Alison Littlewood

by A Cold Season

  And Pete. Her husband. Surely he couldn’t have done it either.

  Cass ran a hand over her eyes and went to see her son.

  At first Cass could see only a heap of covers, piled high on the bed, a man-sized bulk. She found herself reluctant to step closer, but forced herself to move. There was the curve of Ben’s shoulder, the pale hair flopping over his face. His breathing was loud, the deep breath of sleep: just a little boy worn out from playing with his friends.

  She should have asked where he’d been, what they’d been doing. She frowned. Carving signs into doors, perhaps. Chasing through empty apartments.

  She shook her head. They’d probably just been snowballing, racing each other, finding makeshift sledges. The builders’ yard would be the place for that, and Cass reminded herself to warn Ben away from it. Anything could be there – sheets of corrugated iron, rusted tools, splintering planks of wood embedded with nails. And anything could be lurking underneath: grey rats, huddled together for warmth.

  Rats. And Ben, sitting so still while they swarmed over him, eating the food.

  He had wanted to be kind, that was all.

  And tonight? Had Ben gone looking for the rats tonight?

  Cass looked at the floor where Ben habitually dropped his clothes. There was something there; at first it looked like a grey writhing mass, but she blinked and it resolved into nothing but his jeans and a T-shirt. She swept them up and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  As she walked to the bathroom she realised the clothes were too heavy, and something in the bundle was soaked. At first she thought her son might have wet himself, that maybe he’d been upset at the other boys’ games. She pictured her pale-faced boy, being dared to do who knew what? Climb trees maybe – or draw pictures, nasty, awful pictures. She straightened out his jeans. They were fine; the only dampness was around the ankles where he’d walked through the snow. It was his T-shirt that was wet; the front was a dripping mess. She remembered the tap running in the bathroom: why had he been so long? She smoothed out the fabric, held it up to the light. Behind the water was a darker smudge, some kind of stain. He’d got muddy perhaps. She brought the fabric to her face and sniffed. There was a faint meaty scent, the warm smell of bodies. She screwed it into a tight ball and threw it into the laundry basket. His jeans followed.

  Cass wiped her hands on a towel and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pinched, her hair greasy. The skin around her eyes felt dry. The lines on her forehead were deepening. She hadn’t looked like this when she had known Pete. Had Theo Remick seen those lines? She leaned over the sink and splashed water on her face. She felt so tired. She was going to sleep, to clear her mind and think of nothing.

  But Cass didn’t sleep. As soon as she climbed into bed she felt her brain working, turning things over. She thought about Ben: how could her child have done such a drawing? How could he even have thought of such a thing? She leaned over, grabbed her clothes from where she too had thrown them on the floor and pulled the drawing from her pocket. She didn’t look at it, just felt the paper between her fingers as she stared at the ceiling. And she found herself thinking of Pete.

  His arms had been so strong. It was one of the things she had loved about him, the way he’d wrap his arm around her waist and pull her to him mock-forcefully. The way he’d pin her down with one hand while he ran the other over her body.

  Could Pete have done such a thing? No. It was just a drawing. Something imagined, not something seen.

  He was Ben’s father. The man she loved. Had loved.

  Cass threw off the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her skin prickled in the cool night air. She reached under the bed, feeling the edge of the box, pulling it free. She felt the smoothness of ribbon under her fingers and riffled through the letters. Her hands did the choosing, pulling one loose. It rustled, crackled, and Cass started. The sound wasn’t coming from the paper. Somewhere inside the walls, rats were moving again.

  Cass flicked on the lamp and the shadows fled. She saw her husband’s writing, so familiar, so dear to her. When she ran her finger over the page she half expected to feel the words written there, as though they had taken on the character of something carved.

  We took turns, it said. Cass squeezed her eyes shut.

  We took turns, and the locals laughed. You’d think haggling would come easy to a northerner like me, but it’s surprisingly tough. They saw us coming a mile off. We’d line up, forming an orderly queue so they could fleece us.

