Snow Sisters
Page 31
In the dim shade of the wisteria, grown vast in our absence, bluebells stray through the garden, the scent of them making us giddy with delight. I listen for the birds. It’s silent and I imagine them pausing, wondering who we are. Untouched for two decades the garden has a secret loveliness and what we can see is also what it still hides.
We have to bury her…
The garden is full of seeds and worms and snails; vast ferns and a myriad flowers, and in the corner, the graceful elongated branches of the wisteria dripping with lush blue lanterns.
Wistful wisteria … sad, but a lot prettier…
The memories I have spent the day resisting flood in.
‘Can you still smell snow?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘it’s not the same in London.’
‘Allegra never believed you.’
‘She hated snow.’
‘I haven’t seen snow for so long, I’ve forgotten what it looks like.’
‘Make a wish, then, you never know. It’s still April.’
Meredith grins. ‘You wish.’
‘Am I allowed to talk about Allegra?’
‘Of course you are. I gave up hating Mam years ago, you know. It was me I had to work out, not her.’
I ask her if she thought Nain knew Allegra wouldn’t ever be happy.
‘I expect so. She was the cleverest of us all.’ Meredith picks a bluebell, pokes it into her hair. ‘Allegra just wanted to be loved.’
Her heart is where she keeps her truth…
In this moment I know my mother better.
Something still niggles.
‘She made you go,’ I say.
‘No, Verity, I made me go.’
She is making it easy, making it make sense.
‘You know I would have come back if I could.’
‘Yes. It’s all right.’
It will be, she’s here and I can forgive her anything.
I hesitate. ‘Tell me about the ghost.’
‘She didn’t leave, I told you. She’s still here.’
So is Allegra.
Meredith strides ahead, parts tall grass and waist-high nettles, steps over roots and doesn’t trip up.
She belongs here.
‘Come on, sis.’
She disappears; the unrestrained garden gathers her in and I stumble after her. In the centre of the blue garden where we buried the twig baby, she stands, arms at her side, hair hovering as if it might lift her off the ground.
‘Look.’ Her voice is so normal, I feel foolish.
Here the weeds have been respectful, kept their distance. Tiny blue flowers gather, a sweet carpet: speedwell, violets and harebells. Meredith kneels down and I join her.
From the soft grass where the twig baby’s heart would have been a small tree has taken root.
It’s about four feet high, a wild lilac in fragile bloom and gently scented. Shaped like a girl, the upper branches reach in a dance of arms and twiggy fingers; lower down, blue-tinged flowers flutter like a gown.Meredith reaches for my hand.My vision blurs and I can’t see anything. A dusting of chilly air as light and thin as spider web curls round us.
I smell snow.
Meredith lays her other hand on the ground, feeling the earth.
We have a special spell to make… We’ll have to make it up…
I can see my sister surrounded by her makings, turning twigs into limbs and flowers into hair.
Flowers grow out of my fingers…
I see her painting the twig baby’s face and how gentle she was as she wrapped it in the scarf she stole from our mother.
How she handed me the shovel…
‘Oh, Meredith.’ My voice is a whisper. ‘We did it.’
My sister leans into me, I can smell the ocean and old stars; I can smell snow.
The light is fading and a mist is beginning to float through the garden. There is a clatter of wings, a cloud of birds rise and call before settling back into the wisteria disguised as brown flowers.
The birds saw everything.
Taking the envelope from my pocket, I open it; slide the moth onto the palm of my hand.
Meredith reaches out a finger, touches the dusty membrane and shudders. It isn’t the unexpected cold; she’s crying.
‘I loved her so much.’
I hold her shaking body to me, my lost sister who never really left.
‘She loved you too, because you were brave,’ I say, ‘and believed in her.’
‘She was the brave one.’
‘We’re the Pryce sisters, we were born brave.’
Meredith snuggles into me. ‘Can you hear her?’
I can’t. It doesn’t matter, because Meredith always will.
Somewhere a bird begins to sing, the notes trembling in the air and my sister takes my hand. Her skin is softer than I remember; it’s like the sea and I think I shall ask her to teach me to swim.
Other birds join and I can hear their grace notes.
‘She told us,’ Meredith whispers. ‘The birds miss nothing.’
