Ghosts of Winter Page 15

  “They’re good company, for sure. A royal pain in the backside sometimes, though.” We watched Pepper play in the snow contentedly.

  “It’s good to have company,” I said, feeling the surprising truth of it. Maybe I really would get a dog. I wondered if Anna liked dogs. I pictured walking down to the bridge with her, a little brown dog, maybe a spaniel, frolicking around us. Down by the river, where the green river bank was flooded with bluebells, an artist was painting the bridge in watercolours. I smiled at Anna and she leaned over and kissed me.

  Maggie jolted me out of my daydream, and suddenly I was cold again. “Talking of company, what are you doing for Christmas, pet?”

  “Christmas?”

  “Yes. You know it’s next week.”

  “Is it that soon?” I’d seen the decorations, cards, and gifts in the shops in Durham, I knew Christmas was coming up. Only I’d been trying to ignore its approach and had so far been quite successful. Now Maggie wanted to know my plans.

  “Comes up quick, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m…I’ve got some friends coming to visit me.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. If you’d been on your own I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to the farm. It won’t be a big occasion, just me and my son, his wife, and their baby girl, and my daughter, who’s coming up from London with her new chap.”

  “Sounds lovely. If I didn’t have other plans, I’d love to have come,” I said. I could envision Maggie’s Christmas perfectly. I saw the big farmhouse kitchen, the table loaded with food, the happy family gathering, a roaring fire…I knew I was idealising, creating a picture from a storybook. Chances were Maggie’s son and daughter argued all of the time and her daughter’s boyfriend was new because she’d never found someone who she truly loved. No one’s life was perfect. But suddenly I faced the prospect of my own Christmas. Alone in Winter Manor. I planned to just let it pass me by. The only celebration I intended to allow myself was buying a small Christmas cake, since it was the one festive treat I was partial to. There were no friends and no family who would want to spend the day with me. I felt the optimism slipping. So much had changed since last Christmas when I’d spent the day alone with Francesca, having refused my mother’s invitation to dinner. Now my mother was dead, and I had no real idea where Francesca was. Yet Christmas approached inexorably again, as though everything was perfectly all right and it would be welcome.

  “Don’t worry about it, hun,” Maggie said, patting my arm. Perhaps she thought the alteration in my countenance was a result of wishing I was free to visit her at Christmas.

  “I will pop over and see you one day soon though, I promise,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “You’ll be very welcome, pet. I’ve got mince pies and cream.”

  “Lovely.”

  “And don’t forget to bring your washing.”

  “If you insist, that would be a big help.” My heart was aching now, and even Maggie’s kindness could not quite soothe it. I expected these moments to come, from time to time, but it didn’t make them easier when they did.

  I looked back down at the water sliding beneath the bridge. As if she was reading my change of mood, Maggie said, “It’s awful to think of, but do you know the story is that a girl killed herself here once?”

  I looked up at her, surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation. “No. Is that true?” Hearing such a rumour left me unexpectedly unsettled.

  “Well, according to the story I heard, her family tried to cover it up as an accident. She was a strange girl, apparently.” Maggie’s brow furrowed into deep lines as she tried to recall the details.

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, I can’t say for sure, pet. Sometime in the eighteen sixties or seventies, I think. She was one of the Richmond family, who owned Winter then. If I remember it right, her brother inherited in the end, but spent most of his time in London, because the old place reminded him too much of his sister.”

  “A strange girl?”

  “Yes, as I heard it, pet. Who knows what they meant by that in those days, though?”

  “That’s such a sad story.” I gazed at the water and tried to imagine what urge would be so terrible that a girl would drown herself here. Tears came to my eyes. The most tragic aspect of the whole tale was that Maggie couldn’t even remember her name, let alone her story. A human life vanished just like that. I felt the horror of it as a deep-rooted pain. Maggie and I were both silent, mutually pondering the story she had related. I imagined an Ophelia-like image of a beautiful, pale-skinned, dark-haired woman, floating in the river, her skirts billowing, her hair drifting in the current. Surely nothing could be so bad. For all that my life had lost its direction, I couldn’t picture needing to obliterate myself so totally and finally.

