Snow Sisters

by Carol Lovekin

  Twenty-six

  Although the temperature began to rise slightly, it still felt like winter.

  Small birds protested. The chickens refused to lay a single egg, at night the sky turned black and stars hovered like diamonds. Before the end of the week however, a thaw set in. Drip by drip the snow melted; the sound of it relentless.

  Meredith slept late, her dreams turned to nightmares. She woke in the night and Verity heard her crying.

  ‘Hush now, I’m here.’ Verity shook her sister out of whatever dream was troubling her, and afraid she might wake Allegra, took her into her own bed.

  ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

  ‘He hurt her…’ Meredith sobbed and trembled. ‘She said the birds know… What do the birds know?’

  Meredith lay on her back, exhausted now and sleeping deeply.

  Beyond the weeping garden Verity could see flat waves sighing up the beach, relentless thin white creases. Further out, the sea was dark and threatening. She went downstairs, poured a glass of milk and was about to go back to bed when she noticed a light under the door of the sitting-room.

  Her mother lay on the window seat, lolling back against the frame, a half-smoked cigarette in her fingers. The skirt of her heavy silk kimono fell away, exposing her slender legs.

  Allegra looked up, the cigarette singeing the skin of her fingers.

  Shreds of cloud slid across the moon.

  ‘You should get some proper sleep,’ Verity said.

  ‘I never sleep. You know I don’t.’

  Only the tick of a clock disturbed the silence.

  ‘I know you do your best, Verity.’

  Verity eyed her mother warily. Faint praise made her suspicious and this was twice in as many days.

  ‘Don’t look so serious. I’m not saying it to be nice. I know you mean well.’

  Together they gazed out to the horizon, listened to the sea, darkly deep and roaring in from Ireland.

  Verity noticed her mother’s pale bony knees under her nightdress, the thinness of her fingers as she pulled the edges of her kimono close again. She saw how narrow her arms were. How angular her face. There were no curves to her.

  Verity wanted her mother to know she was paying attention. ‘You don’t eat enough.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Allegra’s eyes remained fixed on the view. The wind shifted, took a patch of cloud with it, revealing a luminous slice of moon the colour of ice.

  ‘A lover’s moon,’ Allegra said. She reached for her tarot cards, scattered on a round table at her side, scooped them up and dropped them into the space between her and Verity, carelessly as if for once she didn’t care how they landed. Most of them slid sideways, falling to the floor leaving two, face-down on the seat, like a challenge.

  ‘Go on then,’ she said.

  As usual, it sounded like an order.

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Why not?’ Allegra’s look was one of amusement. ‘Indulge me.’

  Verity paused. Her mother’s smile felt like a trick.

  It’s a load of rubbish, what do I care?

  She turned over one of the cards. The Two of Swords: a seated, blindfolded woman holding two swords crossed over her chest: above her, a crescent moon and behind her the sea.

  Allegra started.

  ‘What?’ Verity was unwilling to give the image credence. ‘What’s she supposed to stand for?’

  Allegra gave a sliver of a shrug. Her voice sounded distant. ‘Stalemate? Some sort of impasse.’

  Verity touched her finger to the woman’s bound face. It was a picture on a piece of card. It meant nothing. She tapped the second one. ‘Your turn now.’

  Without looking, Allegra turned the card over. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Another sword. The Knight.’

  ‘Did you swap it?’ Allegra’s voice sounded choked.

  ‘Of course I didn’t. Why would I do that? I don’t believe in this stuff anyway. And you only do when it suits you.’

  Allegra grabbed the cards, scrabbled for the ones on the floor and crammed them into the velvet bag.

  ‘You haven’t said what it means.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ her mother muttered. ‘If you can’t take it seriously, what’s the point? Go back to bed.’

  The sky darkened, clouds thickened, obliterating the moon. For a moment Verity thought it might have started snowing again.

  Distracted, Allegra turned to the window, spotted now with a mosaic of rain. ‘That’s all I need. I suppose it’s going to pour with rain until August now.’

