The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  Back at the house, the upstairs windows are all wide open. They must be airing the whole place. I can see movements from time to time – the flit of a shadow as someone passes in front of a window. What can they be doing up there? Cleaning, I suppose. There’s not much else to do.

  I’m in the kitchen making lunch for Heather and me when I’m startled by the rapid approach of footsteps. I just have time to stash Heather’s sandwich in the cupboard when Agnes puts her head around the kitchen door, her eyes blazing.

  ‘Have you been helping yourself to the stores downstairs?’

  I feel my face flame red.

  ‘Well?’ Her voice is harsh and fierce.

  ‘I . . .’ My eyes drop. I can’t meet her gaze.

  ‘Don’t try and lie. It’s obvious it’s you. There’s no one bloody else here, is there?’

  ‘I’ll replace it all,’ I say, wishing I’d got round to doing that before now. I feel like a naughty child being upbraided. ‘There was no one else here to use it. I thought it wouldn’t matter. I’ve kept a note of everything I’ve used—’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ shouts Agnes. Her cheeks are pink with anger. ‘We could need that stuff at any time. At any time! What do you think it’s here for?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got no idea. Why would anyone stuff a freezer in an empty house? And . . .’ My own voice starts to rise. My guilty embarrassment is turning into annoyance. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of a supermarket? You can actually go out and buy anything you need! You don’t have to stockpile a load of food. I mean, it’s not exactly the back of beyond here. There’s a supermarket just a few miles away. What does it matter, if I replace it?’

  ‘It’s not yours to touch!’ yells Agnes. ‘We could need it at any point, don’t you realise? It’s precious! Precious resources we could rely on at a moment’s notice.’

  I start to quail under her blazing anger. I’m as sensitive as a child, with paper-thin resistance to rage and blame. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice choked. Tears erupt from my eyes, pouring hot down my face.

  ‘Why don’t you just go away, Rachel? No one wants you here! The others are coming, you’re not needed!’ Agnes takes another step towards me, almost relishing her fury with me, her excuse to let rip, and enjoying the sight of my tears.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I say, but the words are thick with weeping. I want to stop but I can’t, it’s pouring out of me. ‘Please don’t shout at me.’

  Agnes’s eyes harden. ‘Why don’t you go to the shops yourself?’ she asks in an ominously quiet voice. ‘I mean, I don’t think you’ve been out for ages. Your car hasn’t been moved. It’s bone dry underneath it. There are no tyre marks on the gravel that weren’t made by our van. What’s the problem, Rachel? Huh?’

  She’s standing very close to me. I can see the soft hairs on her cheeks, the thick coats of black mascara on her lashes, and the oily pink slick of gloss on her lips. I smell the citrus tang of the scent she’s wearing. Her presence is hyper real and threatening. I’m terrified of her.

  ‘Please,’ I say, trying desperately to stop crying.

  ‘I’ve seen you outside, peering about, creeping under bushes. I’ve heard you when you think we’re not there, talking away. Who are you talking to, huh? You’re hiding something, Rachel, and I’m going to make it my business to find out what it is, do you understand?’ hisses Agnes. ‘I’m not going to take my eyes off you. I’m going to find out about you, because I think you’re here to cause trouble—’

  ‘Ag, what the hell is going on?’ It’s Sophia, standing in the doorway, her expression appalled. ‘Rachel, why are you crying?’

  She strides over and puts her arm around me, reaching at the same time for a small pack of tissues in her pocket. As she offers me one, Agnes turns to her, her Australian accent strong in her indignation. ‘She’s taken loads of stuff from the freezer. The stores are severely depleted. There’s less than half of it left. I always thought it was a terrible idea to put a stranger in here.’

  ‘Shut up, Ag.’ Sophia looks at me, her expression more disappointed than accusing. ‘Is this true? Did you?’

  ‘I . . . Yes. I’ll replace it of course.’

  Sophia turns back to Agnes. ‘And the . . .’ She drops her voice, pulls the other woman close and murmurs in her ear so that I can’t hear.