  You’d have loved it, Cass. They all gather round and bicker and wave things in your face. It’s a bit worrying, but so full of life, not like our shops, just everyone diving in and all chattering at once.

  They had leather shoes and blankets and embroidery, and I tried to find something I could imagine you wearing, but I couldn’t.

  Then I saw the lapis lazuli. It looked like little chunks of rock, which is of course what it was, but if you know how to treat it, it turns into the most brilliant of colours.

  Men fought and died over those rocks. For a while it was the most expensive colour in the world. I bought some for you, Cass. Maybe one day we’ll find out how it works.

  Lapis. Blue stones, falling from his hands. Cass had thought her husband was trying to tell her something, and all the time her dream had sprung only from this: an old letter, put away and forgotten.

  Scritch, scritch.

  Cass fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She needed to get away. Darnshaw was a black-and-white place. Pete was right: she needed colour around her, life.

  She felt around for Ben’s drawing and held it up in front of her face. The blue stones of her dream had come from life. Where had this drawing come from? She stared. The khaki-clad soldier, his arm stretched out. The girl, her face a scream, silent now, perhaps for ever. Her dress a clear brilliant blue.

  NINETEEN

  Cass snapped awake to the blare of the alarm clock and leaned over the side of the bed, scrabbling for it. She touched cardboard, then the smooth plastic of the clock. She switched it off and lay back, tempted to just let herself drift. Then she sighed and pushed herself up. She had to get to the school early today, to try and see Lucy. Five minutes now might mean another eight hours of waiting.

  Cass headed for the bathroom, calling out for Ben along the way. She saw his T-shirt sticking out of the laundry basket and pushed it back in.

  ‘Ben.’ She threw on her clothes, remembered she would be seeing Mr Remick and pulled a clean jacket over the top.

  ‘Ben, come on,’ she shouted, but Ben was already there, standing in the doorway, dressed for school, his rucksack over his shoulder.

  ‘There you are,’ Cass said, and smiled. Ben’s cheeks were flushed and she wondered if one was a little redder than the other, where she’d slapped him. She went to her son and put a hand to his cheek, kissed him. ‘Come on, love. I’ll make us some breakfast.’

  Breakfast was a couple of crackers that had survived Ben’s raid, soft but passable. Cass spread butter thinly over them. ‘We can eat and walk. Come on.’

  They trod new paths in the fresh-fallen snow. It was deeper than ever, reaching the top of their boots. The lane was slow-going, but once they reached the road it was easier. The air was cold in Cass’ nostrils, sharp and clear, and smelled of nothing at all.

  Someone had reached the school before them, leaving a trail of footprints down the path. The car park was a fresh white blanket that no one had disturbed and the sun glittered back from its surface.

  ‘Enjoy school, love.’ Cass kissed Ben, forgetting he was getting too old for such things, and squeezed his shoulder before he started down the path. A piercing whistle sounded and a snowball flew from the playing field and glanced off Ben’s arm. Damon was in the field, waving. Ben waved back.

  Mr Remick appeared at the doors and Cass went to meet him. Ben had seen him too and wheeled round, running towards him as a son might run to his father. Cass half-expec
ted Theo to sweep Ben off his feet and spin him round.

  Cass met Theo’s eyes, saw the warmth on his face. It made everything seem so simple.

  ‘Hi, Ben,’ the teacher said. ‘You ready for Sally’s tonight?’

  Ben grinned enthusiastically. He looked different this morning – happy, carefree. He ran off towards the playing field where Damon waited.

  ‘I hope that’s still all right with you, Cass,’ Theo said.

  Cass nodded, but there was a sound from behind her that she recognised. ‘Excuse me,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ll just be a second. There’s someone I need to speak to.’

  A Land Rover came into sight, its bonnet dipping as it edged onto the slope of the car park. Cass waved at the windscreen and hurried around to the driver’s side.