  ‘There’s supposed to be a village near here where it rains every day in August.’

  Allegra made a snorting sound. ‘Now who’s being gullible? I suppose that’s more of your grandmother’s nonsense.’ She ran her hands along her arms. ‘God, how I loathe this place.’ The words came out as thin as she was. ‘Why are you still here? Well, I’m going to bed even if you aren’t.’

  As the door closed behind her mother, Verity watched the clouds wrestling for prominence and the rain as it began to fall in earnest. What was left of the snow would be gone by morning.

  On the floor by the window seat she spotted a small book. Her mother’s tarot bible. Verity opened it, knowing she would find the text underlined, the margins annotated in her mother’s spidery hand, notes she made and yet barely took notice of. She turned the pages until she found the Knight of Swords and read the description.

  The word that stood out was ‘ruthless’.

  Twenty-seven

  The snow was almost gone and spring was making an effort.

  Outside the weather became more seasonal, indoors the house still felt bleak and upstairs it smelled of damp.

  ‘It’s as if nature’s got it in for me.’ Allegra huddled in front of the range drinking cup after cup of hot coffee.

  ‘Miss Jenkins says it’s to do with the climate.’ Verity was trying to work out some sums in a book the education board had supplied. Meredith was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Miss Jenkins would,’ Allegra said. The scorn in her voice was muted, as if she could barely be bothered to argue.

  ‘She’s ahead of her time according to Mr Tallis. They were talking about it – about a climate change conference last February and…’

  ‘They’re as mad as bats those two. The weather’s fine now.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing … weather and climate…’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Verity, stop trying to be clever.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m saying what I believe. You can’t erase my thoughts because you don’t agree with them. It’s what men do.’

  ‘Good grief, Verity, you sound like a women’s libber. Wherever did you get an idea like that?

  We stayed mute and disloyal because we were afraid…

  The poems were beginning to make sense.

  ‘It isn’t an idea, it’s a fact.’ Verity took a breath. ‘Have you heard of a writer called Adrienne Rich?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, who’s she when she’s at home.’

  ‘She’s an American poet…’

  ‘Ah, more Miss Jenkins I suppose. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was into all that women’s rights stuff.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Oh, Verity, it’s so graceless, so strident.’

  ‘It makes a lot of sense.’

  Allegra brushed off feminism as if it were a stray hair on her shawl. ‘Oh, it’s nonsense, the bloody climate too for that matter. Between you, you and your precious librarian are driving me crazy. Bloody feminists – thinking they have all the answers.’

  Verity met her mother’s eyes and she saw an emotion behind them, impossible to hide.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Allegra twisted the little pearl ring.

  ‘You never take it off, do you?’

  ‘Why would I? He gave it to me. In spite of his faults, he was very gallant, your father. You know?’

  ‘I thought you hated him.’

  H
e was a poet…

  Not, she suspected, like Adrienne Rich…

  ‘You can still despise someone you love.’ Allegra sighed and the sound was expansive. ‘I’ve lost so much, Verity. Your father, my friends; any life I might have had. Buried here like Miss bloody Havisham. Look at this place; it’s a wreck, a mausoleum.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate. It’s a bit shabby, but that’s because we don’t do proper housework.’ Verity moved across to the fire, next to her mother. ‘We’re lucky to live here, Mam. Nain could have sold it and then where would we have gone?’

  ‘There’s no future here, not for you girls.’

  It was the first time Verity remembered hearing her mother consider them or their future.

  ‘What do you mean?

  ‘Nothing, I don’t mean anything.’

  ‘You aren’t thinking of leaving are you?’

  ‘Would it be so awful?’ Allegra knew a difficult question was best answered by another. Her voice wobbled. She rubbed her temple. A frown appeared, marring her otherwise perfect brow. She kept her eyes shut, her fists clenched. ‘Bloody Dickens would have had a field day in this dump.’ She scowled. ‘And what the hell has feminism ever done for me?’