  Agnes listens and shakes her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Okay then.’ She smiles at me. ‘So no harm is done. But, Rachel, I’m afraid you won’t be able to help yourself to the stores in future. They’re there for a reason. You mustn’t touch them. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ I’m indisputably in the wrong, but I want to ask why. Why do they need a freezer full of food that mustn’t be used? What exactly is going on here?

  Sophia looks at me carefully, her head tipped to one side. ‘Are you okay with that? Can you restock the freezer for us?’

  ‘Of course. I kept a note of everything I took.’

  Agnes seems calmer. She shoots me a look. ‘When did you last go out, huh?’

  ‘I haven’t needed to go out,’ I reply, sniffing. My crying has stopped. Sophia’s presence has soothed the whole situation. ‘I’ve been settling in, painting, doing my report. When I found the stores downstairs while I was using the washing machine, I realised that I could put off the boredom of shopping for a while. That’s all. I’ll go out and get whatever you need.’

  ‘Today?’ Agnes’s eyes seem to glitter as she asks.

  I shrug. ‘Yes. Today. If you want.’

  ‘There’s no need to be hasty,’ Sophia says, in her placatory way.

  ‘Really?’ Agnes turns on her. ‘No one knows the hour. No one.’

  ‘The Beloved will know,’ Sophia says simply. ‘Nothing will happen before he gets here.’

  ‘I think we need him here now.’

  ‘He’ll come when the time is right. All will be well.’

  Agnes is silent as she takes this in. ‘Okay,’ she says at last. ‘Okay.’ Then she looks back at me. ‘Just make sure you do it soon. And don’t forget. I’m watching you.’

  I’m shaking as I sit down on the bed and put Heather’s sandwich in front of her. She’s sitting against the pillow, a book open on the duvet. She reaches out and absentmindedly picks up the sandwich, and I watch as she holds it, still reading. She’s so pale, almost as white as the pillowcase. I reach out and stroke her hair. It’s cool but soft under my touch.

  ‘What are we going to do, darling?’ I ask in a half-whisper. ‘Everything is changing. I don’t know how long we can stay here with them. But where can we go? Where will we be safe?’

  Heather doesn’t seem to hear me, she’s lost in her book.

  I start to hear words echoing in my mind. ‘Defend us from all the perils and dangers of this night.’ They sound again, louder this time. Then again. I realise I’m saying them myself. ‘Defend us . . . defend us . . .’ Am I praying?

  Heather looks up at me, curious. She listens as I say the words faster and faster until they are rattling out of my mouth. ‘Defend us, defend us, from all the perils and dangers, the perils and dangers, the dangers, the dangers . . .’

  I can feel that blot of panic building in my throat again. I’m afraid that I will start to scream, or begin to fight for breath, or that I will faint. Then Heather reaches out, smiling, and puts her hand on mine.

  She says gently, ‘Madam says don’t be afraid. You’re going to be all right. Madam says help is coming.’

  ‘Oh darling.’ I smile at her, but my eyes are filling with tears. ‘I wish that were true.’

  ‘It is true,’ she says simply.

  I stroke her cheek. ‘I only want what’s best for you. Do you know that?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy.’ She gazes up at me.

  ‘I love you so much,’ I say softly.

  She smiles. ‘I love you more.’

  I hug her close and kiss her cool cheek. ‘I love you most.’

  In the afternoon Sophia and Agnes come back downstairs a
nd head out to their van. A moment later, its engine roars into life and the gravel crunches as they drive away. I wonder if they’ve gone to replenish the stocks of food and when they’ll be back. But I sigh with relief as soon as the sound of the van fades away. I’m alone again.

  I put on a coat and my boots and head out through the rhododendron bushes in the direction I saw the women head on Sunday. It’s still damp between the dense trees, the sun unable to penetrate through the thick glossy green leaves. I shiver a little as I make my way onwards, through the mud and mess of fallen leaves and rotting sludge. It occurs to me to wonder how big this garden is, exactly. I get the strange feeling that I could walk all day and still, somehow, be in it.

  This isn’t a garden. It’s an estate.

  Then, ahead, I see a pointed slate roof, and rising from it a small steeple topped with a cross. So there it is. The church.

