The Snow Angel
Page 23
He gazed at her, the happiness growing in his eyes, mirroring what she felt. ‘Yes,’ he said, his tone intense. ‘We can do it. But we must do as you say: go tonight. If we don’t go at once, we’ll never be able to, I’m sure of it. Are you really prepared to do this, Cressida? You’ll be ruined if we’re found out.’
She laughed. ‘Ruined! This isn’t the nineteenth century! I want to do it. We will do it. Shall we?’
He said simply, ‘Yes.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Wow. It’s great. It really is.’ Tom turned to Emily, excitement in his eyes. ‘I love it.’
They’d gone looking for the old cottage the next morning after breakfast and had found it in a clearing of the small thicket of woodland on the edge of Emily’s property, just as James had said. It was a ramshackle, neglected place, nowhere near as habitable as James had implied. The roof was heavily mossed, with slates askew or missing entirely, a couple of window panes were broken and the rest were filthy, and inside it felt damp and extremely cold. Leaves and rubbish covered the floor, some old furniture was gradually falling to pieces, and the kitchen wasn’t much more than an old sink and a single tap. But it definitely had potential.
They had to locate the fuse box and switch on the electricity supply, and then the dusty light bulbs flared into life. The tap ran with fresh cold water and there was a working lavatory out the back. Upstairs, the two bedrooms were empty, with damp patches under the leaking roof and mess from birds and mice on the floor.
‘Do you honestly like it?’ Emily frowned as she looked about. ‘It needs a lot of work.’
‘A bit of a clean,’ Tom said easily. ‘I can do that, no problem.’
‘The roof needs mending.’
Tom wrinkled his nose. When things were right, they were right as far as he was concerned, and nothing was going to get in the way. ‘It’s fine. I’m sure I can patch it up.’
‘Roofs need professionals, I think.’ Emily watched the children kicking the leaves in the bedroom. The place seemed generally sound, that was true. ‘Would you live here?’ she asked.
Tom put his hands on his hips and looked around the room, his eyes shining. ‘It would be great to have the option. I could stop paying rent to Shelley and come here when I need some quiet space to work. The light’s good but if we get the roof fixed we could also put a skylight in – that would make it even better. I wouldn’t be here all the time, I’d have to be able to stay in London too . . . but . . . maybe I could camp with a friend.’ He looked at her meaningfully. ‘I really like this place.’
‘Okay,’ Emily said, glad to see him so happy. The talk they’d had the previous evening had unnerved her. She’d had no idea of the side of Tom’s life that took him all over the world in search of psychedelic experiences from strange concoctions. But now he seemed perfectly normal and it was possible to forget it all. This morning he’d played with the children and helped her get breakfast, and everything had felt comfortable and familiar. Just the same as ever. She told herself there was nothing to worry about.
On the way back from Keeper’s Cottage, Emily said, ‘Why don’t I get a builder to come and take a look at the place? If the repairs don’t cost too much, I could pay for them and then the cottage can be yours for as long as you need it.’
Tom gave her a sideways look. He was carrying Joe on his back, bouncing him until the boy giggled uncontrollably. ‘As long as I need it? I thought you were going to give it to me.’
She was silent. She felt as though, in a strange way, it wasn’t hers to give. It was part of the whole, a part of December House. Was she really able to peel a bit off and give it away? ‘Let’s get the quote and see how it goes,’ she said at last. ‘I do want to make it up to you if you feel it’s unfair that I got this place. We’ll work out something that means we’re both happy.’
‘Okay,’ Tom said, but he stared at the ground, frowning for a while. Emily had the distinct impression that he was only agreeing in order to buy time to strengthen his case in some way but she had no idea how.
That afternoon, while Joe was napping and Carrie was in front of her favourite cartoons, they went upstairs to the attic.
‘Here it is,’ Emily said, opening the door to the apple room. It looked a lot less spooky in the daylight. The apples were no longer grey but they looked old. Some were yellowing and wrinkled with mushy brown spots. ‘James Pendleton told me there was an odd-job man who did work for Catherine Few. Maybe he put them up here and forgot to tell anyone. I don’t think they’ll be suitable for eating after all. Look, most of them are beyond it now.’
