The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘No. I’m the guardian. Appointed by the people who own the house.’ We are wary of one another, observing each other carefully, answering slowly, not wanting to be the one to give anything away. ‘Who are you? Do you live around here?’

  Her black-brown gaze lingers as she seems to appraise me. Then she says, ‘I live in the cottage over the way. Through the bushes.’

  My heart sinks. A neighbour. No one said anything about other people being close by. ‘What are you doing here? This is private property, you know.’

  ‘I know that. But it’s been empty a good while. We’ve been waiting for the new owner. But that’s not you, you say.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She fixes me with a beady look from those dark eyes of hers. ‘What do you know of the owner?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid. It’s a private company, that’s all I know.’

  She stares at me as if waiting for more. I’m not going to tell her anything else. Not that I know much more anyway.

  ‘Are you staying long?’ she asks at last.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I say, trying not to sound annoyed at her inquisitiveness. ‘A few weeks at least. It all depends. How did you know I was here?’

  She turns and gestures at the car, parked on the drive. Of course. What a stupid mistake. I’d forgotten all about that. She looks at me again. ‘And I heard you talking today. In the garden.’

  ‘I was talking on my mobile phone,’ I say quickly, hoping that’s all she heard. I feel a rush of anger that our haven has been invaded. It’s not safe after all. Isn’t there anywhere I can go to be left alone? ‘You must be very close, to hear that.’

  The old woman shrugs and says, ‘Not so close. But I went down the bottom of the garden to see to the compost and I heard talking. So now I’ve come to see what’s going on. In case of squatters or vandals, you understand,’ she adds. ‘We’ve a duty to report anything we see. They’ve tried to get in before but we’ve always stopped them. We’re used to it.’

  I don’t really believe her altruistic motives. Surely it was just curiosity that impelled her along to spy on us. I hope Heather stays where she is. The last thing I want is for her to be spotted by a busybody like this. I expect she’s just the kind of person to register us and then make connections.

  There is a bit of comfort in what the woman says, though. She only heard us by chance; she must have seen the car afterwards. Her cottage is not cheek by jowl to the house.

  ‘I see. Well, I appreciate your concern but you don’t have to worry about the house now that we’re . . . I’m here to look after it.’ I smile in what I hope is a cheerful manner. ‘Thanks for being alert, I’m sure the owners are grateful. But there’s really no need. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t come over unless invited. I’m working and need absolute quiet with as few disturbances as possible. Is that all right?’

  She looks back at me, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘You alone?’ she asks, ignoring me.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I reply smoothly. ‘Now if you—’

  ‘All by yourself in there?’

  ‘Yes.’ I’m very firm about that.

  ‘You might need me,’ she says. ‘If you do, you can call on me anytime, I’m always there. I’m over that way’ – she lifts a hand from a pocket and waves towards the bushes on the right-hand side of the drive – ‘in Nursery Cottage. Me and my sister, Sissy. I’m Matty, by the way.’

  ‘Hello, Matty,’ I say automatically, taking in the fact that there are two near neighbours. Then I refocus quickly. ‘I’m Rachel. And I’m going to be absolutely fine. Really. There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She stares at me and I feel an unpleasant prickle crawl down my back. ‘We’ll see about that. Well, I can tell you want to be left in peace. You don’t have to worry about us disturbing you. We shan’t come over unless there’s a reason.’ Then she adds, ‘By the way, you might tell your lot that they made a racket to wake the dead last time they were here. They should keep it down next time.’

  She turns on her heel and crunches back over the gravel the way she came. I watch her go and when she’s out of sight, I hurry back inside to find Heather and make sure she’s all right.

  I’m nervous after the encounter with the old woman, and even though I don’t think she’ll come back in a hurry, I keep us inside.

  ‘Can’t I go outside to play?’ Heather asks plaintively.

  ‘Not today, sweetheart. Why don’t you run around inside instead? You can play in the downstairs rooms, if you like.’