  Pepper bounded up to his mistress and barked, bringing us both out of our reflective states of mind. Large flakes of snow began to drift down from the sky, tickling lightly over my skin. “Oh, will you look at that,” Maggie exclaimed, looking skyward, “as if we haven’t had enough already!” Pepper whined. “Yes, I know, boy, come on, let’s get us back home shall we?” She smiled at me. “Better go, while we still can,” she said. “See you soon, pet.”

  “Yes, you will. Nice to see you today.” I smiled because she was so kind. Maggie turned and walked away from me, Pepper lolloping past her, then pulling up sharply to wait for her to catch up. I found myself feeling envious of even that companionship and loyalty. I wouldn’t get a dog. What if I didn’t want to get up and walk him every morning? I’d be a terrible owner, I was far too selfish and inward looking. Maybe changing that should be my New Year’s resolution.

  Maggie and Pepper disappeared from view. I stayed where I was and looked at the sky, the greyish yellow of a fading bruise, and full of whirling, turbulent snowflakes. I stared at them and felt dizzy, overwhelmed. Against the sky they were another shade of grey, dark, like smuts of soot. They were transformed as they fell, and I saw them against the darker trees, becoming pure white and delicately fluffy, twirling all around me, brushing over and teasing my forehead and cheeks, settling on my shoulders which turned rapidly white. I stood perfectly still, my face to the sky, letting the snow hypnotise me, feeling it cling to my eyelashes. It fell so silently, its accumulation was so insidious. I felt as though—if I closed my eyes, allowed it the chance—it would begin to cover me, smother me, erase me entirely. I forced my eyes wide open and tore my gaze from the sky. I wouldn’t be obliterated so easily.

  The flakes melted against my skin and made my cheeks wet. More snow fell, caressing so lightly it tickled. Snow and Christmas were a perfect combination, of course. Christmas. I’d never realised that it meant so much to me before now, but the prospect of being alone was one that weighed heavily on me. I would miss the option of visiting my mother on Christmas Day, though for years I’d refused it. I would miss Francesca terribly too. That our relationship had ended was undoubtedly, unavoidably, for the best. My being alone for now was undeniably the only sensible course. To allow my bruised heart to recover and be ready to love again, avoiding any entanglements for a while, was the only way forward. Loneliness also meant time to think and to clear my head, to reconnect with myself, wherever that self was buried under layers of mourning and confusion. But being alone at Christmas was not a prospect I wanted to dwell on.

  I stared through the thick flakes towards the hill up to the house, feeling quite desolate. I could still see the path I’d made when I ran down the hill. The falling snow was beginning to obscure the tracks I’d made. I felt a flash of sudden anger that it could wipe out all traces of me so easily, like the years had wiped out the memory of the dead girl in the river, and summoned the strength to climb back up the hill and make my mark once again.

  *

  By the time I reached the top of the hill, I was panting, and my chest was beginning to hurt, but I did not slow down. I stormed all the way back to the front steps of the house. Phoebe’s expression was impassive as I swept pas
t her without even acknowledging her. The hinges of the front door creaked their usual welcome as I entered the hallway. I closed the door heavily behind me, glad to shut out the snow.

  The familiarity of my hallway residence was more comforting than I expected. Winter was finally beginning to feel like home. Which was just as well, since I felt sure Winter, with its rotting rooms and echoes of history, was the only part of my immediate future I could be certain of. The prospect of anything else frightened me, left me exhausted. I threw my outer clothes to the floor, perched on the edge of my camping bed, and tried to wrestle my emotions back under control. I thought again of the sad story Maggie had related to me, and I knew Winter had seen its share of tragedy and misery. Did I want to be part of that, another sad, wistful chapter? Or did I have the courage to hope for, even demand, a brighter future?