‘Too much light in here, I should think,’ Tom said. ‘Whoever put them in here probably didn’t expect to leave them so long. It would be dark and cold up here in the autumn and winter but it’s getting too warm now. We’ll chuck them out, shall we?’
‘It seems a waste,’ Emily said sadly. Something about the expectation with which the apples had been put here, and the reality that they would never be used, seemed terribly sad. Another intimation of mortality.
‘You could turn them into cider,’ Tom offered, stepping over them. ‘Is this the crate you mentioned?’
Emily nodded. ‘It was here when I came up.’
‘Well, let’s take a look then.’ He put the hammer he’d brought with him under the crate’s lid and with a few tries, he levered the lid off, wood splintering around the nails as it came free. ‘Here we go. Let’s see what’s inside.’ Putting the hammer down, he lifted out the straw covering the contents and peered in. ‘Oh! Wow! Paintings.’
Emily bent over to look inside as well. Sure enough there was a small stack of unframed canvases in the crate. She lifted out the top one, looking at it curiously. It was a winter scene, well executed, showing the frozen snowbound landscape.
‘She liked snow, didn’t she?’ remarked Tom, staring at it hard.
‘Yes.’ Emily tilted her head to one side and looked as well.
‘It’s very good,’ Tom said, frowning. ‘It takes skill to evoke snow like that. Look at the snowdrifts and the way she’s given weight and form to them even though they’re white on white. It’s very skilful.’
Emily gazed hard. She could almost feel the chill coming off the canvas, the burn of the ice and the smoky frost on top of the drifts. There was something familiar about the scene but she couldn’t quite identify what. ‘Do you think it’s of somewhere around here?’
‘Most likely. She only stayed around here, didn’t she? But the snow has a blanketing effect so it’s hard to tell.’ Tom stared at the painting, evidently fascinated. ‘What are the others like?’
Emily peered in the crate. ‘Very similar from what I can see. Snow scenes mostly.’
‘Hmm.’ Tom looked at her. ‘Do you mind if I take this one? I really like it.’
‘Of course not. It’s beautiful. I might take one down myself for my room.’ She took out the canvas on the top of the pile and regarded it. It was another evocation of the landscape covered in snow but painted from a slightly different perspective. ‘This is nice.’
‘Yeah, it is.’ Tom frowned at it quizzically. ‘I wonder why she painted the same thing over and over.’
Emily shrugged. ‘Come on, we’d better go back down. And incidentally, how do you go about making cider?’
Tom went back to London on the Sunday afternoon train, the children waving him off on the platform. Emily watched him go with mixed feelings. It had been lovely to have company and the children had adored having their uncle with them.
Perhaps they’re missing a male presence.
Carrie had stopped talking about Daddy almost entirely. She had started asking instead when James was coming to see them.
‘James?’ Emily had said surprised.
‘Is he your boyfriend?’ Carrie asked, playing with brightly coloured Duplo farm pieces. She’d carefully placed a sheep in a trough.
‘Boyfriend?’ Emily laughed, the word sounded so strange in Carrie’s mouth.
‘Oh darling.’ Emily swept her into her arms and pressed her lips into Carrie’s sweet-scented hair. ‘What makes you think that? James hasn’t had a sleepover here.’
‘He came for breakfast,’ Carrie said, as if her logic were irrefutable. ‘You only have breakfast after you’ve been asleep somewhere.’
‘He was outside, mending the fence for us. I just asked him in, that’s all.’
‘Oh.’ Carrie took this in. ‘So he’s not your boyfriend?’
‘No, sweet thing. He’s just our friend. A kind and helpful friend who looks after us. Daddy will always be your daddy.’ She clasped Carrie tightly, her heart swelling with love and sadness. She had no idea what went through the children’s minds, how they processed all the things that were happening. The tantrums and the bewildered misery at their father’s absence seemed to be tailing off – did that mean they were forgetting Will? That was sad in itself, for them and for him. She sighed heavily, taking comfort in Carrie’s warm body.