  Allegra habitually spoke her thoughts out loud and Verity was used to it; accustomed to ignoring her. After a second’s hesitation, she touched her mother’s hand and for a moment thought Allegra was going to allow her to take it. Instead it was snatched it away and she made a barrier of both her hands and the moment was over.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it. It doesn’t matter. Get on with your work and stop bothering me.’

  Verity gathered her books. ‘Whatever. Sorry to be such a pain. I’ll finish this in my room then shall I?’

  The door didn’t slam behind her. Verity was too contained for that kind of petulance, a trait Allegra found vaguely irritating.

  Why does she have to be so passive?

  She fingered an unopened letter from the bank lying on the table like a summons. Poking the fire she watched as a shower of sparks exploded onto the hearth. The envelope was brown with one of those cellophane windows that always struck her as lazy, as if the sender couldn’t be bothered to write a simple name and address.

  Her name was wrong in any case. It was always wrong: Mrs Allegra Dilys Kingdom – official looking, entirely incorrect. It was a borrowed name, which in spite of her legal claim, hadn’t ever felt as if it belonged to her.

  Allegra’s heart was fashioned from hope and impetuous wishes; his had been made from declarations written in sand. When Idris Kingdom left and took her dreams with him, she became plain Allegra Pryce once more. By then, the forms had been filled in, the façade erected, the illusion set in place. Everyone assumed Mrs Allegra Dilys Kingdom was like any married woman whose husband had upped and left.

  All you had to do was look behind her ash-coloured eyes to know this wasn’t true.

  Present

  At this rate, I’ll have a collection.

  Allegra’s chain-smoking habit put Meredith and me off cigarettes for life. I still find the smell disgusting. I wrinkle my nose, add the second stub to the first; stuff the tissue into my pocket. My phone still shows no signal. Calling the caretaker will have to wait.

  In my bag there’s a bottle of water and some apples, and a packet of cheese and tomato sandwiches Carla insisted on making for me.

  Realising I’m hungry I pull them out and start eating as I watch the ragwort, tall as flags, waving in the breeze.A few sparrows gather, unafraid and bold. I tear at the crusts of my sandwich, break them into small pieces and fling them into the grass.

  In the undergrowth the breeze shifts, the wild flowers rustle and whisper.

  The sandwiches are soggy. I told her they would be, even though I don’t mind. Carla’s care for me is more than I know I deserve. She is utterly selfless and there are times when I find it hard to understand why she would want to be with someone like me.

  I’m not selfish; I have simply become circumspect. I don’t like to show my feelings. Over the past few years, they have taken too much of a battering.

  The sparrows fly up, regroup and land again. I look towards the dark side of the garden, overgrown and silent, and it isn’t a ghost I’m concerned with.

  The sense someone has been here is acute.

  I tear at the remains of my sandwich. Out of sight I hear the gulls – supreme opportunists – and half expect an invasion. For now they leave the sparrows to their feast. High on the thermals, their cry becomes a scream.

  I drain the water and wander across the garden. There’s a shed behind the kitchen. We kept our bicycles in it; it was filled with tools: hoes and spades, an old lawn mower belching petrol. The door is open and I wonder again about the man Nain has been paying to keep an eye on the house, and if his caretaking is meant to include the grounds. If it is, he isn’t earning his money. I shall have to get hold of him somehow. I don’t look forward to questioning someone I don’t know, trying to find out if my grandmother has been cheated.

  I ask myself what Carla would do and try to be kind. Maybe he’s heard about Mared’s death and doesn’t know what to do either.

  Meredith’s bicycle leans against the shed, up to its saddle in nettles and weeds.

  Don’t forget to put your bike away; if it rains, it’ll go rusty…

  Meredith never put her bicycle away.

  Looking down I notice the grass is flattened, as if someone has recently been standing on it. A tremor runs down my back and I turn away, walk back to the fountain, quickly, in search of the sky, away from shadows. The birds have disappeared, the crumbs finished and for a moment I’m ridiculously alone.

