Covent Garden in the Snow

by Jules Wake

  ‘My God, it’s huge.’ I gazed up at the pale-yellow walls several stories high. ‘No wonder Lizzy changed her mind about Mr Darcy.’

  ‘Isn’t it sacrilegious to say that?’ asked Marcus. ‘Didn’t she marry for love?’

  ‘Romantic as I think I am, I am also a realist.’

  We rounded to the front of the house and wandered through the garden which was beautifully kept with perfectly trimmed hedges and shrubs. The fir trees had all been decked with lights and I could imagine when it was dark it would look magical. Everywhere there was something to see, intricate gardens here and in the distance statuesque trees and the classic Capability Brown parkland designed to lead your eye to some intricate folly.

  We’d been walking for half an hour when we left the path to get a better view of the south side of the house. Marcus put out a hand to pull me up a grassy knoll and as I reached the top I tripped on a loose sod of earth and went catapulting into him. His arms went around me and we stood breathless for a moment with nowhere to look but into each other’s eyes.

  I didn’t let go and neither did he. I sucked in a breath as if that would help me hold on to the moment. We stood motionless as if time had stopped. I was aware of my heart thudding in my chest and the breath caught in my lungs. My heart was hammering away and Marcus looked lost for a minute before he lifted his hand to brush the hair whipping around my face. His fingers slid along my cheekbone and I almost melted into a puddle. Without thinking I put my hand up and laid my fingers on his wrist.

  He brought his other hand up to trace the outline of the diamond embossing the leather of my glove. There was a shadow in Marcus’s eyes as he gave me a sad smile.

  ‘What’s the story with your fiancé? You don’t talk about him.’

  I blinked away sudden tears. Saying it out loud would make it real.

  ‘It’s over.’

  He raised an eyebrow and I felt his touch on my ring.

  ‘He. He’s done something. I can’t forgive him for. I thought I could, but I c-can’t. I haven’t told him yet.’ I bit my lip as the tears slid down my face. ‘I could happily kill him.’

  I clenched my fists so tightly I could feel the leather of my gloves stretching over my knuckles. ‘More than kill,’ I said, the anger spilling over, my voice surging with venom. ‘Dig his damn heart with a spoon and feed it to the rats. He’s a big. Fat. Lying rat.’ I spat the final words shuddering with the rage that slashed through me.

  ‘Remind me not to cross you.’

  Marcus’s sudden attempt at humour punctured my anger and I burst into hot furious sobs.

  His arms went around me and we stood for a moment. I didn’t deserve his sympathy but I couldn’t resist leaning into him and savouring the sense of being held. His soft scarf tickled my cheek, absorbing some of my tears.

  I pulled away feeling a terrible fraud, almost tempted to confess everything to him.

  ‘Don’t tell me? He’s having an affair.’ A frown crossed his face making me wonder more about the ex-girlfriend who’d given him the tie.

  I laughed bitterly. ‘Felix would never have an affair. He’s too … Oh.’ I heard the shrill cry of a hawk above us as everything else receded. ‘Oh.’

  That’s what he’d been trying to tell me. Jonno’s the type of guy that knows things … he was going to tell you.

  ‘Tilly?’ Marcus’s voice came from far away.

  I blinked and looked at him. ‘Yes,’ I whispered, ‘I think he is.’

  Suddenly something barged into my side, knocking me away from Marcus and hot breath wheezed over my hand.

  ‘Buster! Buster! Heel!’

  An enormous Airedale terrier had appeared and was bounding around my knees, woofing in friendly greeting, his bearded face nuzzling into my hand.

  ‘Buster. Here! Now!’

  A small blonde woman came running over, almost falling over her outsize green Hunter wellies. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s still a baby. Come here, you naughty boy.’ She grabbed at his collar but he was still nudging at me.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I smiled at her rubbing Buster’s head, grateful for the distraction. The wiry curls felt soft and his head was warm under my cold fingers.

  The woman finally managed to hook her fingers under his collar and pulled him away. ‘This way you silly animal. What have I told you?’ With twinkly-eyed apology she dragged the bouncing dog away.

  ‘Mr Gardiner. Uncle Ted. He was called Mr Gardiner,’ I suddenly said, shoving my hands into pockets and starting to walk again.