  The door swung open and a woman Cass didn’t know looked out.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Cass, ‘I mistook you for someone else.’ She backed away, and found that Mr Remick had followed her up the slope.

  ‘Good to see you, Mrs Jackson,’ he called out.

  Mrs Jackson looked up at him, smiled, and fussed over the child in the passenger seat.

  ‘Is everything all right, Cass?’

  Cass met Mr Remick’s gaze. His eyes were free of worries. There was no line between his eyes.

  ‘I really need to see Jessica’s mum. Have you seen her this morning?’

  ‘No, she hasn’t been in yet. Do you want to watch for her from inside? You look cold.’

  Cass looked around the car park. No one was going to negotiate it in a hurry, not today. If she watched from the school, she’d easily see Lucy in time to catch her.

  Mr Remick led the way into the first classroom and Cass looked out of the window, seeing the white world between brilliantly coloured window paintings. He pulled up a tiny plastic chair and perched on it, his long legs splayed, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘You’ll fall for my charms yet, Ms Cassidy,’ he said.

  She turned back to the window and caught her breath. A vehicle was turning in at the gate, but it was a pickup, a white one.

  Remick pushed himself up and stood next to her. ‘That’s Myra,’ he said. ‘Her husband left her the truck.’

  ‘Isn’t he around any more?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, she’s on her own.’ He paused. ‘It’s not easy for her. You know, I get the feeling things are a little rough on you too at the moment.’

  Cass felt his breath on the side of her neck as he leaned in; there came the faint tickle of his stubble and the lightest of kisses. A shiver ran down Cass’ body. She forced herself to keep watching the white slope outside.

  Myra was walking down the path, one hand on her child’s shoulder. As Cass watched, the woman turned her head and looked in through the window. As their eyes met, Myra’s lips twitched into a smirk.

  Cass tossed her head and shot a look at Mr Remick.

  ‘Really,’ he murmured, ‘you can make friends here. If you want to.’

  They watched the path. A couple of kids skidded down it, followed by a mother who walked her child to the door and left. There were no other cars. Cass shifted, leaning close to the glass.

  ‘I should gather up the troops.’ He looked at his watch.

  ‘But—?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re a bit depleted now. Still, we have to keep going.’

  ‘But so few?’ Cass looked out. Maybe a dozen children had arrived, not even enough for one full class. As she watched, Sally hurried past the window and waved. ‘And I haven’t seen Lucy. She’ll be here, surely.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine, but there was more snow overnight. The roads were pretty bad as it was.’

  ‘She might still come.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you keep watching a while? You can stay in here if you like.’

  Cass heard his shoes tapping across the floor and the sound of the door closing. She leaned against the glass, looking at the fingerprints smeared in the window paint: so many little hands. The slope outside remained stubbornly empty. Lucy wasn’t coming. But the disk – surely Lucy would have sent the files for her?

  It looked like Cass wouldn’t find out that day. Chairs shuffled and scraped in the next room, Sally’s voice rang out, and Mr Remick laughed. Cass felt a stab of jealousy. Sally was a single woman, spending the whole day with Theo. She remembered the other mothers, laughing about it.

  But she would be spending the night with Theo Remick.

  Cass swallowed. Had she really thought that? She shook her head. It was dinner, that was all – it was just dinner, and they would talk, get to know each other a little better, and then Cass would leave and pick up her son.

  She thought of Pete, the letters under her bed.

  He sexed her.

  She pushed the thought away and made herself think about her client. Lucy was half an hour late; she clearly wasn’t coming. And if Jessica wasn’t at school today, Lucy wouldn’t be here tonight to collect her either, so Cass wouldn’t find out what had happened to the files until tomorrow.

  Well, there was one thing she could still do. Just in case Lucy had taken against her, after all.

  TWENTY

  The post office door was locked, a CLOSED sign turned to the glass. Cass looked up at the row of windows in the building above. It was hard to make out if there were any lights on inside. The flats, Bert had said, as though Cass already knew where they were.