  An unexpected sound reached me from the direction of the Saloon, quite different from the usual creaks and groans of the house. I got to my feet and went to investigate. As I entered the large, airy room, still grand despite its disrepair, there was no obvious source of the unusual sound. I looked around me curiously, listening hard.

  Eventually, my gaze settled on the large Venetian window. I could see the snow was still falling heavily outside. Then I knew what had caused the strange sound. Just outside the window was an old oak tree. One of its aged branches had bowed and snapped under the weight of the snow and now hung at an odd angle, resting partly on the snowy ground. It had been the straining and breaking of the old wood I’d heard. I pitied the graceful tree, with its thick trunk and apparent strength, its symmetry so easily undone by an accumulation of feather-light snow.

  I also experienced a curious sense of empathy with the oak, its strength deserting it under the build-up of cold weight. The sight of that fallen limb, the sharp, broken end, finally recalled me to myself. It had been a terrible year, but I couldn’t give in and break under the strain. The girl in the river, and countless others who’d been in Winter’s grand rooms, had surely suffered heartaches greater than my own. I wasn’t the only one to linger in the high-ceilinged Saloon and wish that life had turned out differently. I wasn’t that important. The thought made me ashamed of my depression and determined to be more optimistic, for the sake of Winter, if nothing else. Surely all problems could be overcome?

  My thoughts turned back to Anna. She wasn’t a problem to be overcome, either professionally or personally. I was delighted to have her talented input into the renovation, and pleased my feelings for her proved my heart hadn’t died when my relationship with Francesca had, even though I still needed to heal before I could contemplate loving anyone again. Anna seemed to feel the same, false wedding ring and all. Good. It was fun to flirt—in a taciturn sort of a way—and now I knew she was unattached, I could do so without guilt. I had to remember not to hope for anything else and that my emotional balance was far more secure that way.

  Chapter Seven

  Finally making solid plans for Winter was an excellent distraction for most of the week preceding Christmas Day. Anna did not call, which disappointed and relieved me at the same time. She’d clearly been busy contacting all manner of workmen, as she promised she would, since I was contacted by all sorts of tradesmen. Builders, plumbers, roofers, and electricians were the first wave, sizing up the scale and the price of the job. The quotes I received were not for the faint-hearted, but Auntie Edie had left a very substantial amount of money for this renovation, and it more than covered the costs that would soon be mounting up.

  I made calls to plasterers and specialists in wooden floors, to find out if they would be available to work at Winter in a couple of months, once the major structural work was completed. Looking ahead to that time, I truly began to believe I could bring Winter back to life, even initiate a new and exciting phase in the story of the old place. If I was still confused myself and uncertain just where life was leading me, I found a real sense of excitement and optimism in every detail and plan that was set out for my house. Even the traipsing of strangers through my hallway home did not disturb me as much as I anticipated, though I did conclude it would be better to move my sleeping and eating area into one of the separate rooms, out of the way of the regular comings and goings. Winter welcomed this sudden infusion of life, and accordingly, so did I. These weren’t people who were going to ask me about my personal life, or make judgements. All they expected was a rough idea of how I wanted the property renovated and the prospect of the money I would pay them to do the job. That kind of human interaction I could deal with without a qualm. I had Anna’s plans, and the money to pay them. Dealing with Winter’s future was pleasingly simple, and it boosted my confidence.

  The only problem with being so busy attending to workmen and plans for the house over that week was Christmas Day dawned, and I realised there would be nobody at all coming to the house that day. The emptiness struck me even harder than it would have done had I spent the week alone. Some diluted sunshine had thawed the snow throughout the week, and it was now just a thin, wet layer and not remotely festive. Green grass appearing once again gave some inspiring evidence of life surviving beneath the oppressive cold, but the constant dripping of the meltwater from the holey guttering was becoming infuriating, and the grey light after the brighter white of the snow did little to lift my spirits.

