Winter’s Children (18 page)

She wanted nothing more to do with such a selfish deity. How she yearned to know her child was happy out there, free of sickness. Over the years his gentle presence was fading but he was tethered to her heart on a leather rein. His absence now made an ache in her heart no doctor would ever cure.

‘Oh, Will,’ she cried, ‘where’ve you gone? I’d follow you myself but now you’re in a place I can’t find … a place I can’t go. I have to find you again.’

So she lost herself in work. She filled her days with baking, visiting the poor and supervising her household, but it was never enough. Each season brought its own pain, especially Christmas-time. While Will was alive it warmed her heart to see her children enthralled with presents and games, but once he left them she found it hard to have any enthusiasm for their antics. Joss’s festivities grew more elaborate each year as if to compensate for the loss of his child and to chivvy her out of her mourning clothes.

She blamed some malicious force in nature for taking her son. Folk talked of a spirit that haunted the hills around Wintergill but she felt powerless in the face of such elements. If only she could turn back the clock and not have taken that ride, Will might have lived.

She found solace in her green patch, such as it was. She asked Joss’s men to build a wall to protect her plants from the hungry wind that burned the leaves off the stalks. She bought liquorice and sugar loaf, spices to make cough tablet and hard-boiled throat soothers. She wrapped her sons in flannel until Joss protested she was making weaklings of them. Her elderberry cordial kept many a chest clear in the dark months when the cold blew in off the moors but she longed to know more.

Sometimes she heard a crying moan on the wind, a piercing wail of grief outside in the blizzard, echoing the sadness at her own hearth, and she wondered if it was Will trying to contact her again.

There was an ally of sorts lurking nearby, a kind enough soul who watched her at her labours in the house. She had heard tell of the lady who lived within the walls. One morning when she was busy with chores she felt the presence of a woman standing by the door, watching her at work. She looked up and caught a fleeting glance of a black skirt and then nothing. They had no need of words to each other for they were both of one mind, resolved to protect this house from more trouble and sickness.

It was this sickness she feared, which always came with the snow and the darkness; the veil of mist that separated her from her child had thickened with the years. How Susannah wished she could hold him in her arms once more and sniff his head and bury her face in his hair.

She trod many strange paths in search of a truth, visiting preachers who fell into trances of ecstasy in the pulpit and spouted out strange burbling tongues; transient showmen who set up tents by the river and promised all sorts of tricks. Most were quacks, charlatans, stripping the gullible of hard-earned silver for little return. If only she could hear the truth, sense the genuine from the fake and begin her own journey to find peace of mind. She longed to discover a pathway through her suffering, the forest of brambles snagging her spirit. She owed it to Joss and her boys to start living again. On the dark days it was all she could do not to hurl herself down the ravine at Gunnerside. There had to be a better way than ending her life in the view of the very painting that had brought them such happiness in the past. If only someone could soothe her broken soul.

Christmas Shopping

 

The crowds were pushing and shoving down Skipton High Street, the market stalls twinkling with fairy lights as Kay rushed to finish the last of her shopping. At the top of the street the ancient church and castle made a romantic backdrop to the Christmassy scene, but she was in no mood to linger at the floodlights. There was her list to consult. Tim’s parents were sorted, the stocking fillers for Evie and the book for Mrs Snowden were in her bag, along with some spare boxes of chocolate mints from Whitakers in case they were invited anywhere unexpectedly. She had got the tinsel to finish off Evie’s angel outfit for the school play, but her most important quest was unfulfilled: something for Evie’s main present.

She was not going to set up Evie with loads of compensations for taking her away from her grandparents. She was too young for CDs and most computer games. She wanted something thoughtful, something creative, and as if in answer to her prayer there it was in the window of the art shop: a huge box of paints. It was a compendium of chalks and pastels, poster paints and watercolours, with sketchbooks and palette.

Evie had stuffed a letter up the wood-burner asking Santa for something to do. Surely this would give her hours of pleasure. It wasn’t cheap, but it would wrap up well into a big parcel. The shop was an Aladdin’s cave of arts and crafts and it took her back to the days when she lived as the headmaster’s daughter in the grace-and-favour house of a small public school. She had amused herself with Fuzzy Felt and Lakeland pencils, Plasticine and stringing up beads. She enjoyed making things then.

Now there was a long queue at the till and she was tired. Her feet were used to comfortable trainers now, not tight boots. She longed to sit down with a glass of red wine. Then she heard the music wafting from outside, the haunting carols of childhood played by the brass band, and she felt her chest tightening and her heart thudding. She would have to get out into the fresh air and run as fast as she could away from the sound of the horns.

With tears in her eyes she rushed for the door and out down a side street into the nearest teashop. Her hands were trembling as she ordered strong coffee and poured in spoonfuls of sugar to calm her jagged nerves. It was all flooding back: the memories of last year, of shopping in Sutton Coldfield, hearing the band and thinking what a wonderful Christmas they would be having. There were to be parties and drinks invitations galore, an outing to the panto in Birmingham. Her arms were full of groceries, all Tim’s favourites: chocolate gingers, sugared mice, tangerines and spiced tea.

