The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  They’ll never be able to guess it was deliberate, will they? she wondered as she pulled out to skirt the common. The children were quiet now. Joe was already drifting off to sleep, his fat fist clutching his raisin packet. He looked so like Will. He was going to have the same dark copper hair, though it was wispy and golden red right now, and he’d inherited the Conway green eyes. His mouth hung open in a cherubic pout as he slept.

  He’s been fine, she thought, stealing glances at him as she drove. He’s barely noticed that Will isn’t around. Perhaps because he didn’t see him all that much during the week anyway.

  But Carrie was showing signs of upset. Her sleeping, usually so good, had become ragged and broken. She was complaining of bad dreams and throwing more tantrums, simultaneously demanding Emily’s attention and pushing her away. ‘I don’t want you,’ she would howl. ‘I want D-D-Daddy!’

  ‘Darling, Daddy can’t be at home right now. The doctors are making him better,’ she would soothe. ‘It won’t be long, I promise.’ She felt cruel making such a promise, but it was the only thing she could say. What was the alternative? Daddy is in a coma and will never wake, and if he does, he probably won’t know you. That was even harder, surely. Better to give her hope for now. As Carrie sobbed and beat her fists on Emily’s chest and begged for her daddy, Emily wished, despite everything, that Will would wake up.

  No, no . . . she thought miserably. I just wish this had never happened. I wish we could go back and I could stop all this, take us to before it turned so rotten.

  She looked now at her daughter, her heart full of love for her. The little girl was gazing out of the window, her head back against her car seat, and her lips were moving as she sang to herself. The purity and innocence of her face were heartbreaking: her wide blue eyes, her button nose, and her soft brown hair with a hint of Will’s red in it. She was like Emily’s side of the family, though, with her dark colouring.

  There’s no doubt about it. She’s definitely a Fellbridge.

  The solicitor was a young woman, with neatly pulled-back black hair and striking dark eyes.

  ‘How do you do. I’m Mischal Diwani,’ she said, shaking Emily’s hand. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve had to bring the children,’ Emily said, pushing Joe’s buggy into the small office.

  ‘Don’t worry at all,’ the solicitor said kindly, then watched as Emily began to settle the children, lifting Joe out of his buggy and giving them both books, toys and snacks to keep them quiet. Without the buggy to lean on, she needed her stick, which she pulled out from the buggy’s undercarriage and used to limp across the room. ‘Can I get you something? Tea or coffee?’ Mischal asked, when Emily was at last sitting in front of her.

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine. We’d better get on, I’m sure they won’t stay quiet for long,’ Emily said cheerfully.

  ‘All right. Fine. Now. You’ll have understood from our letter that Mrs Catherine Few has left you a bequest in her will. Did you know Mrs Few at all?’

  ‘I didn’t. I’d never heard of her.’ Emily laughed shyly. ‘If I’m honest, I think you’re probably going to find out that this is all a mistake.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Conway,’ the solicitor said solemnly. ‘We do our homework pretty thoroughly before we start alerting beneficiaries. As you can imagine, it could cause a lot of trouble if we started passing bequests to the wrong people.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Emily hoped it didn’t sound as though she was impugning the company’s professionalism.

  Mischal shuffled some papers on her desk. ‘I’ve got a coda here, written by Mrs Few in order to explain why she has left you her bequest.’

  ‘May I . . .’ She halted, not wanting to sound greedy. ‘May I just ask . . . what has she left me?’

  ‘Oh!’ the solicitor looked embarrassed. ‘Of course. I do apologise. Mrs Few has left you her house.’

  Emily gasped, astonishment coursing through her. Had she just heard correctly? ‘Her house?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve got the details here . . .’ She started reshuffling her papers and then produced one. ‘Ah. Here we are. December House. Howelland, Cumbria.’ She passed it over to Emily. ‘This is it.’

  Emily took it, still bewildered, and found herself looking at a blurry photograph of an old, white-painted house set in a green landscape, long and low, with attic windows visible in the tiled roof.

