The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  Chapter Eight

  That night I wake with a start, gasping as I jerk into consciousness. I’m certain I heard something, but the room is silent, apart from my rapid breathing. Outside there is a full moon and a clear sky, and pallid light streams in through the thin curtains. I turn automatically to make sure Heather is with me, and for a moment, I don’t see her. Panic burns through me.

  Where is she? Where’s she gone?

  But then, blinking, I realise she’s there, fast asleep, her skin marble-white in the moonlight, lids closed, Sparkleknee tucked under her arm. I take control of my breathing, blowing out a soft exhalation through pursed lips, trying to calm my pounding heart. Then I smell it, just a faint trace in the air but still that unmistakable, acrid tang.

  Smoke.

  I don’t give myself time to be frightened. I am out of the bed in an instant, on the scent, running out of the bedroom and into the corridor beyond. Around me the house is vast, soaked in darkness, and not as silent as it is in the day: there are creaks and snaps and little clicks. What are those noises? I lift my face and sniff. There it is again, I’m certain of it. Now I’m afraid, with a rapid, jittering terror.

  It’s smoke. The house is on fire.

  But where is it? It can’t be close; the scent is too remote, too elusive for it to be nearby. I run down the corridor, flicking switches as I go so that lightbulbs begin to glow, faint and fuzzy but enough for me to see my way. In the cold, empty hall, the marble floor is icy under my bare feet. I sniff again like a hunting dog, my nostrils flaring as I search for the smell of smoke.

  Nothing. I run up the stairs to the upper landing. Nothing here, no sound, the air dull and empty. I race down the stairs again and across the hall, out into the east wing.

  There it is! Did I leave something on in the kitchen?

  A moment later, I’m panting in the kitchen doorway as the lights flicker into life, but there’s no sign of anything amiss. The air holds only the remnants of the cooking smells from earlier: oil, onion, tomato.

  I turn, with a cold sense of dread, towards the back stairs that lead down to the basement. Slowly I walk towards the rectangle of blackness that disappears into the depths of the house. As I approach it, I catch again the bitter scent of smoke, and terror washes through me, making me dizzy, but I have to go forward. I have to know. I tell myself that Heather is safe on the other side of the house, there is time to find whatever is burning and douse it. Perhaps a fuse has sparked and set something alight, or the washing machine is faulty and has burst into flames, or . . .

  Did I do it? Did I leave something on?

  I rush forward, down the stairs, scrabbling for the light switch as I go, certain that the smell is stronger now. The fluorescent strip flashes into life and I see that everything is quiet. Nothing is alight. The fuse board is the same as ever, the washing machine sits blameless nearby. I sniff hard, and turn to look at the steel door. Then I hear it.

  Something behind it moves.

  Oh my God . . . I knew it! I knew it!

  I’m suddenly so furious, it dampens my terror, and I run over to the door and pound on it hard. ‘Come out! Come the hell out, if you’re in there!’

  There’s nothing. Silence. I strain to listen and think I hear a click or a snap. But there’s no smell of smoke now, nothing but the musty, dampish aroma of the basement. I’m shivering, I realise. It’s freezing down here, and I’m in pyjamas and bare feet. But I can’t leave, not till I’m sure there’s no fire down here, and no one hiding behind that door.

  You must have imagined it, says a voice in my head. Maybe it was a dream.

  Perhaps I’ve just woken up after sleepwalking here. I moan out loud. What am I going to do, if I can’t be sure if I’m dreaming or awake? It was so real, the smell of smoke, the sound of something behind the door. But now, there’s nothing at all.

  I wait for as long as I can, until I can stand the cold and the misery no longer, and slowly I leave the basement and go back to bed, turning out the lights behind me.

  The next morning, I try to forget the night terror that possessed me. It would be easy to wallow if it weren’t for Heather, who wakes in a jolly mood, full of energy and ebullience. She eats a good breakfast – I don’t have to throw away any cereal or milk – while I can only drink coffee and pick at cornflakes, ignoring the radio in the corner, which I daren’t turn on. Afterwards she wants to play.