‘Be kind to yourself,’ said her grief counsellor. ‘Let the pain flood over you. It cannot harm you if you let it flow in and out. Breathe deeply. Give it space and let the pain pass over.’

Every minute of last Christmas unravelled slowly before her – first the excitement and anticipation and then the terrible drama. Scene by scene she relived her shock, her disbelief, her numbness, her panic. When the whole world was celebrating they were struck dumb with numbness and the tinsel music on the television rattled on accusingly over their heads. The warmth of the drink settled her. This was what she was told to expect but words could not prepare her for this sadness. Already she felt steadier, calmer. These were different shops in a different town. The band was playing for joy, not sorrow. It was time to go back and get Evie’s present. Why should the child not have her wish? It was only for one day. She would cope. Other people faced lonely Christmases, full of bad memories. She was lucky, for she had a child and she had made choices in coming north to protect them both. It was time to retrace her steps. She glanced at her watch in horror.

Nik Snowden was waiting in the Red Lion and she was already half an hour late!

‘I’m so sorry.’ Kay rushed into the pub with hands full of carrier bags. Nik could see she was out of breath and her eyes were full of tears, in a right state. How could he be angry with her?

‘Sit yerself down,’ he ordered.

‘I’m so sorry. There’s so much on my list. I forgot the time. I don’t know what’s got into me.’

‘There’s no rush. What’ll you have?’

‘Oh, I can’t drink, I’m driving …’

‘I’ve only had a half so I’ll drive you home.’

‘But—’

‘No buts, sit down and sup up. You look done in.’ She promptly burst into tears.

‘It was that wretched brass band, it brought it all back … last year. I’m sorry.’

‘What’s there to be sorry about? Sit down here by the fire. You need something inside you.’

‘But …’ Those green eyes flashed up at him so he gave her one of his steel-eyed looks and she smiled through her tears. ‘Thanks, Nik. That’s a Christian act.’

He could see that she was really upset. Her hands were shaking. He was used to seeing her brave face; now she looked like a frightened kid and he knew how that felt. When he’d heard about Jim’s suicide, when the sheep were slaughtered in front of him, he’d howled in the barn like a baby out of everyone’s sight.

It was hard to pin your face up all the time, and she had such a striking face, when she smiled. She needed company just as he did. Suddenly the pub chatter cocooned around them, the log fire flickered into life, warming him as he took over the glasses. It was like old times on a date with a pretty woman. To onlookers they were just another couple wrestling with a pile of Christmas shopping, taking stock of their purchases, part of a happy family, no doubt.

If only they knew the real truth. Nothing was as it seemed on the surface, and yet his heart was warmed as he sensed her misery and he drew his chair closer towards her.

‘There, get that down you and we’ll order some soup. Might as well make a day of it now.’

‘How did you get on with your accountant?’ She changed the subject quickly.

Nik shrugged. It would be easy to fob her off but he needed to get stuff off his chest too. He told her everything. ‘I got all the usual warnings but he did have one or two useful things to suggest. When I get back I’m going to root around … on a treasure hunt. If only we could find the lost heirloom my gran used to say once lived in the upstairs parlour – a Turner, no less. That would help things out no end,’ he laughed.

‘You do love your farm, don’t you?’ Kay was peering at him with concern, making him go hot under the collar. For a second their eyes locked. He swallowed his emotion and looked away as he spoke, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

‘I’m not giving up Wintergill, not ever, no matter what Mother thinks. There’s got to be a way through.’

‘You’ll make it work. I can see that from what you’ve done already.’

‘I hope so.’

‘I know so.’ She reached over, patted his hand and held hers there. Then she laughed. ‘Listen to us, like a couple of old agony aunts. What’s the soup of the day?’

‘Never mind soup, I know another place round the corner,’ he said, standing to help her with the bags.

‘Fish and chips at Bizzie Lizzies?’ she asked.

‘No, there’s a wine bar I’ve been meaning to try out. Come on, this is on me.’ The sun was shining down the High Street and the crowds jostled, but Nik guided her through the side streets. His world may have collapsed, and hers too, but it was easier to face things as a twosome than on your own. The trip to Skipton was turning out better than he’d thought.

Nora was sitting in the Village Institute, putting dolly mixtures on cocktail sticks to decorate the Christingle oranges. There was a force nine draught coming under the door that no curtain could quell. She could not shake off her bone weariness or the sore throat burning the back of her mouth. She ached from head to toe but a promise was a promise. She felt mean not lending Nik her boneshaker of a saloon, but the thought of walking back uphill to Wintergill House was unthinkable. There was no use telling him she felt unwell. He would just tell her she was stupid to be going out. There would be no sympathy from that quarter.

The Christingle service was an annual event guaranteed to fill the old church and raise funds for charity. The WI had over a hundred oranges to put together on their assembly line, and it was all hands to the task. She was glad the Partridges would be involved with the school play too. There should be a bit of religion at the heart of everyone’s Christmas, especially in these troubled times. It was no use hijacking a Christian festival and not giving it some respect.