  ‘So he was,’ said Marcus nodding and falling into step beside me.

  Chapter 25

  The rain started just past Sheffield and a grey mist descended making driving conditions difficult. Passing lorries churned up the spray, spattering the windscreen with dirty water. The windscreen wipers slapped back and forth at full-speed clearing the streaky mess.

  Even though I’d not lived with my parents for years and had my own flat, the minute I saw the familiar cooling towers of the power stations and the grassed over slag heaps, I felt as if I was coming home.

  ‘You look as if you’ve changed your mind about going home,’ observed Marcus, watching me eagerly pointing out landmarks on the Leeds-Harrogate road an hour later. We’d kept to strictly impersonal topics since we’d got back into the car.

  ‘I am. I thought I was dreading it but it’s still home. I don’t know what to expect with my mother, I haven’t been on my own with her for years. I always make sure I come home when Christelle is going to be here.’

  ‘I liked her.’

  ‘Yeah. I thought you might. She’s much more your type. The blue-eyed girl. I’m the flake.’

  ‘Can we just move past that one? You could give me some credit for changing my mind.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve seen you in action … you’ve never let your parents see that side of you, have you?’ Marcus drew in a breath.

  ‘You’ve been talking to Christelle,’ I accused him.

  ‘No, but she hinted. It’s almost as if you’ve deliberately kept them away. And let’s face it – we’re all monsters as teenagers. Perhaps you haven’t moved on.’

  I watched his hands, competent and steady on the steering wheel.

  ‘What if your parents were only trying to make sure you kept all your options open. What if you’d changed your mind? Or didn’t make it? You could have ended up working in “A Cut Above” or “Scissor Happy” in the back of beyond, doing blue rinse perms for a legion of pensioners rather than in the theatre.’

  I scowled unhappily at him. ‘I’m not good at forgiveness.’

  ‘Tilly! Don’t be silly … sounds like that Black Lace single.’ He burst into song. ‘Tilly don’t be a silly. Don’t be a fool…’

  I slapped at his arm, trying not to laugh at the tuneless words. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He flashed a sheepish grin and then carried on. ‘Seriously, I don’t know your mother but if you haven’t been home much since you were a teenager, you haven’t had a chance to build a relationship with them as an adult. Christ.’ He said the words with vehemence. ‘I blush at some of the things I said to my mum when I was a teenager. Moody sod. I could sulk for days.’

  I thought about what he’d said for a moment. Maybe he was right. I looked at him with gratitude. ‘Thanks. You’re turning into quite the agony uncle these days.’

  ‘My pleasure. Now which way am I going?’

  The landscape had changed and my heart lifted at the familiar sights that told me we were on the outskirts of Harrogate. Only five minutes from home.

  When we pulled up outside the detached house, I turned to Marcus with a self-deprecating smile. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy coming in with me. Help me out.’

  He was already out of the car hefting my overnight bag into his arms and heading towards the front door. ‘Now, now Tilly. I thought we agreed. Positive thinking. If you go in with that attitude…’

  ‘I know. But they’ll prob
ably approve of you. You’re a proper professional sort of person.’ Although she probably wouldn’t like him being surprised on her. My mother didn’t do spontaneity.

  Marcus shot me a shrewd glance. ‘That why Felix was so appealing?’

  I flushed a brilliant red and wrinkled my nose at him at his unwelcome insight.

  ‘Got a degree in armchair psychology, have we?’ I asked.

  Mum didn’t bat an eyelid and Dad seemed rather delighted to have another man to talk to for a change.

  ‘Mum, Dad, this is Marcus … um … er … a work colleague. He was coming up for a conference thing on …’ I glanced at Marcus for reassurance but he just smiled, ‘computery things.’

  ‘Oh, at the Harrogate Conference Centre?’ said Mum, brightly.

  No, at the Outer Hebrides Conference Centre, he thought he’d just divert here for tea with you. I didn’t say that because by that time, she and Marcus were well away debating the merits of conference centres they had been to.

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s a chance of a cup of tea for our guest?’

  Mum pursed her mouth and then turned back to Marcus. ‘I’m so sorry, how rude. Can I make you a drink, a tea or a coffee? And I’ve just made a batch of mince pies.’