  ‘Let’s go outside, Mummy, it’s not raining!’ she calls, pulling on her boots.

  ‘All right. But I think it will rain again soon,’ I say. ‘The clouds are still a horrible colour.’ We go out together, and I find the fresh, damp air invigorating. It makes my night fears recede until I hardly remember them. But as we stomp around the house, looking for good puddles to splash in, I realise we are on the side where the room in the basement must be. I remember that the basement on this side has windows just above ground level, and start to inspect them as we pass, trying to work out if any of them might belong to the room behind the steel door.

  ‘Go round to your den, Heather, I’ll be there in a minute,’ I say. ‘And don’t go near the end of the garden where the water is, will you?’

  ‘Okay.’ She trots off happily, keen to see how muddy her play space has become.

  I get down on my knees and look through the slender window lights nearest to me. It’s hard because of the darkness beyond and the veil of dirt and cobwebs on the glass but I think I can make out the edge of the washing machine. That means . . . I shift along to my left . . . Now, if I squint, I can make out the shadowy form of the stairs. I move along further, to the next small row of windows, just a thin border of glass above ground level.

  Surely this is it. The room. It can’t be anywhere else.

  I lean forward, looking as hard as I can through the dirty glass into the murkiness beyond. I’m almost lying prone on the ground as I try to see inside. Then, suddenly, there’s a flicker of light. Red. Yes – a flash. I saw it. I’m sure of it. Then . . . a green flash.

  But is there anyone there?

  I can’t see anything else. Just more pulses of light. First red . . . then green again . . .

  ‘Mummy!’ It’s Heather, coming back round. ‘Where are you? You said you’d come!’ She stares at me. ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Nothing, darling. Really. I’m coming now.’ I get up, brush wet grass and mud from my coat, and follow her back to her bay tree den.

  That afternoon, I go upstairs for the first time, with a sheet of paper for notes and my phone to take photographs with. Heather comes with me, clutching my hand and holding Sparkleknee under her other arm. She’s muted and apprehensive, so I say in a jolly voice, ‘Isn’t this fun, sweetie? Our own adventure!’ She doesn’t look convinced, and holds my hand tighter than ever.

  At the top of the stairs, on the upper landing, is a thick door of old dark wood, ornately carved and with tarnished brass furniture: a ring handle, an escutcheon and a smudged fingerplate. It takes a real effort to push it open and I know it’s the sort that will swing closed behind us, shutting out any noise from below. In the corridor ahead is darkness, the kind created by shuttered windows and closed doors: shadowy, twilightish with patches of deep blackness. I’m glad Heather is with me, her hand warm in mine, her presence forcing me to show a jolly confidence I don’t entirely feel.

  ‘Shall we get some light in here?’ I say, and she nods. I feel for a switch and find one. Somewhere far down the passage, a bulb begins to glow orange. Now I can see that the carpets are gone and there are only bare floorboards, a patchwork of dark original boards and light pine replacements where rotten ones have been removed. The woodwork is thick with yellowish gloss paint, chipped in places, revealing the many layers beneath. Even so, the beautiful mouldings and the fine proportions of the space cannot be disguised. It’s shabby, dirty and untouched, but that can’t hide the innate grace and beauty of the house.

  ‘What a place, Heather! Look at all these rooms. I wonder wh
o used to live here?’

  Heather seems happier now the light is on; she lets go of my hand and runs her fingertips along the wall. ‘There must have been lots of people,’ she says. ‘Lots and lots!’

  ‘I don’t think so, not recently. Just those two old ladies. I bet they ended up living downstairs, like we do, and just shut up this floor. That’s why it’s so much worse than downstairs.’

  I start to walk around, opening doors. Behind them the rooms are all the same: bare boards, walls in a poor condition with blown and missing plaster, blocked-up fireplaces and draughty, dirty windows thick with cobwebs. I shiver in the chill air. There are bathrooms, dank and filthy with ancient fittings that look like they’ve not seen water for many years. The lavatories are in separate rooms, long and thin with ice-cold tiles and cisterns mounted high on the walls.