  ‘But I want to go to my den!’ she moans, casting a yearning glance outside where there is still a little sunshine remaining.

  ‘No. It’s getting cold. Inside today.’ I’m firm and she knows I won’t give in, so she trots off and soon I hear her in the hall, playing with her dolls and animals. She’s turned the chequered black and white tiled floor into a game for them.

  I want to settle down and relax, as I was just before I was disturbed, but Matty’s arrival has made that impossible.

  What did she mean by ‘your lot’? There hasn’t been anyone here for ages, has there? Maybe it was the people who stripped this place out.

  Meeting Matty has turned my mind to interactions with the outside world. Although I brought a good supply of stores with me, they won’t last forever and we’ll need fresh food. I go through everything in the larder and the small fridge, and realise that I’ll have to go out before too long; we can’t live off tinned soup and pasta forever. We’ll need vegetables and fresh bread. I think wistfully of the van that used to pull up outside my house once or twice a week and disgorge crate-loads of necessities, all just a tap and a click away. But, no doubt, all on record too: my ordering habits and preferences, and the location of the deliveries. All there for anyone who cares to look. Now I’ll have to shop without being noticed. Before we left, I researched the nearest supermarket, which lies just outside the town to the west. It’s going to be riddled with CCTV but if no one suspects my being here, and I keep my sunglasses on, I should be able to get away with it, especially if we haven’t been reported missing yet. That’s one good thing about Caz’s call: knowing I’m still at liberty.

  It would be better if I can do it all in bulk somehow. If I could freeze what I need. But how? The fridge doesn’t even have an icebox.

  A picture floats into my mind. It’s the basement, where I went this morning to take a look at the boiler and get it firing. I think I saw a big chest freezer down there, but I was focusing on the boiler and didn’t give it much attention. Leaving the kitchen, I hurry to the back stairs that lead down into the vast basement beneath the house. It’s the workhouse of the property down there: huge boards of electrical fuses and connections, the gurgling hot water system and rows of industrial-sized copper pipes running along the ceiling. An old washing machine sits not far from the boiler, by rows of metal dustbins. I switch on the light; the fluorescent strip waits, then flickers into life, and, yes, there it is. Over on the far side of the main chamber is a closed door, and next to that is a large chest freezer.

  I go over to it. It’s surprisingly new-looking, considering the state of everything else. I expected it to be coated in a thick layer of cellar dust but there’s only a light covering. I lift the lid with an effort, the inner vacuum keeping it firm, then I blink in surprise at the contents. I don’t know what I expected, if anything, but I find myself looking at a stack of frozen food, carefully arranged into categories. There’s bread, meat, fish and vegetables: packets of peas, sweetcorn, spinach, broccoli, and much more. There’s even some fresh milk and cartons of juice. I stare, astonished. There are dozens of loaves in there and I pull at the label of one on top, turning it around until I can see its best-before date. It’s faded in the icy interior but it’s possible to make out a date of several months ago – assuming it’s not years old. I pull out a box of frozen breaded chicken pieces and check the date on that. It’s for later this year. So the freezer can only have been st
ocked within the last few months. I frown, puzzled.

  Who put all this here?

  I was told that the property had been empty for some time. So . . . I shrug, mystified but pleased. Well, it’s all going spare as far as I can tell. Then I laugh out loud. What a result. I won’t have to go shopping after all. If we’re careful with our other supplies, we’ve got enough here to keep us going for quite some time. I’ll keep a log of what we use and if the owners kick up a fuss, I’ll just replace it. Simple.

  I pick a few things out of the freezer, then shut it up. The closed door next to the freezer flickers with reflected light and I notice that it is a shiny steel door, unlike any other I’ve seen in the house. I regard it for a moment, then tuck the food under my arm and turn the handle. It doesn’t move. It is locked and there’s no sign of a key. Then, to my surprise, I think I can see the flash of a light under the slim gap between the door and the floor. I frown, staring hard. Then I see it again – a quick flash of light, not white. Blue or green or red. A colour. But it’s too fast to be sure.