  I emerge out of the thicket and see the whole thing before me. It’s a simple building, like a child’s drawing in its neat straight lines and rectangular shape. What makes it a church is the huge arched door beneath a large, extravagant glass window, alive with a rainbow of jewel tones and detailed pictures: I spot doves, lambs, an ark, trumpets and angels, rays of heavenly light, a triumphant messiah in a white robe descending to the upturned faces of the faithful.

  It’s a church all right.

  I go forward, curious, and reach the front door. The church is more impressive up close than at first sight. The door is thick oak, bound with black iron hinges and with handles of ornate iron rings. I lift one and it moves easily under my hand. The door swings open.

  It’s light inside. Around the top of the building are round trefoil portholes with clear glass. At the far end above the altar is another vast stained-glass window, casting rosy light down upon the wooden table beneath. The table, which must be the altar, is on a raised dais, and below that are a few rows of wooden chairs, the kind with slots for hymn and prayer books on the back. But there are no more than twenty or thirty. The rest of the space, from just inside the door to near the back row of chairs, is more like a sitting room, or even a games room. Around the edges are dusty red velvet sofas and button-backed chairs on neat turned legs. There are bookshelves, a piano, a harpsichord, and, to my surprise, a glass cabinet containing a collection of small crystal sherry glasses.

  I laugh out loud.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  I jump violently and spin round. There, in the doorway, is Sissy, her hair all around her face, one hand holding on to the iron ring on the door.

  ‘Oh, Sissy! You frightened me. Nothing . . . nothing’s funny.’ I walk towards her. ‘It’s me, by the way. Rachel.’

  ‘I know,’ she says simply. Her dark eyes stare past me, towards the rays of softly coloured light falling on the altar. ‘I knew you’d come here. I’ve been waiting.’

  I laugh again, awkward this time. ‘I suppose you guessed my curiosity would get the better of me.’ I look back around at the dusty old church. It’s hard to imagine what on earth Sophia and Agnes got up to in here on their own on Sunday. ‘Did you use to come here when you were a girl?’ I ask, turning back to Sissy.

  She smiles. ‘Oh yes. All the time. But it was getting emptier even then. As the ladies passed over. It was only ladies by then.’

  ‘What denomination is it?’ I point to the sherry glasses. ‘Not Methodist!’

  ‘No. Not that.’ She smiles gently, not glancing in the direction I’m pointing. Of course, she wouldn’t. She’s blind.

  ‘Not Church of England?’

  ‘No, not that either.’

  ‘So, what then?’

  ‘Not one particular thing.’ Sissy’s voice is dreamy suddenly. ‘And yet, many things.’ She lets go of the handle and takes a few steps into the old place, as though she knows it well enough not to have to see it. ‘This is where we children came, after the others were inside. We came in together in our white robes, two by two. Matty and I came last, as we were part of the holy family, descendants of the Beloved. They looked at us in awe. They looked at our brother in awe. They believed that we would never die.’ She laughs, a strange sound with a harsh edge to it. ‘Well, Matty and I are still here. The only ones who are. But David is dead. I’m afraid even the faith could not keep him going. But by then they knew that. Once the Beloved himself was gone, they knew.’

  I listen, trying to make sense of what she’s telling me.

  ‘The faith was shaken by death. It was not supposed to happen, not to us. We were the wheat. The chaff would be destroyed, thrown on the fire, but we would ripen and live until the harvest came. The harvest of souls. But it never happened.’ She sighs heavily. ‘Some promises were kept, I suppose. The promise of respite from the world, the happiness of living here, untouched by the disappointments of life outside. But I think gradually we realised that the greatest promise of all was no more than a dream. Death came for us, like it comes for everyone.’

  She shuffles further forward into the room, feeling her way past the glass cabinet. I wonder if she is going to go all the way up to the altar but when she reaches the last row of chairs, she grips the back of one and turns to face me. She stares right at me with those big black sightless eyes.

  ‘Now,’ she says, and smiles. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your little girl? How is she?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Letty watches as the Reverend Phillips walks around the house – at least, the ground floor of it – seeming very pleased. Satisfied, Letty thinks. Arabella follows him wherever he goes, so close as to seem almost stuck to him. She’s breathless and excited. Letty follows with the reverend’s wife, Sarah, a much older lady with a kindly face and a low, comforting voice.