  ‘It’s not a recent picture, I’m afraid. I don’t know when it was taken. It’s all we’ve got but it will give you an idea.’

  Emily looked up, still trying to take it in. This house? It’s going to be mine? ‘But . . . why me? Didn’t she have any children, any family?’

  ‘Apparently not. She was married but her husband predeceased her by some years. His name was Ralph Few; he was a painter as well. There were no children. As I said, she’s left a coda to tell you why she’s left you this legacy. Here it is. I’ll read it out.’ The solicitor cleared her throat and then read aloud in a clear, unemotional voice. ‘I hereby leave December House to Miss Emily Fellbridge, the only female relative of my benefactor, Miss Cressida Fellbridge. It was Miss Fellbridge’s generosity in giving December House to my husband and me that enabled us to live in pursuit of our art free from financial worries for the rest of our lives. It is my wish that, without descendants of my own, I am able to repay that generosity by returning December House to the Fellbridge family, in particular to a female member. Furthermore, I instruct that my estate, if able, should pay for any inheritance taxes or other duties liable on this gift. I desire that, if possible, the house should not be sold but, if Miss Fellbridge does not wish to possess it, that it be passed on to other members of the Fellbridge family, with female members to take priority in the bequest.’ Mischal Diwani put the paper down. ‘There will be some legal issues to sort out in order to transfer ownership, and the estate must pass through probate.’

  ‘Who are her executors?’ Emily asked.

  ‘A Mr and Mrs Pendleton, also of Howelland, Cumbria. No relations, of course. She doesn’t seem to have had any family.’

  Emily stared at her, still trying to take in this momentous news. ‘But . . . I don’t understand why it’s only for me. I’m not the only relative of my Aunt Cressida. There’s my brother Tom too.’

  ‘It seems that Mrs Few particularly wanted it to go to a female.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ Emily said, intrigued.

  The solicitor shrugged. ‘I’m afraid there’s no way of knowing.’ Then she smiled. ‘She certainly was very grateful to your aunt.’

  Emily stared down at the photograph again. She had no idea that there had been a family home in Cumbria. As far as she knew, she had never been there. Her father had certainly never mentioned it. But then, he was not exactly forthcoming: he had rarely mentioned his sister Cressida either. Emily had grown up knowing she had an aunt who lived in Australia but she’d had the distinct impression that there had been some kind of rift. There was certainly no bond anyway. No letters, cards or calls.

  But then, that was all before email and Skype, Emily thought to herself, when it must have been much harder to stay in touch. However, that didn’t really explain the complete lack of contact between her father and his sister. Her jolly uncle Harry had never married, had no children and had retired to Spain, where he had a beautiful villa and sunshine most of the year round.

  The solicitor’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘As you’ll see, Mrs Few was against the idea of your selling the house. I’m not sure if her wishes carry legal weight in this context, as she hasn’t forbidden it, but—’

  ‘That makes no difference,’ Emily said suddenly and firmly. Behind her, Carrie started to beg for a biscuit and Joe began to crawl over to the bookshelves to see what he could find to play with. ‘I’m not going to sell it.’

  ‘You’ll keep it? For family holidays?’

  ‘Oh no.’ She got to her feet. ‘I intend to live there. As soon as the will is passed by probate and I
can take possession.’

  The solicitor looked surprise. ‘Well, that is a quick decision. You haven’t even seen it yet.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ Emily said. ‘It’s a gift that’s come exactly when I need it. And I intend to make the most of it.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You’re doing very well, Terence.’ Cressie smiled down at Baxter and he grinned back at her happily.

  ‘Thanks, miss,’ he said, swinging his thin legs under the desk. He seemed to enjoy their lunchtime meetings in whatever empty classroom they could find.

  ‘And you liked the book?’

  ‘Oh, I loved it, miss. I really did. That Sherlock Holmes is a marvel.’ He gazed up at her through the glinting lenses of his glasses.