  ‘Tea would be lovely, Mrs …’ he shot a quick look at me.

  ‘Oh, call me Elise. Mrs Hunter sounds so stuffy. And a mince pie?’

  ‘Oooh yum. You must try one,’ I said. Hers were the best. When she’d arrived here all those years ago, she’d been determined to embrace every British tradition possible. Every year she made several batches of them, flatly refusing to have shop-bought ones in the house. ‘Mum has this special secret recipe, she puts orange juice in the pastry and orange zest on top of the mince-meat.’

  ‘Not so secret now then,’ said Dad with a wink as he invited Marcus to call him Trevor.

  I bit the inside of my cheek. This was such a far cry from Felix’s one and only visit. Like a boisterous puppy, he’d been overfamiliar and bouncy calling my mum Mrs H and Dad Trev and putting his feet on the coffee table within the first hour of arriving. It hadn’t gone down well.

  Before I knew it, the three of them had segued seamlessly into talking about cars of all things. Apparently, Mum was thinking of getting a VW golf.

  Pottering about the kitchen, she ushered us into the chairs around the kitchen table, sliding hot mince pies onto plates for everyone.

  ‘And what about petrol consumption?’ Dad asked as I was still wondering why we weren’t subjected to the formality of the lounge where guests were normally entertained.

  Marcus gave him a caught-out-schoolboy smile. ‘Depends on how you drive, to be honest.’

  Mum laughed. ‘Town driving. I’m no boy racer.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  I watched as the three of them chatted easily. With his good manners, good looks and a damn lovely smile, Marcus was house-trained. Parent friendly.

  My mother was not however so normally friendly – full stop.

  ‘Yes, I met her at the opera.’ I tuned back into the conversation as Mum turned to me with a wide smile, handing me a cup of tea.

  ‘How lovely that you invited Christelle, Tilly. She so enjoyed it.’ Mum gave a wistful smile. ‘It sounded wonderful. Didn’t it Trevor? Did you enjoy it, Marcus?’

  ‘Yes, more than I expected.’ He threw me a conspiratorial wink. ‘Tilly thinks I’m a complete Philistine, I’d never seen any opera before then, but I surprised myself. It’s amazing when you see what goes on behind the scenes.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine it’s quite an undertaking. And I hear it’s a very beautiful theatre. I’d love to go one day.’

  I raised my eyebrows at that one but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I knew they’d approve of you,’ I said in a quiet undertone as I showed him to the front door.

  ‘I suspect that’s not necessarily a compliment.’ Marcus’s lips firmed and I immediately felt ungracious. ‘Your parents weren’t the least bit the way you described them. Your mother’s a lovely woman. She’s very proud of you and terrified of upsetting you.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft. But thank you for being nice to her. You’ve been…’ Amazing? Lovely? Gorgeous? ‘You’ve been really kind to me. Especially today. I … I’m really grateful. It’s been a funny few weeks and that’s an understatement. Thanks for the lift and … everything else. You’ve really helped today.’ Standing on the doorstep brought me level with him. ‘In the car. Things you said … it’s been good.’ Something flickered in the depths of his green eyes. ‘Thank you,’ I said, hoping that my heartfelt thanks were conveyed.

  He smiled, which softened his whole face.

  ‘It sounds as if you need to resolve a few things. Perhaps we can catch up next week. Maybe go out for a drink?’

  ‘That would be. Yes. Lovely. I’d like that.’ My tongue tripped over itself.

  He smiled and laid a gentle barely-there kiss on my lips.

  ‘See you soon,’ he murmured.

  I shut the door with a silly smile on my face.

  It’s funny the things you notice. There’d been no huge changes in the house, just tiny things; a new carpet in the downstairs toilet, virtually the same as the last one, blinds on the kitchen windows instead of the old curtains and the cushions that had been in the spare room were now in the lounge.

  ‘What a lovely man,’ observed my mother as I returned to the lounge. ‘Nice of him to give you a lift.’

  ‘He’s just a colleague, Mum,’ I said, turning to look at the photos on the mantelpiece. Dad had disappeared off to the study.

