The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘My room first!’ cried Carrie, as she dragged him up after her.

  Afterwards, when the children had been fed their supper, bathed in the old enamel bath, the water gurgling noisily through creaking pipes, read several stories by Uncle Tom, who had a very good line in funny voices, and finally settled to sleep, Emily and Tom ate their own dinner in the morning room, candles on the table, a bottle of wine open, while they talked. Emily told him about the things she’d done to the house, how dirty it had been, and what a shock the range had been, though she loved it now she’d got the hang of it. ‘It’s like a pet – I have to feed it in the morning and again in the afternoon and last thing at night. In return, it purrs away happily and keeps us toasty warm.’

  Tom laughed. ‘A cooker with a personality. Excellent.’

  She told him about finding the apples in the attic and how they must have been stored there but somehow forgotten when the house was cleared.

  ‘Or someone couldn’t be bothered to clear away dozens of apples,’ Tom remarked. ‘Apple crumble from now till Christmas, is it?’

  ‘That’s an idea. I should start using them if they’re still in a decent state.’ She sipped her red wine. She hadn’t had a drink for ages and she was enjoying the muzzy, comfortable feeling. ‘There was an old crate up there too. It’s the only thing that might give me a clue about whoever lived here before – apart from the easel in your room, which I think was the old studio, but it makes quite a comfortable bedroom now the bed’s up, if you ignore the paint on the floor.’

  ‘You didn’t open it then?’ enquired Tom.

  ‘No. I meant to but haven’t got back up there. Shall we take a look tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, let’s. I’d be interested.’

  ‘I’ve met a neighbour too. He’s called James Pendleton. He lives up in the farmhouse that looks down over the valley. Did you notice it as we came up to the house? He’s been very kind. I asked him about Catherine Few, but he didn’t know much about her. He’d never heard our name before either.’

  ‘Oh?’ Tom raised his eyebrows.

  ‘He said I should speak to his mother – she knew Mrs Few apparently. She grew up here, so she might be quite a useful source of information.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Tom sat back in his chair, frowning. He sipped his wine thoughtfully.

  Here it comes, Emily thought. The thing he wanted to say to me. She had a feeling she might know what it was – roughly, at least.

  ‘The house is lovely,’ Tom said, looking about. He gazed out of the morning room windows. The sun had almost entirely vanished now but there was still a little dark lavender light to show the shape of the orchard at the bottom of the garden and the massy hills almost black against the sky beyond. ‘Really lovely. It’s a haven.’ He smiled at Emily. ‘For some reason, it speaks to me. I feel at peace here, the same way I think you do. It’s a safe place, isn’t it? There’s a natural goodness all around us – in the house and out of it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Emily nodded her head slowly. ‘You’re right. That’s just how I feel.’

  Tom hesitated, then said, ‘But . . .’

  ‘I knew there was a but,’ she said wryly.

  He gazed over at her, his expression serious. ‘Yes. But. I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t help thinking that it’s very unfair that you’ve been left this house. If it was because you knew Catherine Few . . . well, that would be one thing. But it’s because you’re Aunt Cressida’s relative. And that’s both of us.’

  Emily gazed at him helplessly. ‘She wanted it to go to a female.’

  Tom gave a scornful laugh. ‘I can’t believe you would support sexism in any form, Emily! It’s wrong to distinguish on grounds of sex and I’d have thought it’s just the kind of thing you’d want to take a stand against.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? I know it’s lucky for me, but you understand that this came at just about the worst moment in my life, don’t you? To be left a house where I could live with the children when we were on the verge of being homeless?’

  ‘I think that’s rather overstating it,’ Tom said curtly, tapping the table with his fingertips. ‘I saw what you sold the London house for. I don’t think you were down to your last twenty grand, were you?’

