The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  When the meal is over, she goes upstairs quickly but not so quickly that it seems she is eager to get to her marriage chamber. Once in her room, she races about, preparing for bed, and within five minutes is buttoned into her long nightdress and under the covers of the bed, her heart beating fast and her eyes screwed tight. She wants to appear asleep. It’s the only way she can think of to avoid the embarrassment they will surely both feel.

  Arthur spoils her plan by knocking on the door and waiting for her to answer it. She can’t go on pretending to sleep when he knocks more loudly, but gets out, dashes to the door, opens it and dashes back. He comes in slowly, watching as she flurries about in the sheets, trying to cover herself up. He goes wordlessly to the suitcase on the stand in the corner, removes some things from it and shuts himself in the dressing room. She hears water in the sink, and movements, and then the door opens again and he comes out.

  She slams her eyes shut, her pulse racing again, clutching at the sheets and pulling them up under her chin. She can sense him standing in the middle of the room, observing her. She can hardly bear it; then at last he speaks.

  ‘I can sleep on the chaise longue if you like. Or on the floor in the dressing room if that would make you feel better.’

  She opens her eyes and turns her head to look at him, blinking in the lamplight. ‘But,’ she says feebly, ‘won’t you be cold? There isn’t any other bedding.’

  ‘I can fetch some,’ he says. ‘Or take the blanket from you, and leave you the coverlet. It’s not cold tonight.’

  ‘Whatever you wish,’ she says faintly.

  Arthur takes a step towards the bed and she can’t prevent herself starting and making a nervous squeak. He stops and regards her again.

  ‘You needn’t worry. I don’t intend to touch you. As far as I’m concerned, we’re not married and I wouldn’t dream of engaging in marital relations with you, even if you didn’t believe that all these marriages are purely spiritual.’ He says it with an unconcealed sneer in his voice.

  ‘Then what are you doing here? Why are you in my room at all?’ Her voice comes out a little quavery but she is glad she sounds stronger than she feels. He stands there, thinking, and she looks at him, in his flannel striped pyjamas, his face still damp from his wash. He looks so boyish, with his dark fringe flopping forward, his skin fresh and clear of any whiskers. The grey eyes are sober and candid and he is less sulky than he appears when they are all downstairs together.

  ‘It’s a good question,’ he says. ‘Well, here’s the thing. I need to keep my parents happy. And for some strange reason, this seems to make them happy. They weren’t pleased at all when I had a girlfriend before, and she was a perfectly decent sort, even if she was a dancer. But now that I’m married to a complete stranger by a religious maniac, all is well with the world. Crazy, isn’t it?’ He reveals an unexpectedly beautiful smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and shows his even teeth. She’d never noticed them before. He is not such a boy, suddenly, but a hybrid creature on his way out of youth and into the first real flourish of manhood.

  ‘You had a girlfriend?’ she asks, curious.

  ‘Oh yes. I’ve had a few, actually. But they only knew about that one. Dear Susan. A lovely girl and not her fault that she happened to have a stevedore for a dad and a seamstress for a mother.’

  ‘How did they find out about her?’

  Arthur shrugs. ‘I got myself into a bit of trouble at the university. Quite a lot came out then – about how I was having fun and who with. I’ve been rusticated.’

  ‘Rusti . . . ?’

  ‘Sent down for a year. My father will only let me go back on condition that I stay with him and my mother for the entire time. And that meant coming to this place.’ Arthur rolls his eyes. ‘And they think I’ve been mixing with a bad crowd.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Letty demands, sitting up, the sheet still held tightly under her chin.

  He laughs. ‘Look at you. All fired up with the desire to protect that charlatan.’

  ‘He’s not a charlatan!’ she says hotly.

  ‘Of course he is. Clever and convincing, but an utter fraud. I can’t help admiring what he’s done, though, the way he’s built all of this, got you all absolutely gulled by it. And now he’s managed to swap that old wife of his for a younger, sweeter one as well. All in the name of spiritual marriages!’ Arthur guffaws and shakes his head. ‘Like I said, very clever.’