  I made a concerted effort to forget it was Christmas. I contemplated picking up the phone and calling Jeanne, Christmas possibly the perfect time to begin my attempt at reconciliation with my sister. At the same time though, I didn’t relish the prospect of an uncomfortable conversation, nor feeling like an intrusion in her family Christmas. Jeanne had a peculiar way of making me feel inadequate, and I decided I preferred loneliness to a conversation that would undermine my fragile self-confidence. There was really no one else to call. My father lived in London these days and would no doubt be spending the day with some of his many friends—the friends who had always meant more to him than his family.

  At lunchtime I ate a bowl of piping hot tomato soup and a cheese sandwich. I followed it with my one concession to Christmas, a large slice of Christmas cake. I’d bought the best quality the supermarket had. The fruity, spicy, moist cake with the almost sickly sweetness of marzipan and icing was one of my favourite tastes all year. The first mouthful was wonderful, and for a moment, I felt a little festive spirit and almost wished I’d found some other way to mark the day. I’d let Winter down by not at least having a Christmas tree or a holly wreath. Next year I’d do better.

  Next year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. So much could happen in that time. Next Christmas was way into the future, a date by which I hoped the major renovation work at Winter would be complete. Yet last Christmas seemed such a short time ago. How had so many terrible and life-changing things happened in the intervening time? I’d lost everything I’d thought was important—my own sense of myself included—in the space of just those few hundred days.

  I discarded the last mouthful of Christmas cake uneaten, suddenly slightly nauseous. I’d lost so much. How could I ever hope to get such things back? I knew I’d still not entirely come to terms with the way in which the entire foundation of my life had crumbled. Next year I would hang a holly wreath on Winter’s grand front door. What else would I be doing? Would I be alone still? Would I be eating dinner with friends? A lover? Would Winter be complete? Would I? Another three hundred and sixty-five days would bring about changes, undoubtedly. I had to hold on to the strength of my optimism and know they would be for the best.

  I made some tea and sat in my Victorian dining chair clutching the warm mug. I was reminded suddenly of the story of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come. What would such spirits show me, were they to arrive in Winter now and take me on a journey of self-exploration? My past was the loss of a happiness that, while not perfect, was at least comfortable and secure. My present was simple enough. Alone on Christmas Day in a ramshackle country house, subject
to wildly fluctuating emotions. What would the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come show me though? I thought of Ebenezer Scrooge’s vision of his miserable, lonely end. If I was to expire here and now, who would know? The thought made me shudder, and I made a vow there and then, whatever the coming year brought, it would be better. I would begin to make sensible decisions and have faith in myself once again.

  The wood of the great staircase creaked loudly, for no apparent reason, as it often did. I imagined the house was trying to talk to me. I wished Winter could tell me its stories, that the walls could talk, as the cliché went. Now these walls sheltered me impassively. I was reassured to believe Winter and I were facing the future together, a team.

  I took a sip of my tea and paced around the hallway restlessly, coming to a stop in the shadow of the stairs close to the entrance to the Saloon. I looked through the open door. Distracting myself with thoughts about how I would decorate and furnish what would eventually be a spectacularly beautiful room presented itself as a good way to regain my focus. I was about to step inside when a loud knock on the front door made me jump and almost spill my tea.

  My mind raced as I considered who could possibly be calling on me in the early afternoon of Christmas Day. My first assumption was Maggie Potter, and I wondered how on earth I would explain to her why I was alone, eating soup and Christmas cake, when I’d claimed to have friends visiting me. I contemplated not answering the knock. Then I wondered why Maggie, with her farmhouse family Christmas, would be here at all, unless it was something urgent. I hastily put my tea on the table and crossed the hall to the door.

  When I opened the door, beginning to worry, it was to find Anna looking at me expectantly. A combination of elation and terror almost made me close the door again and pretend I’d not seen her.