  ‘Yes. There are lots of other stories about him to read as well.’

  ‘Cor.’ Baxter’s bloom of happiness faded a little.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, noticing.

  ‘Yes, miss. It’s just . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I like yer stories and everything, but I don’t know how long I’ll be able to borrow the books for, that’s all.’

  ‘You can borrow them as much as you like, and for as long as you need them.’

  ‘But miss, I mayn’t be ’ere.’

  She blinked at him in surprise. ‘Not be here? What do you mean?’

  ‘Me mum ’n’ dad. They say we’re to move abroad. Australia, they said. It’s not settled yet but they’re talkin’ ’bout it. I heard ’em when I was supposed to be in bed, but I was readin’ on the stairs and I heard it all. They’re gonna give up our house and take a ticket on a ship, all the way to the other side of the world, and that’s where we’ll live.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ She felt a sudden burst of disappointment that her one success, the only person who made being at Fleming worthwhile, was going to leave. But she suppressed that at once. It was, after all, very selfish. What would this mean for Terence Baxter? Would it be good for him to leave London and all its troubles and difficulties, and start a new life where there were plenty of opportunities for a boy like him? After all, did Australia have the same schooling system as England, separating them all off at eleven? Or were there chances for everyone? I hope there are. She gave Baxter an encouraging smile. ‘That sounds like a great adventure, Terence. I’m sure you’ll love it over there, if your parents decide to go.’ She knew that plenty of families were taking advantage of the chance of a fresh start. All they had to find was the money for the passage and a bit to get them going at the other end, where land was cheap and there was work to be done. She could see how much more appealing it must be than crowded, dirty London with its almost uncrossable barrier between the slums of the east and the grace and wealth of the west.

  ‘But I’ll miss you,’ Baxter said in a small voice. ‘No one’s ever given me books before. Me mum doesn’t like me readin’. She says it’s a waste of time.’

  ‘What does your father do?’

  ‘He’s a fish delivery man. He’s even delivered fish to Buckingham Palace,’ Baxter said proudly. ‘And me mum’s a seamstress in a factory.’

  ‘What do they want you to do?’

  ‘Anything with a wage,’ Baxter said. He shrugged. ‘I don’t exactly mind what I do. But I don’t think I’d be much good as a builder’s boy. I’m not as strong as me dad.’

  She put out a hand and rubbed his hair lightly. ‘You’ll do very well, I’m sure. You’ll find something you want to do as long as you work hard and try your best. And until then there’s plenty of time to read lots more books. Shall we look out another Sherlock Holmes for you?’

  Baxter and his fate on the other side of the world filled her thoughts as she made her way to Blackheath for her latest sitting, but he disappeared from her mind as soon as she saw the spire rising above the trees behind the flat. It felt like something of hers now, she knew it so well. The sittings, now twice a week, were more of a solace in her life than she could have imagined.

  She’d arrive to Catherine’s warm welcome and the fuss around her welfare: would Cressie like tea? A hot water bottle for her feet? Something to eat? There was always something delicious waiting in the tiny kitchen: little tarts made with apples from the garden and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, or buttery biscuits with shards of almond set in the top. Then she would sit in her position while Ralph anointed his palette with blobs of paint and then started work at the easel. Catherine would curl up in her position on the sofa, sometimes ripping old shirts or curtains into rags for wiping Ralph’s paintbrushes, and begin her light, amusing chatter while Cressie fixed her eyes on the spire opposite and relaxed. It was strange to be the centre of attention, but rather pleasant, especially as nothing was ever asked of her. With Catherine there, she felt that she could ignore her attraction for Ralph. He barely talked to her as he painted, only occasionally gruffly asking her to move her head back to the correct position, or even more occasionally, interjecting into one of Catherine’s stories in a way that showed he was listening all the time, even when he appeared to be oblivious.

  The painting grew from a sepia blob with patches of white to show where the light fell, to a skeleton of grey and white – ‘the grisaille,’ explained Catherine – and her features began to appear, rough and rather spiky but unmistakable.