  ‘How dare you speak like that?’ If Arthur’s words bring on the tiniest moment of doubt about the Beloved, all she has to do is imagine his face, the fire in his eyes when he preaches, the utter conviction he possesses and passes on to them all. She knows without doubt that he is genuine. ‘He wants to save your soul!’ she declares.

  ‘He wants to save something,’ Arthur remarks, ‘but I don’t think it’s my soul. Now, let me take that blanket and I’ll curl up here. I’ll be perfectly comfortable.’ He comes up and takes the blanket, sweeping it off the bed like a magician removing a tablecloth, and goes to the chaise longue. A moment later, with the cushion plumped up for his head, he breathes out loudly and seems to fall directly asleep.

  Letty reaches out to turn off the lamp, seething. She cannot sleep now because of the anger racing through her. Charlatan! How dare he? He knows nothing about the Beloved. He’s just some jumped-up boy who thinks he’s sophisticated because he’s done a term at Oxford or Cambridge or wherever. Then she tries to calm herself. I’m being tested. He’s not going to make this easy for me, that much is obvious. But I will save his soul. I can see now that it is my mission.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My life unspools in front of my closed lids, as though my brain refuses to accept the decision I’ve made: to sink into oblivion. For more than a day I’ve not opened my eyes, whether I’m lying in bed, being supported to the bathroom or having hot broth pressed between my lips on the edge of a spoon. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to function. I just want to cease. But my mind won’t have it. It keeps delivering crystal-clear replays of episodes in my life as though they’re all stored on discs, playable as easily as a favourite sitcom.

  I can see myself as I was. I’m in my post-work clothes – jeans and a sloppy shirt, my hair pulled back in a ponytail, standing in our kitchen, stirring something – risotto? – at our baby-blue range cooker. My face is drawn and I’m tight-lipped, waiting for Rory to come home from wherever he’s been. Heather and . . . the other one . . . the one I can’t picture . . . are at Caz’s. Caz knows something huge has happened but I can’t bring myself to tell her yet. It’s the first thing I haven’t confided in her since we became friends.

  The front door slams, and my stomach turns over with nervous anticipation. I’ve tried to plan this, but it’s been impossible. Every turn of the conversation, every phrase, will depend on Rory and how he reacts.

  ‘Hi!’ he calls from the hall. I hear his keys clink down on the sideboard. ‘I’m home!’

  ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ I say, unnecessarily. It’s where I always am when he comes home, with the others around me. Heather is often watching the television while she plays and someone else is usually sitting at the kitchen table doing homework.

  Who is that other person? It’s someone I know well . . . but . . . they won’t come into the frame.

  Rory is striding into the kitchen, loosening his tie. ‘Where are the kids?’ he asks, looking about.

  ‘At Caz’s.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks surprised. Heading to the cupboard to get a glass for a drink of water, he says, ‘I didn’t know they were going to be out this evening.’

  ‘I arranged it. I think we need to have a talk.’

  He seems blithe, unconcerned. ‘Oh. Okay. Anything in particular?’ He runs the tap into his glass and goes to sit down at the kitchen table, looking up at me, the picture of innocence. If I didn’t know better, I would suspect nothing at all.

  I move the risotto off the heat, put the spoon down very carefully, then go a
nd sit opposite him. ‘How was work today?’

  He shrugs lightly. ‘You know. Same old.’

  ‘Was Andy there?’

  ‘Er . . . yeah. As usual.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ I nod. ‘How was Sally?’

  ‘She was fine.’

  ‘And Stuart? Was he there?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Okay.’ I stare at him, hoping that my questioning will alert him to the fact that maybe something is wrong. ‘What if I tell you that Stuart wasn’t at work today? Gill called me and told me he was home ill.’

  ‘Really?’ Rory looks surprised, then nervous, but he quickly recovers himself. ‘Maybe he was. I can’t say I always know when Stu’s in the office.’

