
They were well on the road east when the wind blew the coach and the snowflakes began to flutter. Nonie wrapped her thick cloak around herself, glad of her muff and thick petticoats. There was a manservant and maid sent to bring her safe to her uncle’s hall and she was glad of their company when the horses halted, stopped by someone standing in the road.
She peered out of the carriage, seeing a man waving a stick, and feared the worst – a footpad or highwayman set out to rob them. All she had of value was the ring Thomas Carr had given back to her, her mother’s bride ring, the one that had saved her from the long walk. She’d fingered it lovingly and he had had the grace to blush as he returned it.
‘It were a bad job that night,’ he’d muttered, and she’d nodded, knowing what it cost him to admit such a mistake. ‘They say her spirit roams abroad for justice …’
‘I have heard nowt of that,’ she snapped, not wanting to learn of such tales. Over the years there had been sightings and goings-on blamed on a wild mountain spirit calling in the wind but she had seen nothing. Now she would make a new life for herself away from such sad memories …
‘What’s the trouble?’ she shouted to the coachman.
‘Only some old bogtrotter stuck on the moor, wanting a lift to Ripon,’ came the reply.
Nonie peered closely at the bent man in tattered rags, stooping, his cheeks sunken with age, waving wildly at them. Then she saw those staring eyes – eyes she would have recognised anywhere in the land. ‘Drive on!’ she shouted.
‘But, miss, there’s a storm brewing. The poor soul is but skin and bone and harmless … a wandering preacher no less …’
She paused for a second. ‘I know you … Parson Bentley … Do you know who I am?’
He stared up at her, shaking his head, a pitiable sight, and for a second her heart softened at the sight of such a broken spirit. ‘I’ll not treat you as you once treated me and my mother, but if you are to ride with us I first must hear sorrow and regret from your lips that you sent my dear mother and this child out in the snow on Christmas Day. God forgives all sinners who repent …’
He stared up again with a flash of recognition in his eyes but his words were shrill. ‘I did the Lord’s will to a proud lady. I would do it again … Vanity, thy name is Woman!’ he screeched.
‘Drive on!’ Anona yelled. ‘There is nothing more to say.’
The parson stepped aside, waving his stick into the wind. Months later his body was found on the fell, a bundle of rags, bones picked clean of flesh by the carrion crows.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.
Village SchoolEvie could not believe this was a real school. There was only one big room divided up into work stations and a small room for the infants. There were no PE hall or dinner tables, and they had to put their desks together when the dinner lady arrived. The piano, computers, sinks, library and music shelf were all in the same room too.
She was given a drawer with her name on and a hook in the cloakroom for her anorak. Everyone was staring when she came through the door but then they just got on with what they were doing. The walls of Wintergill Village School were plastered with paintings. There were mobiles hanging from the ceilings and a big red carpet on the floor so the juniors wore slippers. Millicent and Arthur, who were twins, were given badges to be her helpers, showing her where everything was, and her Friend for the Day was Karly, who showed her the playing field, the wildlife garden, and the hopscotch path. There was a pets’ corner and herb garden, a fishpond, which was fenced off, and a football pitch where the rough boys played, who called her Posh and Ginger Spice. They threw conkers at her but Karly chased them off and let her join their game in the quiet corner.
Mrs Bannerman was very kind and asked her to read out loud and do some sums. She then took her by the hand and introduced her to thirty pairs of eyes that made Evie go all hot and fidgety.
‘Geneva has come to stay in the village for a few months. She’s never lived in the country before but her great-granny once lived in Bankwell,’ said Mrs Bannerman. ‘She had over two hundred children in her last school so this school will seem very strange. I want you to give her a special Wintergill welcome and be helpful.’
Then she was given a desk drawer on a table with Meg, Sam, Josh, and Thomas, who walked with two silver sticks.
It was all very strange and she wanted to go home but there was so much to stare at and listen to that the hours raced by until it was home time. The little bus carried them back up the hill to the end of the farm track where Mummy was waiting with her car.
This was her third school and they were all different. Sometimes Evie wondered why they couldn’t just stay in Sutton Coldfield with Granny. She had cried on that first morning when Mummy left for the car park. What if she didn’t come back? Who would pick her up if the car broke down or she was ill? Since Daddy went away she felt very sad inside. If Mummy disappeared who would look after her? Sometimes everything went fuzzy at the edges and she couldn’t see properly, but she cried inside so as not to upset Mummy.
She phoned Granny Partridge when she could, just to make sure they were still safe, and told her about the big house and the Lavender Lady, and how they were going to do Christmas in far-off lands at school.
An Indian lady in a long silk dress visited the school and told them about Diwali and the festival of little lights. They painted pictures and made decorations, lit candles and baked some special biscuits. That was great. She liked candles and torches and lights as night-time was scary.