  No wonder this place fell into disrepair with just the sisters to look after it all alone.

  But what were they doing here? What did it use to be? With so many bedrooms, it has the feel of an institution, but it’s not set out like a school and there are no traces of classrooms or dormitories.

  ‘Look in this room, Mummy!’ Heather has opened a door and stands in the light that comes from within. It’s evidently a main bedroom, with a grand view from its bay window giving out over the tops of the rhododendron bushes, and, unlike the rest, some furniture remains. There’s an old four-poster bed, its mattress gone but some dusty blue silk hangings swagged down from the top. An antique desk or dressing table, with an old china-backed hairbrush, its bristles holding skeins of dust, sits between two elegant windows with stone balconies beyond. On the walls are the grey outlines where pictures once hung. Heather goes over and sits at the dressing table, picking up the hairbrush.

  ‘This can be my room!’ she says happily and goes to brush her hair.

  ‘Not that,’ I say, darting over and grabbing it. ‘It’s filthy! Horrible.’ I take another look around. ‘I think it’s nicer downstairs. Come on, let’s finish up here and go back.’

  There is not much more to see. I find another staircase, leading up again, surely into the attics. I have no desire to go up there.

  This place is sound. It’s just not very comfortable.

  ‘I’m going to take some pictures. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Okay,’ Heather says. She seems more interested than frightened and wanders back towards the room with the blue silk bed.

  I snap photographs of the worst decay, and of the general condition. They’re the best my phone can manage. After twenty minutes, I’ve had enough. My skin prickles with something I can only think of as a bad vibe. I don’t like the atmosphere here at all. There’s a powerful sense of absence that chills me, as though all these empty rooms carry memories of the people who used to sleep in them. But I can’t make out if the memories are happy or sad. I’ll be glad to get back through the heavy oak door and leave the upstairs to itself.

  I head back towards the main bedroom, and as I get closer I can hear Heather chatting away to herself. Playing at being Rapunzel or something, I should think.

  It’s only when I get closer that I hear her say, ‘But why is Mummy doing that?’

  There’s a silence and then she says, ‘That’s not very good. I don’t like that.’

  I come quickly into the bedroom to see her sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sparkleknee propped up beside her.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ I ask lightly. ‘What’s Sparkleknee saying now?’

  Heather looks up at me from where she’s sitting. ‘It’s not Sparkleknee. It’s Madam, of course.’

  Instantly I’m filled with the same nameless dread I felt last time she mentioned her invisible friend. I say breathlessly, ‘I don’t want you talking to Madam, Heather!’

  ‘Why not? Madam’s my friend. Anyway, it’s rude not to answer,’ she points out. ‘You always say I have to speak when I’m spoken to.’

  ‘No. Not this time. You have to obey me, Heather, do you understand? I’m serious. Madam might say bad things. Wrong things! Send Madam away!’

  ‘What if I can’t?’ Heather asks, her eyes wide. ‘What if Madam won’t go?’

  I gaze back at her, speechless, unable to tell if the prospect frightens her or not. I don’t have the answers for her. I have no idea how to banish an imaginary presence.

  Then she shrugs and says, ‘It’s okay, we’re on our own now. Madam said there’s no point in staying if you’re angry, and went away.’

  And she turns back to Sparkleknee, humming softly to herself as though there’s been nothing at all to disconcert her.

  Downstairs, I feel as though calm is restored. Heather and I are in the sitting room together; I’m doing a puzzle in an old book of crosswords while a mug of coffee cools on the table beside me, and Heather is colouring in while an audiobook plays on the tablet. I’m half picking up the adventures of a pair of twins by the seaside while I ponder my clues. Then my phone pings with a text. It’s Caz. She wants to call. I text back to tell her to ring me in two minutes, and go outside so Heather can’t hear the conversation.

  ‘How are you, Kate?’ Caz sounds anxious and miserable.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Never better.’

  ‘Oh Kate. How can you say that?’ Her voice is trembly.

  ‘Relax. I don’t mean it.’

  ‘It’s awful here,’ she goes on. ‘Rory is round all the time. He seems sure that I know something about where you are.’