  ‘The house was mortgaged by Will, for as much as he could get. Most of the sale money – and yes, it was a lot – went right back to the bank. The amount I did get . . . well, it’s all I’ve got to live on for the foreseeable. I can’t work right now, not with Joe so young. And that’s even if I could find a job up here.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘Besides, Will stole all the money Mum and Dad left me. You’ve still got yours. In a way, this is a kind of replacement for that.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tom said airily. ‘Mine’s gone now.’

  She looked at him, astonished. ‘What, all of it?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘But you’d saved it so carefully for ages! What did you spend it on?’ She frowned, trying to take it in. Tom had talked of using his inheritance as the down payment on a flat so he could move out of the rented place he shared with a friend. He’d had ideas about starting up his own business or investing it in various different ways. ‘Where’s it all gone?’

  ‘It’s not all gone,’ he said defensively. ‘There is some left. But I spent a lot last year. When I went travelling.’

  Emily thought back to Tom’s long, extended trip the previous year. Like a gap-year student, he’d packed his backpack and set off to see where the fancy took him. She’d rather lost track of him over the weeks he was gone, but then she’d been taken up with the children and the pace of everyday life. She’d got occasional emails, some from Peru, some from America. He’d been to India, where he’d Skyped her, brown and with sun-kissed hair, from a wooden hut in the hills. He’d emailed her a photograph of himself standing in front of the Great Pyramid in Egypt.

  ‘I suppose that must have cost a lot,’ she said uncertainly.

  He nodded. ‘Flights, accommodation, and all that. And I wasn’t earning during that time, so I had to pay rent and so on while I was away. And . . .’

  ‘And?’

  He leaned in towards her, his eyes suddenly intense. ‘I had some pretty incredible experiences, particularly in Peru. Have you heard of something called ayahuasca?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s a very powerful tea brewed in the Peruvian jungle from the ayahuasca vine and a shrub called the chacruna, and it’s been used for millennia for spiritual enlightenment and healing.’ His voice became fervent and fast. ‘There are retreats you can go on, where the shamans hold ceremonies in which you drink this tea, and then experience something . . .’ He shook his head and blew out a stream of air between his pursed lips. ‘Something amazing.’

  ‘So you did this?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Yeah. Several times. I went on a fantastic retreat in the mountains of Peru, stayed there a whole fortnight.’ He looked grave. ‘I took part in rituals designed to help me identify pain in my spirit, and to find the cures I need. And to unlock my spiritual potential too. I needed to see some deeper realities.’ His expression took on a beatific look. ‘I’ve been in pain since Mum and Dad died. I’d never really confronted the accident or what it did to me. You know how guilty I felt about that row Dad and I had just before it happened. I was left with some bad guilt about the way he was taken before we’d resolved our conflict. I’ve also been battling some very dark forces.’ He looked over at Emily meaningfully. ‘Some of them to do with you.’

  ‘Me?’

  He nodded mysteriously. ‘That’s right. I’ve had to do battle on your behalf.’

  She was confused. All this seemed a long way from her inheritance. ‘So, what was it like, this aya . . . aya . . .’

  ‘Ayahuasca. Well, it’s quite an event. You have to purify yourself before you do it. Then the ceremony starts at night. We sit in a circle, each with a bucket. The shaman comes and administers the tea. It tastes pretty vile, I have to admit that, and
a lot of people purge not long after taking it.’

  ‘Purge?’ she asked. ‘You mean . . . be sick? Into the buckets?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said, almost defiantly.

  ‘Well, that sounds revolting.’

  ‘I suppose so, but that’s not the point of it. You don’t feel disgusted when it happens; it almost feels right, as though things you don’t need are being expelled from your body – negative forces even. After that the visions begin.’ He looked dreamy at the memory. ‘The most incredible visions. Some are frightening, it’s true, but I never had a bad trip. I experienced great bliss, a sense that I was seeing into the heart of the universe, and a realisation that I know some of the secrets of existence.’ He stared into her eyes, his own intense. ‘I mean it, Emily. I met Mum and Dad again, and we talked through so much stuff. I wish you could have been there with me, it was incredibly moving. We all forgave each other for any hurt that remained unsettled while they were alive. Dad and I fixed everything between us and it gave me real peace. They told me that they’re happy now, they really are, and they watch over us all the time. They adore your children, Emily. They really love them.’ His face brightened and he laughed. ‘I mean, they’ve seen everything! They honestly have!’