  He holds my gaze. Those gentle brown eyes, just a bit downturned at the edges. He’s a good man in so many ways. Does he even know he’s lying to me? Has he somehow managed to convince himself that he’s telling the truth? I will him to break, and to say, ‘You know what, Kate? I’ve made a huge almighty fuck-up and I’m so sorry. I really need to tell you about it.’ I feel as though I could forgive everything if he just said that. Every moment that goes by when he doesn’t is depressing me further.

  ‘What if I told you that Andy wasn’t in the office either?’

  He doesn’t say, ‘How would you know that?’ He stares down at the table instead, frowning. ‘Well . . . I don’t know.’ He’s paling just a little. He senses that something is about to happen, some seismic shift that will change everything.

  And the stupid thing is that by pretending none of this is happening, he’s made it a thousand times worse than it needed to be.

  I can’t help giving him another chance. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Anything at all?’

  He looks me straight in the eye. ‘No,’ he says firmly.

  ‘Oh Rory.’ Huge sadness fills my heart. He must, surely, know that he’s delivering slow, certain deathblows to our marriage. ‘Are you sure? Nothing you think I should know?’

  ‘Nope.’ He looks over at the stove, striving for normality. ‘Is that risotto? I’m starving.’

  ‘I have to tell you something.’ I’m calm. I hope that by being calm he’ll realise that this isn’t a silly row, a bit of shouting that blows over and is soon forgotten, but something too serious to get hysterical about. ‘I know.’

  ‘Know what?’ He gets up. ‘Shall I get the dishes? I can finish the cooking if you like.’

  ‘Sit down. I know that you haven’t been at work today.’

  He looks paler suddenly and sinks down into his seat. He clasps his hands and stares at them.

  ‘I know you haven’t been at work since March. You were made redundant then, weren’t you?’

  He goes as still as a stone and doesn’t lift his eyes, and there’s a defeated air about him.

  ‘Six months ago, Rory. What have you been doing all day?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  There’s a long pause and then he says in a low voice, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ I’m disbelieving. ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you that you should have told me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So . . . why didn’t you?’ I know, from our arguments in the past, that Rory will resist my efforts to get him to explain himself. Monosyllabic answers will follow one after the other, or else it will be the usual ‘I don’t know’, turning what should be a dialogue into an inquisition with him as the hapless victim of me, the inquisitor. But surely this is too big for that kind of stonewalling? Surely he owes it to me to tell me what’s been going on in his head? At least to try?

  He flicks a gaze up at me. Then he says, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No. Wait.’ The anger begins to build. ‘You can’t fob me off with that. I won’t have it, not this time. You must know! Every day when you walked out the house in your suit and carrying your briefcase, you must have made a conscious decision to hide this thing from me.’ I can’t stop hurt and fury entering my voice. ‘When you signed the papers for the loan for the kitchen, even though you didn’t have an income, you must have known what you were doing. Well? Didn’t you?’

  His shoulders hunch. I can sense him turning inward, into himself. He won’t engage with me, or look at me, and every fibre of his being is telling me to go away and leave him alone. It’s more than I can stand. All the frustration of the last few years, all the worry, anxiety and despair of the last week as I’ve realised the extent of what’s been going on behind my back . . . it bubbles up inside me. All I want is for him to talk to me. Just tell me. Just say sorry.

  He’s not even going to do that. His gaze is fixed on the table, he’s stony still. Someone has to speak, has to tell the story, and it’s going to be me.

  ‘So you pretended to go to the office every day, hiding all this from me, using the redundancy money to act as your salary? Were you hoping you’d get another job before I found out?’

  Silence. No reply. No look, no glance.

  ‘Were you?’ I leap to my feet. ‘Please, Rory, talk to me. Talk to me!’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he says with a dull lack of conviction.

  I want to weep. Here, at this awful time, he can’t muster the strength to look inside himself and tell me what’s going on there. It’s as though he expects me, even wants me, to be angry, and he’ll do all he can to make that happen. Is it perhaps because there he feels safe? He’s not the sinner or the adult who’s failed to take responsibility for himself, but the helpless child, the victim of the grown-up’s fury.