  ‘What a lovely home you have,’ she says to Letty as they walk behind the others.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your sister is the kindest woman in the world.’

  Letty says, ‘She can be very generous, Mrs Phillips.’

  ‘Please, call me Sarah. After all, we’re going to be family.’ The older woman smiles. She doesn’t seem to mind overexcited Arabella pressing close to her husband.

  ‘I suppose we are,’ Letty says faintly.

  ‘This is fine,’ Reverend Phillips is saying. ‘It is magnificent, Miss Evans.’

  They stop to look into the library, and the reverend gazes about at rows of leather-bound books, expensive furniture, the brass and leather club fender around the fireplace. He evidently sees much to please him, and he already has a proprietorial air, as though he can envisage himself in this room, behind the great walnut desk with its inlaid red leather top.

  ‘A splendid room,’ he says in his deep voice. Letty cannot help herself responding to it, with its mellow tone and the timbre that seems to touch something in her bones. She doesn’t know why this should be. The Reverend Phillips is not a particularly handsome man, or a young one, though he is younger than his wife, but he has an undefinable glamour. Perhaps it is his white hair, which makes his skin appear youthful in contrast, despite the deep lines that run from the side of his nose past his mouth, and the great notch between his eyebrows. Lettice thinks he might be forty-five, perhaps a little more, but his wife, with her serenity reflected in the neatness of her dress and the smoothness of her grey hair in its tidy bun, must surely be at least fifty.

  And yet, there is no mistaking his magnetism. It comes partly from the voice, partly from those eyes of the most piercing blue surmounted by black brows, and partly from his presence. He carries himself with an unusual dignity and confidence. He has an aura of wisdom and . . . and . . . grace is the word supplied by Letty’s mind. Grace is a curious word to apply to a man in a thick black overcoat, carrying an ivory-topped walking stick which seems more for effect than any practical use. And yet it is what he has. The air around him seems to buzz with energy and what Letty can only think of as similar to the charisma of a great actor.

  She can understand why Arabella is as enchanted as she appears. And
now she is fluttering about him, showing him the house with a puppyish eagerness, as though she longs to be patted on the head and told she is good. More than that, she has the air of true reverence. Worship, even.

  They continue the inspection of the house, even visiting the scullery and laundry, while Arabella explains that there are more cottages on the estate and boasts excitedly of the extent of the grounds. The reverend listens with an air of pleased complacency. When at last they return to the drawing room, where Enid has laid out tea, the reverend clasps Arabella’s hands in his and stares into her face. Sarah sits serenely on the sofa sipping her tea, observing calmly as her husband works his magic on Arabella. Lettice watches as her sister twitches with excitement, her cheeks flushing dark pink and her mouth falling open.

  ‘The Lamb is with you, Miss Evans,’ says the reverend in his rich, rolling voice. ‘He has inspired you and called you to his holy work. You are a part of his plan, a vital part, in calling the elect to salvation! And here, in this marvellous place, the chosen will begin to realise his mission of grace. You are truly blessed, Miss Evans. I see the marvels of the spirit working in you and through you!’

  Arabella is trembling, her eyes shining. ‘Yes, Beloved. Yes. I feel it . . . oh, I feel it.’

  ‘Then let us pray.’ Still clutching Arabella’s hands, he bows his head, and the other women follow suit: Sarah shuts her eyes and presses her palms together as the reverend begins to address the Almighty, and Lettice peeks out from under her lids, watching as Arabella is lost in the ecstasy of prayer.

  ‘You cannot do this, Arabella, I won’t allow it!’ Cecily is pacing the drawing room, her expression taut with fury and fear.

  ‘I don’t believe you can stop me,’ returns Arabella coolly. She has an impregnable air and they can all sense it.

  ‘Letty, are you part of this nonsense?’ demands Cecily, turning her burning gaze on her.

  Lettice opens her mouth to speak but as she does, Arabella says, ‘Of course she is. And it’s not nonsense. It’s deadly serious.’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ Cecily puts her hands to her face and shakes her head. ‘This is madness, sheer madness.’