  Emily’s eyes stung with tears. As he talked, for a moment she had seen her parents again, talking to Tom, and believed for a second that they were watching over her and the children and the thought made her chest tighten with hope, love and longing. But it’s not possible . . . is it?

  ‘But,’ she ventured, ‘you said trip. That makes it sound like a drug, like LSD or something. You know, psychedelic.’

  He looked pained at the very idea. ‘Ayahuasca is, of course, a drug, just like this wine we’re drinking is a drug, but it’s not like LSD. It’s been administered for thousands of years, and it’s completely non-addictive. It’s virtually impossible to overdose and only qualified shamans are allowed to use it. But it is the most powerful tool we have for spiritual knowledge.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve used it more than once.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve done fourteen ceremonies.’

  ‘Fourteen! That sounds like a lot.’

  ‘It is. I’m quite experienced in the whole thing now.’

  Emily looked over at him, disconcerted. She and Tom had always been close but she’d not known about this side of him. She remembered the night when she’d found him smoking cannabis in her kitchen, and the strange things he’d said then. It seemed that was only the start of it all. He was on a journey that she had only the vaguest idea about. She loved him dearly and had always trusted his view of the world, but going with him into this new place was a step beyond what she was comfortable with. Her parents visiting and talking to him? It was a fantasy, surely . . . Or was it? ‘Well,’ she said diplomatically, ‘it sounds amazing.’

  ‘It’s led me to think about what this legacy you’ve got really means.’

  ‘Oh?’ They were back at the legacy again.

  ‘I think Mum and Dad would want you to share it with me.’

  ‘Well . . .’ She blinked at him. ‘I’m happy to share it – more than happy. I want you to feel at home here. You can come anytime you like.’

  ‘I mean financially,’ Tom said bluntly. ‘I’m broke, basically. You could get a mortgage on this and give the money to me.’

  She stared at him, astonished. She hadn’t expected this. ‘Tom, I don’t even think I’d be allowed a mortgage with no job. But if you need something to tide you over, you know I’m always happy to help out . . .’ An idea suddenly occurred to her. ‘You know what? Apparently the house has a cottage attached to it. It’s called Keeper’s Cottage. James told me about it this morning but I’ve never seen it. It’s supposed to be a sweet little place, with electricity and water. Why don’t we think about that for you?’

  Tom looked interested. ‘That sounds intriguing.’

  ‘We’ll take a look at it tomorrow,’ Emily said, ‘and you can tell me what you think.’

  There was a pause while he thought about this. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Maybe that’s a solution.’ He looked over at her almost beseechingly. ‘I only want what’s fair, Em.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I want that too. I know I’ve been very lucky and if I can share that with you, I’d be very happy.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said, lifting his glass and draining it. ‘Me too.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cressida’s mood fluctuated from a state of unbelievable joy to terrible despair. She could think about little else but Ralph, the things they had said to one another and the glorious moment of their kiss. It had been so intoxicating, so instantly addictive, that the idea she might pass the rest of her existence without another kiss from him was unbearable.

  She moved in a dream, half in the real world, half with Ralph. The last day of the school term passed in a blur and only her farewell with Baxter managed to draw her from her dream for more than a moment.

  ‘Don’t forget, miss,’ the boy said, as he shook her hand for the last time, ‘I’m going to write to you.’

  ‘I won’t, Terence,’ she said fondly, smiling at him. ‘Enjoy your journey and your new life. I want to hear all about it, so write as soon as you can.’