‘Will I ever see Daddy again?’ Carrie asked in a small voice.
‘Yes, darling, of course you will,’ Emily said as stoutly as she could. ‘We hope every day that he’ll get better.’
When she said it to Carrie, she almost believed it too.
James recommended a builder who came during the week and had a good look at the cottage.
‘It all depends what you want to do,’ he said, as they stood outside after a thorough inspection. They both stared at the old place. ‘How fancy do you want to go? You could make a nice little home there.’
‘Simple, I think, for now,’ Emily said, aware that the bill for anything more could be quite substantial. ‘Just the roof mending, a kitchen and bathroom putting in. It needs to be sound and habitable really.’
‘You can do that for less than ten thousand,’ the builder said. ‘Depending on your specs, of course. But I’d say fifteen to be on the safe side – you’re bound to run into unforeseeables.’
‘How quickly could you do it?’
The builder shrugged. ‘It’s coming up to my busy time,’ he said, ‘but I reckon if you decide to go ahead quickly, I could get a mate of mine in and we could do it all in about three weeks. I’ve got a gap in a fortnight if you want to take it. Mr Pendleton’s used me if you want a recommendation.’
‘I know. He gave me your number.’ Emily stared at the little cottage. Could she afford to spend some of her precious resources on getting the place sorted for Tom? And then give it to him? Surely it would reduce the value of December House if she gave away the cottage like that, it was so close to the main house. It could lead to all sorts of complications. ‘Thanks, Mr Wilson. I’ll ring you tonight with my decision.’
That night she lay in bed, thinking hard about the ramifications of giving away Keeper’s Cottage. As she ran it all through her mind, she stared at Catherine Few’s snowscape, now hanging on the wall just across from her bed. Her eyes searched it while she thought of other things and, as she stared, the whiteness of the picture gradually began to absorb her until she felt as though she was almost in the painting herself, standing on a crisp, chill layer of freshly fallen snow, feeling the wind biting her cheeks as it skimmed the drifts and whipped up smoky white clouds.
I’m not going to give Tom ownership of the cottage, she decided, her ideas at last resolving. He can have free and full use of it – rent free – for as long as I live here. And I’ll get it fixed up and maintain it for him, pay the bills and so on. But I can’t separate it from the house. I feel it wouldn’t be right.
She felt sure he would be disappointed, resentful even.
But I’m sharing it. I can’t do more than that. Not at the moment.
As that thought at last settled everything she’d been thinking since that afternoon, another moment of clarity came upon her.
That scene in the picture . . . it’s the view from the back of the house out towards the hills. I’m sure of it. I didn’t notice at first – it’s facing slightly to the left from the house so the perspective is a bit different to what I’m used to.
As she squinted at it, she realised that there was something else she’d been staring at without realising. What is that object there in the snow? It’s something I don’t recognise. But the painting was too far away for her to examine closely and she was too cosy to get out of bed.
She yawned sleepily. I’ll look in the morning. Then she reached over and turned out the light.
Chapter Twenty
The house was not quite in darkness when they arrived. A lantern glowed in the window of the front hall, a welcoming golden light in the black of the night.
‘Ursula remembered!’ Cressie said joyfully. She turned to Ralph excitedly. ‘She always used to do that when we arrived for the holidays. It meant we were really here.’
‘Who’s Ursula?’ Ralph asked, paying the cab driver, who had left their bags by the door and was now ready to return to Carlisle. ‘Thank you very much. Goodnight.’
The cab driver mumbled his thanks, touched his cap and got into his rackety car. It popped and spluttered and then pulled slowly out of the drive, its headlights making yellow tunnels through the blackness.
‘She looks after the house for us. She lives in Keeper’s Cottage just nearby.’
‘Will she be here?’ Ralph said warily.