She always had her toadstool lamp on when she went to bed and kept the landing light on all night just in case she had to get up to wee. Sometimes she forgot and there were wet sheets. Then they started another star chart with gold stars for dry nights and if she managed a line of stars she got to choose a video or a book as a reward.
Why did darkness have to come? She would lie awake watching the shadowy lights flicker across the ceiling, the strange shapes dancing on her curtains. Sometimes they looked like bears and tigers waiting to pounce on her bed. Other times they were just pussycats and rabbits.
Every time they moved house there were new creaking stairs and noises outside to scare her. What if bad men were going to come in and rob them? Now Daddy was away, who would stop them getting in?
The Side House was creepy in a different way. There was only the owl hooting and the wind howling, rattling the doors, and then it went quiet and she could hear herself breathing. Sometimes the dog in its kennel woofed and she wondered what he could see in the darkness. Perhaps the Lavender Lady, who could walk through walls, would pop out of the wallpaper and walk all over her.
Mummy gave her tapes to listen to and a little album full of photographs of Daddy when he was young to keep by her bed. If only he would come back and live with them again. Then she would feel safer. She could hardly recall his face or hear his voice on the telephone, but she had a shelf of pretty dolls in costume, one for every visit he made, and tomorrow she would bring the Indian doll to school and the sari he gave her, for the Diwali shelf. Then she remembered they were all packed up in cases somewhere out of reach.
How would Daddy know how to find them when Christmas came? Mummy said he was never coming back but she didn’t believe her. He always helped her choose a Christmas tree. They would find the biggest and the best and strap it to the roof of the car. Last Christmas he had forgotten to come and everyone had cried. Granny had a pop-up tree with purple balls. It was not the same but this year she could see Christmas trees everywhere in the wood. She was sure he would not forget to come this year and then they could all go back to Glenwood Close to live. That was the last house she remembered. Then she could go back to her old school. This would have to do for now.
Evie felt a tap on her shoulder and she woke up with her face on the hard desk.
‘Wake up, Evie,’ whispered Mrs Bannerman gently into her ear. ‘Changing schools must be very strange but I’m sure you won’t want to miss our story time.’
It was almost home time again. Evie rubbed her eyes and looked up. Everyone was giggling at her. She’d fallen asleep.
In the weeks following their move, Kay gradually got used to having the house to herself when Evie was at school. It had been a hard decision to send her off on the bus each day but Mrs Snowden told her she was doing the right thing. One look at the school’s Ofsted report convinced her that the child was in safe hands.
Evie needed friends of her own age and some stability while Kay sorted out her own muddled plans but it was hard to let her go, for she was all she had now and liked to keep her close by.
Some afternoons, though, she could not resist bringing the car down to the village to wait for her outside the school gate like any other mother. She would park up and walk around Wintergill village, admiring the sturdy grey stone houses with iron railings and slate roofs like fish scales. She could see blue smoke spiralling from the chimney tops and the lamps already lit through mullioned windows.
It looked like a picture postcard of a toy village until she noticed how the cars were crammed in the narrow streets, the satellite dishes poking awkwardly from buildings while some cottages were empty.
The village clustered around the ancient church and schoolroom, which nestled under the hill. There was a narrow hump bridge over the beck, which tumbled down from the hillside, dividing the green in two halves. It was like stepping into a James Herriot film. She could almost hear its jaunty music echoing in the background as she admired the date stones over the lintels of many of the cottages.
She made for the little post office-cum-shop, dry cleaners, video store, bank and tuck shop, knowing Evie would pester for the penny tray if she did not buy some ammunition. The window was plastered with posters and information for the vanishing tourists and holiday lets, church time-tables, bus routes and village activities. ‘Annual Charity Quiz Night!’ ‘An Auction of Promises with a Jacob’s Join Supper.’ ‘A Rummage Sale.’ ‘Claiming Dates for the Christingle and Lighting of the Tree.’ It all sounded Greek to her.
Yet she sensed a secret life going on behind these doors that as a visitor she knew nothing about: prayer groups, coffee mornings, reading circles, sewing clubs, local studies, dinner parties and drinks dos. The posters showed there was life in this village.
I’m just passing through, she thought, marking time, putting off the moment when I must step back into life and make my own decisions. Looking in through the cottage windows, she envied the settled lives inside that had a routine and purpose when she had none. Never had she felt more an offcomer and stranger than when standing at the school gate, knowing no one to talk to.
Pat Bannerman had rung earlier to suggest that they have a chat about Evie. Kay felt nervous all day, anticipating the worst, but the Head tactfully suggested that Evie must do her reading practice at home. Her maths was strong for her age but her reading was weak. She wondered if the frequent moves had disrupted the child’s concentration and enquired if her father visited at all. Kay recounted their circumstances and instantly the teacher softened, explaining that Evie’s grief was taking its toll.