  I’m instantly on alert. ‘Hello?’ I call. ‘Is anyone there?’

  There’s no answer. I stare hard at the gap under the steel door, listening for the sound of any movement, watching for more flashes, but there’s nothing.

  After a while, the frozen food begins to burn cold through my top. I head back upstairs.

  Chapter Five

  Matty makes her way back through the undergrowth and along the path to the cottage. The day is closing in now, but she notes that the sun has lingered a little longer today. The winter is releasing them from its dark grip, bit by bit.

  This is the dankest part of the year, as spring wrestles to win over the days and set everything buzzing and burring with life, to bring back colour, light and warmth. Matty has watched it come to this place year after year. She’s never known another.

  She stomps through the long wet grasses, her hands deep in her pockets, frowning as she thinks over the arrival of the woman in the house. She goes up the path of a small, white-painted cottage with a thatched roof, trudges around the side of it and lets herself in through the back door. Pulling off her overcoat, she makes her way along the chilly hall, with its flagged floor and piles of possessions stacked along the sides, and hurries into the warmth of the kitchen.

  Sissy is there, not in her usual spot in the rocking chair, but at the table where she is slowly polishing a mound of silver cutlery: carefully selecting a piece, dabbing her rag with polish, and anointing the silver before she rubs it all over to a gleaming shine. There is a mountain of it, left over from the days when there were many mouths to feed.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ Matty asks, a touch of irritation in her voice.

  ‘Why not?’ Sissy replies, turning her face towards her sister. She is the younger but it would be hard to tell: they look so similar, with their salt-and-pepper hair, softly lined faces and beaky noses. ‘It needs doing.’

  ‘It does not. There’s no one to use it now.’

  ‘We can use it.’

  ‘We could use a different knife and fork every day for a year and still not need to wash a set.’

  ‘You like to exaggerate, Matty,’ her sister says mildly. ‘There’s not that much. No harm in keeping things nice.’

  ‘You shouldn’t tempt fate. You don’t want it all to start up again, do you?’ Matty mutters with a note of accusation in her voice. She goes to the range and lifts the kettle to see how much water is in it, then goes to refill it at the sink. ‘That chapter is closed, now the place has been sold.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s beyond the realms of possibility,’ replies Sissy, picking up a fork and starting her little ritual again: dab with polish, rub, move the cloth to a clean, dry spot and rub again all over.

  ‘You shouldn’t even think it. It’s better that it’s finished, isn’t it? Aren’t we free at last?’ Matty shakes her head and mutters again, her words drowned in the gush of water so that Sissy can’t hear. ‘We’re the last – and it’s better that way.’ She turns off the tap with a sharp twist and says loudly, ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. There’s only a woman there. She says she’s the guardian, whatever that is. She’s a caretaker, if you ask me. I asked if she was anything to do with the owner but she said she didn’t know much about it.’

  Sissy frowns, polishing away, feeling the tines of the fork with the tip of her finger. ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I think so. All she wanted was for me to clear off and leave her to it. She seemed . . . absorbed. That’s how I’d put it. She was half in another world, it seemed to me.’

  ‘How many are there?’ Sissy asks.

  ‘Oh, just her. On her own. She was clear about that.’

  Sissy stops polishing and goes quite still. ‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘That’s not right. She’s not on her own.’

  ‘What do you know, Sissy?’ her sister asks, putting the kettle on the range and turning round to look at her. ‘What have you found out?’

  Sissy starts polishing again. ‘Enough to know she’s not on her own.’

  Matty sighs. Sissy is enigmatic and often refuses to be drawn on what she discerns. But it always comes out in the end, and she’s seldom wrong.

  ‘Well, I didn’t see anyone else,’ Matty says. ‘Or any sign, either.’