  ‘I can’t take this, Rory. I can’t take the lies and the deception. Even now you won’t explain it, or apologise or try to make me understand. Don’t you realise what you’ve done to us, what you’re doing right now? You won’t even explain or ask for my sympathy. Can’t you see how much it hurts that you couldn’t share your troubles with me?’ I gaze at him, but he won’t lift his eyes from the table. I feel utterly hopeless. He’s a good man, a good friend. But is that enough? What kind of marriage is based on a lie like this? I say quietly, ‘What would you do if I asked you to go?’

  He’s still, then shrugs like a man who can no longer fight his battles. ‘I would go, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s it? You wouldn’t try to stay? To convince me I’m wrong? To win back my trust?’

  ‘What’s the point, when you want me to go?’

  We’re both defeated, I see that now. I’ve gone wrong somewhere but I don’t know where. Somewhere along the way, when I thought I was doing the best for us both, I was damaging us. And so was he. We both were. I don’t know how we can go on.

  I can hear voices. There are people in my room, the ones who come every now and then. Perhaps the man is here, the one who holds his hands over me and tries to warm my frozen core. The episode is still playing even while I become aware of people with me. I can see the woman stand up. She talks passionately, gesticulating, expressive, while the man listens, his expression growing ever sadder. Now he stands up. I know what’s happening. She’s told him to go, to leave her and the children while they all come to terms with what has happened and decide if it can be mended. He’s agreed to go. He’ll stay with a friend. He goes upstairs to pack.

  From behind my closed lids and dry lips, I want to shout, Don’t go! Don’t leave them alone! You don’t know what happens next. Don’t leave them.

  But I’m powerless to change it now.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The day after her powerful dream of Heather, Caz sends a message to Rory.

  When you’re out of the hospital, come and see me. I need to talk to you.

  She’s nervous about seeing him. Rory, once so easy-going and placid, has found a new intensity, as though everything he has been through has broken down the walls between him and the world – or between him and himself. She has seen Rory annoyed and seen him retreat into himself, but she’s never seen him angry.

  But I have to be brave. I can’t back o
ut of this.

  He texts not long after:

  Sure. I’ll be there around seven.

  When he arrives, she’s ready. The girls are at their father’s house. She’s put out some food and a couple of chilled bottles of beer, even though Rory rarely drinks. When he comes in, though, he opens one at once and sits down at the kitchen table, looking tired.

  Caz sits down opposite with a glass of wine. ‘How’s Ady?’

  Rory gulps some cold beer before he answers. ‘He’s fine. Doing well. They think he’ll be out before too long. Another fortnight or so to be sure. He’s in good spirits.’

  ‘I’ll go and see him,’ Caz says.

  ‘He’d like that.’ Rory’s gaze slides over to her, hopeful. ‘So . . . have you heard from Kate?’

  ‘No,’ she says honestly. ‘I haven’t.’

  He looks defeated. ‘This is so bloody terrible. She’s in a bad way, Caz. I’m worried sick.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘If only we knew more about her state of mind.’ He takes another gulp of beer, then says, ‘Did she confide much in you before she left?’

  ‘Well . . . a bit. But she wasn’t making all that much sense. She wouldn’t talk about Ady.’

  Rory shakes his head. ‘That’s what I can’t understand,’ he says, almost wonderingly. ‘She wouldn’t go to the hospital. She wouldn’t talk about him. It was as though he didn’t exist.’

  ‘She’s still in shock. She’s been driven crazy with grief. Maybe it’s the only way she can cope.’

  Caz can’t understand it herself. How do you just erase a child like that? In her heart, it’s the most worrying thing about all of this. Grief over Heather is explicable. Taking flight when Ady needs her, refusing to talk about him . . . that’s the mystery.

  Rory says, ‘I try to understand it, even though it makes no sense. I have to realise that it’s not the real Kate right now. She refused any counselling, brushed aside any idea that she might need professional help. Her mother and I both felt she needed medical care but she refused, and she was still so articulate, so functioning, that they couldn’t force her. She’d only agree to the antidepressants.’ He frowns. ‘Do you think she’s had some kind of reaction to them?’