  As it proceeded, Catherine gently directed Ralph’s efforts. ‘Ralph, darling, the brow is more arched than you have it,’ she said one day, very casually as if she were only half interested.

  Ralph frowned, staring at the painting and then back at Cressie’s brow. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Catherine replied idly as though it hardly mattered. ‘More arched. Just a little.’ She pointed. ‘There. There. You need a lift, a point, and you have a curve.’

  After a long pause, Ralph altered it with a few strokes.

  ‘Yes, yes. Better,’ Catherine said, then immediately changed the subject, as though it was bad manners to dwell on her role in the portrait, and so that Ralph could forget that at first he’d created a curved brow rather than an arched one.

  Then, suddenly, when Cressie looked at the portrait at the end of a sitting, she saw that it had come to life and gained depth. There was her face, still in tones of black, grey and brown but with a delicacy appearing on it, white paint lifting her face from the flat canvas, giving her depth and reality. Now she had shadow beneath her cheek, a tiny flash of light at the end of her nose, an eye that sat deep in its socket, and there she was, rough but unmistakable. Around her, blue clouds had begun to appear, darkening around the curve of her cheek and the outline of her hair. Her body was still unshaped, her hands just streaks of paint and bare canvas, her chair a crude outline, but above it her face was gaining refinement.

  ‘How amazing,’ she said, delighted.

  He smiled at her. ‘It’s coming along.’

  ‘Ralph’s going extra slowly,’ Catherine said, from her place on the couch. ‘He wants the sittings to last as long as possible so we can have you here as much as we want.’

  Cressie glanced at him, but he kept his eyes firmly on the canvas, his expression unreadable.

  Today he was going to add the cool tones, he’d said.

  When she rang on the door, Ralph answered it, smiling broadly at her. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  She went in, sensing something different in the flat.

  ‘Catherine’s not here,’ he said. ‘She’s had to go out.’

  At once the atmosphere was loaded. A strange excitement rippled through her. ‘Oh. Well, I’m sure we’ll manage without her.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. He looked towards the bedroom door. ‘Why don’t you get changed? I’ll make some tea for you.’

  In the bedroom, as she unbuttoned her cardigan and pulled her jumper off over her head, her skin goosebumped. It was cold, certainly; the autumn weather had darkened and chilled lately. But the shivers across her arms were not to do with that. She felt the potency of undressing in Ralp
h’s bedroom while they were alone together in the flat. Now she was brave enough to steal glances at the bed, which she noticed had a headboard with a double swoop, and bedposts with finials halfway along the foot of it. She stared closer and realised it was actually two beds, pushed close together. At once she saw them in her mind’s eye, Ralph reaching for Catherine across the tiny gap between them. Then she put herself in Catherine’s place, and her attraction to him, which she had convinced herself she had managed to damp down, came flaring up again.

  It frightened her that as soon as Catherine, whom she’d begun to consider a friend, was absent, all the wicked possibilities that haunted her secret imaginations returned more strongly than ever. They even seemed plausible. With Catherine present to keep check on unruly emotions and desires, both she and Ralph had let their connection loosen. But now . . . Her breathing was coming fast and her heart was pounding.

  She could see her reflection in the mirror opposite as she buttoned up Catherine’s shirt. I mustn’t let all this show. I’ll only make a fool of myself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that they are very happy together. I’ve got a schoolgirl crush, that’s all. My imagination’s running away with me.

  Taking a deep breath, she left the bedroom. Ralph was in the studio, today with a paint-encrusted black smock over his clothes. He looked sweet to her, like a boy in a costume that was too big for him. He was squeezing dark and light blues and lots of white onto his scraped palette.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I made some progress while you weren’t here. Have a look.’

  She walked over to inspect the canvas, aware of his nearness again. Now she could see that the shirt had begun to emerge from the flat canvas into a real garment with folds and shadows, the buttons proud of the cotton, the swell of her bust evident under the cloth.