They were a motley bunch in their WI, young and old, locals and offcomers, professional women and housewives. The village would be the poorer without all their activities, especially in the winter when the gloomy grey days and long nights made for depression and isolation.

It was a fiddly business for old fingers, wrapping ribbons around the oranges, threading nuts and raisins and sweets onto spikes, inserting candles. If Health and Safety could see what the kids got up to with those lighted candles, the Christingle would have been banned years ago. She smiled to herself, thinking of last year’s service when one toerag lit his sister’s hair and singed it. Only the smell of burning stopped her from being scalped!

Lighting candles in the darkness still had the power to enthral youngsters into silence. Spoiled brats needed to know about those less fortunate than themselves – the refugees, the abused, those bereaved, neglected children all over the world.

Christmas had ceased to have any meaning for years now, she sighed. The annual customs were upheld for old times’ sake. If it were an optional extra she would duck out, but she usually cooked Nik a turkey breast, bought back one of her own puddings from the WI stall and did her duty. No more goose extravaganzas or drinks parties. They exchanged tokens: a new CD for him, a book token for her, with a glass of sherry and a truce for the day.

There were still a few cards she exchanged with distant friends, but she refused the myriad invitations for drinks around the village because she couldn’t be bothered with small talk and false bonhomie. One of the advantages of being old was that she could do as she damned well pleased and didn’t have to justify herself to anyone.

Making Christmas happen when there were children in the house used to be a labour of love, however flat she felt underneath. Yet Christmas promised what it could never deliver to her: peace, joy, goodwill and wishes fulfilled. All it seemed to bring was quarrelling, disappointments, and hangovers.

Christmas used to be a truly riotous festival with open house and children, babies and parties. But after Shirley’s accident, it was hard to celebrate the season. It became a meaningless ritual done for Nik’s sake. An attempt was made to honour the day but it always fell flat somehow.

Nora found her coat in the passageway. She wanted to slip away quietly now, having done her stint with the oranges. She wanted to put something in the churchyard. It was time to pay her respects with a bunch of garden flowers. Funny how there was always some bloom to find even in winter: some
Vibernum tinus,
winter jasmine, and a few Christmas roses tied with greenery and ribbon into a makeshift posy.

The other graves were bedecked with holly wreaths with plastic flowers stuck in and they reminded her of graves in France, gaudy with waxy blooms. It was bitterly cold as she bent down to replace the dead flowers and she felt her head swimming in a cloudy fug. The ground rose up to meet her and now she was sitting on the chippings with the sky above dancing round her. She felt so sweaty as the first spots of sleet and wet snow cooled her cheek.

It was time for a swig of Granny Aggie’s firewater from the medicine cupboard: that pungent mixture of elderberry cordial, herbs and alcohol that took the roof off your mouth. That would knock this cold on the head, and a hot bath would soothe her cold bones. She wanted to see Evie at the service and watch her face at the Christingle. It would do the girl good to stand in line with children of her own age.

Evie watched the candles twinkling on the windowledges of St Oswald’s. It was magic, sitting in the darkness, and she was not a bit scared, watching all the audience waiting and the children dressed up for their play. Her tinsel was scratching her ears but her wings were strapped around her shoulders and she felt so important.

Mrs Bannerman explained all about the Christingle: the orange was the world and the ribbon was the cross and the candle was the light of the world. The sweets and nuts were God’s gifts to be shared. She was dying to sink her teeth into the dolly mixtures, and hoped she didn’t get a jelly baby on a stick. She hated them. Mrs Bannerman was busy organising the infants, who had rugs on their backs and sheep faces.

Evie’s wish had come true to be one of the angels dressed up with tinsel crowns and real wings. Granny Partridge would be sad not to see her singing but Mummy promised to send them a photograph. Her friends Karly and Millie were playing recorders and guitars, singing solos and carols. Evie wished she was up there at the front, not stuck at the back, but singing didn’t come out right when she opened her mouth. It sounded all funny. In the twinkling candlelight she could see Mrs Snowden, who kept coughing and sneezing.

They had all come together in the Freelander as it was beginning to snow, just in case it blew a blizzard. Magic.

Only a week until Santa came to Wintergill. She made sure her letter was stuffed up the wood-burning chimney pipe. Already her green trimmings were dried up and curly. The pine needles were dropping off their little Christmas tree in a pot. Mummy said it was too warm for a tree in their sitting room. The tiny tree would do, she thought, until Daddy brought the big one back on Christmas Eve. She hoped he knew where to find them.

They made lots of decorations in school: a Father Christmas with cotton wool trim, stars made from baked pastry. Mrs Snowden helped her make paper chains and gave her an Advent calendar with windows to open. She had opened them all in secret and stuck them back again. It was so exciting when the cards started arriving read-dressed from Sutton Coldfield, and there were now two parcels waiting under the tree. She was disappointed when they went to collect Mrs Snowden for there was no Christmas in the big house – no decorations, no tree, no parcels or anything. It was all very sad. Did Santa not come to old people too?