  I can see a watery sun setting over the drenched garden. The air is cool with the approaching night. ‘What have you said?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘And what’s he said?’

  ‘He’s worried sick, Kate.’

  ‘He’s reported me missing – I heard it on the radio. No doubt he’s got the police involved.’

  ‘He wants you to come back. You know why.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ I hiss into the phone, full of sudden fury. ‘I just want some time to myself. Is that so much to ask?’

  ‘But why not tell him, if that’s all it is—’

  ‘You know why! You know what he did! To me! To our family! To everything I care about . . . For Christ’s sake, Caz, you know . . .’

  ‘But . . .’ She gulps over the word. ‘Ady,’ she says in a choked voice. ‘What about Ady?’

  I click the call off instantly. I don’t want to hear it. I refuse to hear it.

  I’ve made a mistake. I won’t talk to Caz anymore. She doesn’t know where I am. She doesn’t know my alias. I’ll be fine without her.

  My hands are shaking. I have a wild desire to go and get my pills and wash two down with a gulp of the ice-cold white wine that’s in the fridge. The phone rings again almost at once, and I put it to my ear and snap, ‘Forget it, Caz, I’m not listening to that shit.’

  ‘Rachel?’ says a puzzled voice at the other end.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Isn’t that Rachel?’

  I know the voice but I’m confused. Then I remember and force myself back to normality. ‘Oh, yes, sorry, Alison. I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Obviously,’ she says drily. ‘It sounds like you’re not too happy with Caz, whoever she is.’

  I laugh awkwardly. ‘Yes. Sorry. How can I help you?’

  ‘I was just wondering if you’ve got the report ready yet.’

  ‘Yes . . . almost. I’ve done the survey. I’ll write it up for you first thing. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Well, I’d particularly like to know about the condition of the upstairs of the house. It wasn’t much used by the previous owners, not recently anyway. It would be good to have a sense of how habitable it is.’

  ‘All right. But I’m quite happy living in the downstairs. There’s no need for it to be habitable on my account.’

  ‘That’s good but it’s more for the others that I’m interested.’

  ‘Others?’ I clutch the phone a little harder and my insides clench. ‘What others?’


  ‘In case we appoint more guardians. You can’t really look after that enormous place all on your own, can you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine—’

  She goes on smoothly, ‘And it gives you no flexibility in terms of leaving. What if you want a holiday? If more people do arrive, we can take steps to ensure privacy is maintained, don’t worry about that.’

  I say nothing, my mind whirling over the possibility of more people here and what that would mean for me.

  There’s a slight cool in Alison’s voice when she speaks again. ‘I think that if you check your contract, Rachel, you’ll see that you’ve agreed we can bring other people in at any time.’

  I wrack my brains but I can’t remember seeing such a clause. ‘Okay . . .’

  ‘You’re free to give notice if you want.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘But will you give me advance warning of anyone arriving?’

  ‘We’ll certainly try.’ Alison sounds a little friendlier now. ‘But if you can get me that report, I’d be most grateful.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘One more thing – did you get my message about the basement? There are private areas on the property, Rachel. You need to understand that.’

  ‘Yes.’ For a moment, I want to demand an explanation for the steel door, the flashes of light, the noises, the freezer. But I daren’t. I need this place. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be in touch.’

  When the call is over, I go to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror fixed to the wall. My face, ignored and un-made-up, looks almost like a stranger’s and I’m still disconcerted by the white hair, now looking dry and crackly with a faint black line emerging at the roots. Do I look like the pictures of Kate Overman that are probably this moment on the internet, on the television bulletins and maybe in the papers? I haven’t had my photo taken in a while, and when I did, I had shining brown hair in blow-dried waves, well-cared-for skin, and subtle make-up. I smiled easily and had bright, untroubled eyes. Maybe they’re using my work picture, a flattering portrait that had my wrinkles washed out. Or a family snap of me and Heather, maybe the one of us on the beach at Broadstairs last summer, when we’re sharing a paper cone of hot, salty chips and the wind is blowing our hair out in fuzzy tentacles.