  I picked up one of the pictures. The only one of me must have been taken when I was nineteen. My hair, much shorter then, had streaks of purple woven through it. I was heavily made-up with a sulky expression on my face, accentuated by a dark burgundy pout. I’d loved that lipstick at the time. There were some very recent pictures of Christelle and the cats.

  She caught my stare. I shrugged, embarrassed that she might think I was jealous or something.

  ‘It would be nice,’ she said touching the picture of me, ‘if we could have an up to date one of you.’

  Typical, she had to get a dig in about how long it was since I’d last been home.

  ‘Perhaps we could take some in the garden tomorrow.’ She gave me a conspiratorial smile. ‘That’s not the best photo. Your hair looks so much prettier now. It’s such a beautiful colour.’

  ‘Not purple, you mean.’ The defiance that crept into my voice was habitual and for a second I saw a shaft of pain sear across my mother’s face.

  ‘No,’ she agreed quietly. ‘Not purple.’

  I avoided looking at her and instead traced the edge of one of the picture frames. ‘This is lovely.’ It was a watercolour of the moors at dusk, with the heather pictured in the foreground, a deep dusky pink among bracken greens. In the distance coming over the crest of the hill, two girls tumbled through the heather and the painter had captured their unfettered joy.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Her face lit up, a secretive smile hovered around her lips. ‘It’s Blubberhouses Moor. I … er, by a local artist. It was exhibited at the art fair at the Valley Gardens last year.’

  I fixed my attention on the painting. Blubberhouses. Every now and then I’d hear it mentioned on the radio. The road through there, high up on the moor, was often blocked by snow or an accident. The name usually eliciting some comment from the traffic reporter. Looking at the picture sparked Technicolor memories of unsullied happiness.

  Family Sunday walks, crunching through the frost-covered bracken with puffs of steamy breath filling the air as we laboured up the hills. Chris and I, half-running to keep up with Dad’s long strides on the downward trip homewards. In the winter our reward was lunch in a local pub, The Sun Inn with hot soup and Coca-Cola for me and Chris, a pint of Old Peculier for Dad and a half of Tetley’s for Mum. In the summer, we’d picnic at Bolton Abbey, my sister and I racing over the famous stepping stones that straddled the
river.

  Happy memories. Suddenly they bubbled over like a stream bursting its banks, startling me. They flooded into my head and it was as if I were seeing a film of another me.

  Mum laughing and retrieving one of our shoes that we’d dropped in the river. Mum unpacking the wicker hamper which was pretty rather than practical. It weighed a ton but I always insisted we should use it, with all its lovely china and place settings. Mum plaiting my hair to keep it out of my face so that I could see properly to get over the stones.

  I glanced over at her and I could see the same woman in her face. A woman I’d forgotten existed. It made me feel slightly dizzy and disorientated for a second as if I was straddled between two different worlds.

  That Mum had spent hours braiding and curling my hair for me, buying pretty ribbons and clips.

  Regret splintered through me and I tensed at the almost physical pain. I remembered the day I had all my hair cut off, less than an hour after I was officially enrolled into the sixth form – coming in from the hairdressers and my mother’s face when she’d looked up from the paperwork she was poring over.

  ‘I think I’ll take my bag upstairs,’ I said, suddenly hit by an overwhelming sense of tiredness. I felt as if I’d been picked up and spat out by an emotional tornado, and all the feelings were still whirling about inside my head.

  My bedroom was still unmistakably mine even though I’d not lived at home since I left to go to university. Things I’d have expected to have been thrown out were still there – an old rag doll, a theatre poster for Peter Pan and in the corner three shelves overflowing with books, volumes filling vertical and horizontal spaces. I knelt in front of it and traced the spines. All my childhood books. The Chalet School books, Ballet Shoes, an enormous selection of battered Enid Blyton’s, and an eclectic mix of classics: Anna Karenina, Brave New World, Keep the Aspidistra Flying, Testament of Youth.

  The battered copy of Testament of Youth beckoned to me and I pulled it from the shelf and stroked the dog-eared front cover. A scene played in my head. Me putting the book back on the shelf in the bookshop, unable to afford it because I’d spent the last of my pocket money on make-up in Boots. I never said a word about wanting it but later that afternoon I found a paper bag left on my bed.