  ‘You will,’ Sissy says. ‘When you go back.’

  ‘She doesn’t want me back. But I told her to be in touch if she ever needs us. If she is on her own over there, there’s no telling when she might need our help.’

  ‘Did you give her our telephone number?’

  Matty clicks her tongue. ‘No. Silly of me. I should have.’

  ‘Drop it in,’ suggests Sissy. ‘I think we need to keep wary, that’s all. I think we need to keep our eyes on that lady. Did she tell you her name?’

  ‘Rachel.’

  ‘Rachel,’ Sissy says, as if testing it out. She frowns, puts down the fork on the pile of finished cutlery and picks up a spoon. ‘Rachel.’

  Matty turns back to check the kettle for warmth, but she listens to Sissy and she tells herself to remember to give the number to their new neighbour. Just in case.

  Chapter Six

  I’m glad I found the stored food downstairs because the next day the weather turns filthy. Heavy grey clouds descend, blocking out the weak wintery light and bringing an endless deluge of rain. I discover water coming in at the bay window in the front reception room and have to hunt around for a bucket to catch it. I dread to think what might be happening upstairs. I suppose it’s my job to go up and look around but I can’t quite bring myself to do it yet.

  It must have rained before now and the place is still standing. One more rainstorm isn’t going to make any difference.

  We are trapped inside now, and Heather spends long minutes by the French windows in the sitting room, staring out into the rain-soaked garden beyond, watching as fat drops fall from the leaves of the trees and bushes.

  I try to make things more amusing, offering to bake with her, but that doesn’t seem to interest her much. A game of snakes and ladders lifts her spirits and she laughs merrily while we make up new rules and send each other spiralling up snakes and plummeting down ladders, but when it’s over she sinks back into her languor. While I’m playing with her, she’s alive and vibrant. When I stop, she starts to fade and doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. Eventually she disappears off to play in the hall with her dolls, and I can hear her talking to them as she moves them around the black and white squares.

  I concentrate on my first mission from the company: assessing the state of the house and writing a report for them on the condition and what I think is a priority to repair. It isn’t easy, not knowing what they intend to do with the place. If they want to convert it into flats or a family home, it would be as well to strip it back and start again, as far as rules and conservation regulations would allow. I walk about, taking photographs of damage and decay on my phone, then I wonder h
ow I’m going to send it all off to them. I still haven’t yet dared to turn on the internet capacity on my phone.

  But if I don’t, I won’t know if they’ve contacted me. The phone is the only way they can reach me.

  Standing in the bay-windowed room that looks over the drive, I stare down at the phone in my hand. It’s so small and harmless-looking, but it could undo everything I’ve achieved if I’m not careful.

  I’m sure that they can’t trace me via a pay-as-you-go that they don’t know I have. And if I use my fake email account, they can’t possibly know it’s me.

  Heather’s voice floats through the doorway from the hall as I take a deep breath and go to the settings. I’ve had all mobile data and all wi-fi connections switched off. My finger trembles slightly as it hovers over the on button, then I swipe and it’s done. The phone begins to look for any networks in the area and I watch for the little symbol at the top that will indicate what strength of signal it’s found. I’m expecting something very weak as the phone signal in the house is patchy, coming and going all the time – at least, down here on the ground floor. Then, to my surprise, a box flicks up on the screen. There’s a wi-fi network available if I want to join it. It’s a secure connection called PARADISE 1. I stare at it, baffled. A wi-fi network here? I had no idea.

  Why didn’t the company tell me?

  I press on the network to join it but I’m immediately asked for a password.

  I haven’t got a clue . . . I’ll try the obvious.

  I type PARADISE into the box, but that doesn’t work. I try it with some letters substituted for numbers: P4RAD1SE. That doesn’t work either.

  God only knows how many million combinations there might be. The chances of stumbling on the password are ridiculously low. But if I could find the router, the password might be there.