  The farewells from other staff members were perfunctory, most doing little more than wishing her a merry Christmas, but she didn’t care a bit for any of them. Leaving the school no longer stung. Her future was a mysterious place, alternately exciting and full of bliss, and miserable and lonely. Her imagination spun incredible scenarios in which, somehow, she and Ralph were able to be together without hurting Catherine, and with the approval of their families. After that, a gilded life awaited them, with Ralph ascending the summit of artistic greatness – a fellow of the Royal Academy, knighted perhaps – with her at his side, becoming his eyes as Catherine had been, tending to him and helping him as she had, but with the difference of the great love they shared.

  Those dreams were pleasant and seductive, but when she wasn’t lost in them, she was counting the minutes until Ralph contacted her again and wondering when and how they might see one another. It was agony, but a different kind from the shame she’d felt before, twisting under the sheets of her bed in self-loathing at her desires. Now she veered between hope and despair in another way: beneath it all the great knowledge that she was loved by the man she adored, a knowledge that could provoke a gleeful, girlish excitement that fizzed almost unbearably through her body, or a deep delightful calm in which she felt that all the vicissitudes of the world could not now touch her. She had Ralph and he had her, and that would make everything all right.

  Except that we don’t have on another – not yet.

  The joy of being loved by him was shot through with the agony of their being separated, and the fact of her inability to see him and speak to him when she needed him. There was the torture of knowing he was with another woman, even if there was nothing between them. It was almost too much to bear at times.

  She was sure, though, deep inside herself, that somehow it would all work out.

  But when will I hear from him?

  Christmas was almost upon them, and Cressida found herself in a whirl of parties. The cards she’d left on the hall table, ripped open with excitement and then abandoned impatiently when the contents weren’t from Ralph, had all been accepted on her behalf and her father insisted she went.

  The girl staring back at her in the hall mirror as she went to leave of an evening looked like the Cressida from another life: she wore stiff cocktail dresses, spike-heeled shoes and little fur jackets, and her dark hair had been set and styled by Raymondo of Queen’s Gate with a lift at the crown and a sharp curl at the edge. Her eyelids were heavy with false lashes and her lips moist with pale pink lipstick. She drank champagne at parties in rooms with sparkling chandeliers, ate supper with thirty others at long shiny tables shimmering with candlelight, danced in a late-night club to music by a band from America.
She knew the people at these parties; the girls who came up to chatter to her and tell her excitedly about engagements and weddings and yet more parties were her friends. And yet she felt as though she were with strangers, going through motions, left untouched by what was happening around her. Only her dream life, with Ralph, felt real.

  ‘Cressida, hello. How are you? It’s been ages.’ The voice was nervous beneath the bluster.

  She was standing on the upstairs landing of a grand house, watching the many guests coming in through the huge front door below, moving on the chequered marble like dressed-up chess pieces. Startled by the voice, she looked around to see Adam beside her. It had been so long since she’d seen him that she almost didn’t recognise him for a moment. He wore a dinner suit, his black bow tie neatly tied, the jacket sleeves just a little long over his wrists. He had a sheen of sweat over his nose and he shifted awkwardly from leg to leg. She wondered how she’d ever been able to endure him touching her.

  ‘Hello, Adam, how are you?’ she said politely.

  ‘I’m very well. You look jolly nice.’ He gazed at her appreciatively.

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked down at the black shift dress she was wearing, belted in around her waist with a strip of shiny patent leather that sported a big round buckle. Long white evening gloves went up to her elbow.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a little while,’ he ventured. ‘I’ve missed you. Did you get my messages? I telephoned a few times and sent you a letter.’

  Her brow wrinkled. Had he? She had a vague memory of Ellen leaving her a note by the telephone with a list of calls she’d missed, and perhaps a letter. She felt irritated by him. Didn’t he realise it was a waste of time? There was nothing between them, surely he could tell that?

  She leaned in towards him suddenly, her glass of champagne pressed to her chest. ‘Adam,’ she said, ‘have you ever been in love?’

  He was immediately more awkward than ever, his gaze sliding away from hers and then back again. He gave a forced laugh. ‘Well, what kind of question is that to ask a chap? Bit of a tricky one, isn’t it? Hard to say the right thing.’