To her surprise Kay found herself spilling out all her concerns about Evie’s unwillingness to accept her daddy’s death, her own helplessness on the subject and the real reason for this move.
‘What goes on in a child’s head after such a tragedy is a mystery but we can guess at some of the confusion, Mrs Partridge,’ the teacher answered, and Kay warmed to her sensitivity.
‘What would you suggest?’ Kay said, desperate for advice, but the teacher shook her head.
‘Our psychologist might be able to help but by the time we set up some sessions you will be long gone. Be honest with her and let her talk. I’m sure you’re doing the right things … Now I’m aware of this … I presumed you were divorced.’ She smiled, pausing, ‘Like myself. It must be hard.’
Kay sighed and shrugged. ‘It’s like jumping into a no man’s land. One minute it’s all happy families and then wham! You are out in the cold, aren’t you? There’s no choice for me about separation or singlehood. People do look at you so differently when you are widowed. I think they expect you to be some saintly martyr, set apart by your grief and loss. No one sees the flesh and blood seething underneath, just longing to be loved and normal again. The world is full of couples and you feel an outsider … I’m sorry,’ she croaked, finding herself crying, but Pat was listening and nodding, encouraging her to go on.
‘I felt like a widow long before he died, if I’m honest … Work came first for Tim and family second. It took me a while to realise that. I tried not to resent it but things were not great between us. I was a company wife, constantly moving from city to city as Tim climbed the corporate ladder. I gave up my career as an accountant when Evie came along,’ Kay confessed. ‘You wouldn’t think I once held down a senior post in Birmingham with Price Waterhouse, the accountancy firm, and now my brain feels like mush. Now I just feel a freak of fortune with no confidence in anything much, and Evie senses my weakness and holds all her confusion into herself. It’s not fair on her.’ She could feel tears welling up again.
‘Why am I saying all this? I feel such a wimp. I ought to be out there earning my own living … not mooching around feeling sorry for myself.’
‘It sounds to me as if you need some time to sort out your priorities,’ said Pat. ‘Look after your own needs and she will follow your model. When I came up here with my son, I felt so guilty about disrupting his world but kids are adaptable. He soon made his own life up here. Don’t be so hard on yourself.
‘Evie is bright and sensitive, if a little withdrawn and dreamy, but that will pass, given time and encouragement,’ Pat smiled. ‘And it sounds to me as if you are just the person we need on the team for the quiz night at the Spread Eagle. It’s the annual charity quiz night in aid of farmers’ charities. The PTA want to field a decent team. Would you consider it?’
Kay looked up in horror. ‘I don’t want to let you all down. I’m no Carol Vorderman. I’m not sure. Thanks, but it’s ages since I’ve been out in my own right …’ She looked up and saw the teacher smiling.
‘So? Isn’t that what you’ve just been talking about? Perhaps a night out on your own might help. You’ll get to know some of the other mothers and I can promise you a good pie-and-peas supper with the best pastry in the district. Think about it.’
As Evie chattered in the car as they climbed the now familiar hill up to Side House, she was mulling over this unexpected invitation. Why all this soul-searching over a pub quiz? Surely she deserved a night out, and Mrs Snowden had hinted that she would always baby-sit if given enough notice.
Could she leave Evie? Would it be fair? Why was she always dithering over the simplest task these days? It was pathetic. There you go again, she smiled. Pat Bannerman is right. You are so hard on yourself. This time last year, she would not have thought twice about such an evening out. This time last year was another world. Now she was slowly creeping towards the final milestone of this bereavement year: their wedding anniversary in June, Tim’s birthday in August, the move from Glenwood Close, and now the first anniversary of his death was looming. How would she cope?
Looking out over the bleak landscape to where the white walls of Wintergill House flashed brightly, set like a pearl on an emerald cushion, she laughed at her overblown image. You followed a dream, took a chance and found this lovely place, she argued silently. Surely you can take a night out with strangers in your stride?
No one here knew her past history or cared. They were too busy struggling to survive their own miseries. Why shouldn’t she go?
Evie was on a greenery hunt in the wood by Wintergill Farm with Mummy trailing behind in a bad mood. There was a letter from Nanny Partridge that had her on the phone all morning and now they weren’t going shopping but going out for a walk instead. Mummy was angry and said walks were better for them and muttered on about Santa being hard up this year. She always said that, but somehow Evie sensed she meant it this time.
They were gathering leaves and branches to make into an Advent wreath with special wire. Mrs Snowden was going to show her how to make one when she went to tea again. She liked visiting the old lady with her frizzy hair. She had the biggest hands, but her legs were thin and she sat down a lot. She was coming to baby-sit for Mummy when she went out with Mrs Bannerman, her teacher. They were going to do some knitting.