‘I should think so. She always used to wait in for us. But don’t worry, she won’t say a word.’
‘Are you sure?’ Ralph frowned. His face glimmered pale in the darkness. ‘Maybe I should wait here until she’s gone.’
‘No, really. Ursula is the soul of discretion, I promise.’ Cressie smiled at him and took his hand. It was the first time they had touched for the whole journey. Meeting him at Euston had felt so strange – simultaneously dangerous and rather mundane. He was waiting at the agreed place, gripping a leather holdall in one hand and a large artist’s box in the other. As soon as he saw her, his face lit up with pleasure and she hurried to him, but when they got close to one another, an awkwardness came over them. The reality of the bags they held and the way they indicated the intimacy they would soon share embarrassed Cressie, at the same time as her insides thrilled to the very same knowledge.
‘Did Catherine see you?’ Cressie asked, as they headed towards their platform.
Ralph shook his head. ‘She wasn’t there. She’ll come home and find I’m gone.’ His eyes hardened. ‘I dread to think of the scene there’ll be.’
Cressie was stabbed by a shaft of remorse. Catherine had always been kind to her. It was true that her instincts had never quite accepted the kindness: she had felt from the beginning that motive lay beneath every act of hospitality, and she had sensed that coded communication and warnings were just below the surface of everything Catherine said. ‘Don’t you feel rotten?’ Cressie had said almost timidly. ‘To leave her like this?’
The suddenness of what they were about to do frightened her. Ever since that morning she had been seized by excitement and a sense of purpose and adventure. At last, her dream of being with Ralph was going to come true – they were going to fly into the night like Porphyro and Madeline in Keats’s ‘The Eve of Saint Agnes’, young lovers escaping together in the face of everyone’s wrath. Love made everything all right, it excused anything. When two people had to be together, they were powerless in the face of it. And yet . . . She imagined Catherine coming into the studio and realising, slowly at first, that Ralph had gone. Perhaps it would be when she saw that his paints were gone. She would frown, look around for them, see that the pot of brushes had been emptied and then, suspicion growing in her mind, she would rush to their bedroom and fling open the wardrobe door. The missing clothes, the holdall gone . . . she would know for sure then. And what would she do? Shriek? Throw things? Rip down curtains and send the marble bust rol
ling in the hearth? Or would she sit down, implacable and furious, to begin plotting how to find Ralph? Surely she would think of Cressie. Surely that would be her very first thought . . .
Ralph looked at her, his eyes burning with emotion. ‘I don’t feel rotten to leave her,’ he said. ‘I have to get away from her. One day, you’ll understand.’ He was suddenly almost pleading. ‘But not yet. I can’t . . . don’t ask me yet.’
Cressie knocked on the door and then pushed it open. ‘Ursula? Are you there?’
She stepped inside. The house was not as cold and dank as she had feared it might be. A fire glowed in the huge fireplace in the hall, and she could feel a warmth coming from the back of the house. The next moment, the door to the passage opened and Ursula stepped out.
‘Miss Cressida, hello,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely. I got your telegram; the boy brought it in the afternoon. I’ve done what I can in the time, but it’s not as much as I would have liked.’
‘Ursula, hello.’ Cressie rushed up to her and kissed the other woman’s cheek, seizing her hand. Ursula was dear to them all; she had looked after the family summer after summer, and kept the house in their absence. It had been so long since Cressie had seen her. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said firmly. ‘And I’m sure the house will be absolutely splendid.’
Ursula smiled happily. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, miss. It’s been a long time.’ Her gaze slid over Cressie’s shoulder to where Ralph stood in the doorway. ‘I made up two rooms, as you said. I wasn’t sure if it was one of the boys coming with you or not.’
‘Ursula.’ Cressie gripped the other woman’s hands with hers. They were roughened by hard work. Ursula must be in her forties now, and she’d brought up a young daughter alone since she’d been widowed years ago. It must have been quite a task, Cressie thought. No wonder she was lined and furrowed with it. ‘We have always been close, haven’t we?’