  At the side of the post office was a narrow black door. It looked unused, the paint peeling. The flats. Cass looked for a sign saying who might live there, but saw none. There was no doorbell either.

  She knocked on the door and waited and almost immediately a gruff bark came from somewhere inside. A moment later footsteps beat out an irregular rhythm, bang-bang, bang-bang, as of someone edging down the stairs.

  When he opened the door, Bert’s face was red. ‘Just coming,’ he said. ‘Ah, it’s you, love.’

  He ushered Cass into a narrow hall. Just behind him was a steep staircase with a patterned carpet worn down at the centre of each tread. Bert stood back against the wall, letting Cass go first, and she squeezed past. She looked up to see a single wall light illuminating a ring of yellowed wallpaper.

  ‘Go on in, go on in,’ Bert said, pushing the door closed until it latched.

  Cass went up and paused on the landing. A sketch portrait of a woman looked down at her from an oval frame. The lady wore a long dress and a shy smile. Bert’s wife? Cass had never imagined him as anything but alone, just him and his dog – and now Captain stuck a salt-and-pepper muzzle around a doorframe and regarded her.

  ‘Hello, Captain,’ Cass said. She didn’t go any closer. ‘It’s only me.’

  ‘’e’s harmless.’ Bert spoke at her back and Cass jumped. ‘Just an old un.’

  Captain withdrew as Bert gestured towards the doorway and as Cass went in, the dog eased down onto a faded jacket lying on the floor. There were green chairs adorned with antimacassars, dark wooden furniture, and photographs everywhere: children of various ages, the same woman Cass had seen before.

  ‘Enid,’ said Bert, following her gaze. ‘Been gone a long time now. And the young uns.’

  Cass didn’t ask whose ‘young uns’. She wondered how often they visited.

  Captain let out a loud sigh.

  ‘I know you said—’

  ‘Aye, love. If you want I can phone someone for you, come back with one of they quads or some such thing. Or ’appen I’ll get someone to come and get you.’

  Cass paused. She looked at him and down at the dog. She bit her lip. ‘You know, it’s very kind of you. But I don’t think you should go.’

  ‘No?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s just, it’s such a long way. It might be too much, and— Well.’

  Bert let out a bray of laughter. ‘You don’t think I’m up to it.’ The laugh turned into a wheeze and he slapped his leg as he dropped into a
chair, gesturing to Cass to take the one opposite. ‘That’s it, in’t it?’

  ‘It’ll be really hard work in the snow. I’m not sure about Captain, that’s all. He looks tired.’

  Bert grew serious. ‘I know, love, an’ he is: ’im and me both. But I’ve been walking they paths in these parts since I were a lad, an’ that’s saying something.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m no lad any more, I know it. Listen, love, I walk every day, no less, and so does Captain. An’ it’ll be a tough un, I’m not saying it won’t. But I’ll tek me time, and once I’m on t’ road, it’ll be all reet. You’ll see.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s nine mile, more or less. I’ll be tired at t’other end, but once I’m up top, it’s all downhill an’ I’ll be reet. Now, what I can do for you?’ He looked at her. ‘I’m going, love, with or without any messages you want to give me, so you might as well come out with it.’

  Cass fumbled in her bag and brought out an envelope. ‘I really need to get this to someone. If you wouldn’t mind posting it in Moorfoot, I’d appreciate it.’

  Bert took the padded envelope, looked at the address.

  ‘It’s for work. I have to get those files to my client or I could lose him. I don’t have any stamps, but I can give you the money.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Well, yes, but it’s—’

  ‘You don’t get it,’ he said. ‘You don’t get it at all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is there nothing else?’ The accent seemed to fall away, his voice becoming clipped. ‘No message I can take for you? No one I can call?’

  Cass thought of her father and shifted in her seat. Perhaps she would write to him, but not now; she could do it when this was over, the snow thawed. Then she could go and see him, or maybe he could visit her in Darnshaw.

  She thought of her father looking up at the church, awe and something deeper written on his face.