The moment melts a hole in the sky and snow begins falling.
Whatever you may have heard, child; I didn’t take my own life.
It was they who killed me.
And it was never that I was mad. What they did to me made me that way…
The birds gave this garden their blessing. I exist in the spaces between their songs and the rustling of leaves, in slivers of light between dusk and darkness, in folds of night and drifts of snow.
Leaving the world you see more clearly; you choose which pieces to remember. My story is told, and I move through a light that no longer exists.
My child is laid to rest.
Each lost thing is found.
My name is Angharad and I am not mad.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My sincere gratitude goes to Caroline Oakley, for her thoughtful, forensic editorial eye and for finding the superb cover image. Love and thanks to my wonderful mentor, Janet Thomas, for untangling the early muddle and showing me the story beneath. To the team at Honno, my continued appreciation for your hard work and dedication. Thank you to my sister authors at Honno for being the best gang ever.
My beloveds and cheerleaders remain faithful, kind and generous. Love and thanks, you know who you are.
Thanks and gratitude to the writers and readers I’ve met through Book Connectors, the brilliant brainchild of Anne Cater. Huge thanks go to the book blogging community and those of you who agreed to be included on the tour for this book. In particular, I want to thank Anne Williams for her continued invaluable support. And a special smiley thank you to Louise Beech and Amanda Jennings for insisting I can write.
Love to Janey Stevens, writing sister and co-conspiritor in the smallest writing group in Wales, who, from the moment she heard the first outline of this story, said it would be published. And for making me look good in photos.
To two of the kindest women in my world, boundless love. My niece, Sally, for her courage and loyalty. And my beloved daughter, Natalie, whose generosity of heart brought back the joy to mine.
ALSO BY CAROL LOVEKIN
Nothing hurts like not knowing who you are.
Nobody will tell Cadi anything about her father and her sister. Her mother Violet believes she can only cope with the past by never talking about it. Lili, Cadi’s aunt, is stuck in the middle, bound by a promise she shouldn’t have made. But this summer, Cadi is determined to find out the truth.
In a world of hauntings and magic, in a village where it rains throughout August, as Cadi starts on her search the secrets and the ghosts begin to wake up. None of the Hopkins women will be able to escape them.
‘…a beautifully emotional story about the importance of forgiveness, wrapped up in a loose retelling of the story of Blodeuwedd…’ Carolyn Percy, Wales Arts Review
‘…a poignant illustration of the effects of loss, full of warmth and emotional intelligence’ Isabel Costello, The Literary Sofa
‘One of the most
exquisitely beautiful books that I’ve read in a really long time’ Hayley, Rather Too Fond of Books
‘Every so often, a book comes along that makes me feel as if the words I have at my disposal can’t possibly be enough to put together a review that does it full justice…read it, experience it, and love every moment of it as much as I did’ Being Anne…
ABOUT HONNO
Honno Welsh Women’s Press was set up in 1986 by a group of women who felt strongly that women in Wales needed wider opportunities to see their writing in print and to become involved in the publishing process. Our aim is to develop the writing talents of women in Wales, give them new and exciting opportunities to see their work published and often to give them their first ‘break’ as a writer. Honno is registered as a community co-operative. Any profit that Honno makes is invested in the publishing programme. Women from Wales and around the world have expressed their support for Honno. Each supporter has a vote at the Annual General Meeting. For more information and to buy our publications, please write to Honno at the address below, or visit our website: www.honno.co.uk
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We are very grateful for the support of the Honno Friends: Jane Aaron, Annette Ecuyere, Audrey Jones, Gwyneth Tyson Roberts, Beryl Roberts, Jenny Sabine.
For more information on how you can become a Honno Friend, see: http://www.honno.co.uk/friends.php
First published by Honno Press
‘Ailsa Craig’, Heol y Cawl, Dinas Powys, Wales, CF64 4AH
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© Carol Lovekin, 2017
The right of Carol Lovekin to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The Author would like to stress that this is a work of fiction and no resemblance to any actual individual or institution is intended or implied.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Published with the financial support of the Welsh Books Council.
ISBN 978-1-909983-70-0 (paperback)
ISBN 978-909983-71-7 (ebook)
Cover design: G Preston
Cover image: © Shutterstock, Inc