  We were always alone. And Meredith is still travelling, wandering wherever the wind takes her. I don’t know for sure where she is and here, with memories crowding me, I miss her more than I ever have.

  I sent a letter to the last known address, telling her about Mared’s death. After three months and no response, I fear the worst.

  Carla says, if I want to, we can go and look for her. I know this would be a bad idea. I may not have seen my sister for over twenty years but I know her and understand how she would hate to be followed.

  Meredith is more like Allegra than she knows.

  Once was not enough and he sought me out again.

  I locked my door. Mama wanted to know why and when I had no answer, she took the key.

  Sitting at my dressing table a few nights later, I felt his dark, demanding shadow at my back. My protest was smothered by brutish hands; he told me if I made a noise, he would kill me. Rigid with dread, I almost hoped I would die. Survival is an instinct though and had my mouth not been dry from terror, I might have screamed. But then, recalling my mother’s impenetrable face, I froze.

  He took my muteness for acquiescence. This time he didn’t bother with the bed. It was over in minutes and his rank, whisky-laden breath on my neck as he snarled his warning not to tell sickened me almost as much as the hideousness of his assault.

  A week later, while my father was away on the business men conduct, my brother risked a daytime assault. I was making my way to the conservatory, instructed by my mother to check for frost damage amongst her delicate orchids. Behind the wet splashing of the thawing snow, I didn’t hear him.

  He grabbed me from behind, pinned me against the wall. This time some inner fury lent me a power I didn’t know I possessed. I fought like a cat, bit and scratched his face and shrieked my refusal. He tore at the bodice of my gown, but alarmed and taken aback by my resistance and cries, his fear of being discovered overrode his foul intention.

  Raising his hand, he hit me hard across the side of my head. Stunned, I almost fell. At the same moment, we both heard the tap of my mother’s boots, her voice calling, demanding to know what the commotion was.

  My brother, the coward, ran for his life.

  Part Two

  Twenty-eight

  He came out of nowhere.


  There’s no such thing as nothing … no such place as nowhere…

  It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him. It was the first time he’d spoken to her.

  ‘May I see?’

  Pale and light-saturated, that morning the sea was tinged with milky blue, making itself up as it went along. Allegra was attempting to capture the horizon. It shifted: a line of purple and black, one second as clear as if some invisible hand had drawn it with a ruler, the next, merged with the sky and turning to mist.

  She feigned surprise. ‘God, you made me jump.’

  ‘Really?’

  Allegra didn’t like being found out. As he laughed it sounded contrite enough and she relented. The sun was behind him. Tall and gauntly handsome, he merged into the cliff.

  ‘I was drawn by the glint in your hair. Like diamonds.’

  She touched a finger to the clip.

  ‘Am I forgiven?’ His smile was a question too.

  ‘Forgive is a theory, but yes, if you like.’

  ‘That sounds cynical.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because I’m a cynic?’

  ‘You’re far too lovely for cynicism. And any woman who can paint like this has to be acquainted with certainty.’ He paused. ‘With idealism and passion maybe?’

  ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She laughed with him because she wasn’t going to allow anyone, let alone a stranger, to see her heart.

  Hers was an old love story, its trail gone cold although Allegra hadn’t completely lost sight of it. She may not have forgiven her feckless husband his desertion, yet he still had his place, albeit as a stubborn stain on her heart. Allegra’s heart was broken and impossible to mend. Too many of the pieces were lost.

  She dropped her brush into a jar of water poised on a rock; searched in her bag for her tobacco pouch.

  ‘Here,’ he said, offering a pack of tailor-mades, ‘have one of these.’

  ‘No thanks, I prefer to roll my own.’

  ‘I’ve seen you before.’ He stared at her with careless eyes and she touched her hair again.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Do you live nearby?’

  She nodded and raised a hand, the cigarette paper pointing. ‘Up there.’