Winter Solstice

by Pilcher, Rosamunde

  They turned along the shore road. The beach was rocky and inhospitable. The sea, racing in on the flood, was as grey as the skies above and flecked with spray. Far out, on a sandbank, a number of seals rested, and as she watched, a flight of ducks moved in from the east, to land on an isolated pool not yet drowned by the running tide.

  At the far end of the loch, a road bridge spanned the water, and beyond this was wild country, a glen of scrub and bracken and dead water, edging up into the hills. At the main road they turned north, and the gritters had been out, and the snow was dirtied by traffic and by the mud thrown up by lorries and tractors. Between the road and the sea lay farmland; sheep huddled in the lee of dry stone dikes, and small farmsteads sported bravely smoking chimney-pots reeking of peat. A tractor was crossing a field trailing a bogey laden with hay, and a woman emerged from a door to throw crusts to her flock of gobbling geese. Farther on, they came upon a man trudging along the side of the road, a solitary figure walking head-down against the weather; he held a long crook and his sheepdog ran at his heels. As they approached, he paused to let them by and raised a mittened hand in greeting.

  “He looks,” said Carrie, “as though he had been painted by Breughel.”

  She remembered farms in the south of England, so bosky and green. And her father’s small holding in Cornwall, where the milk cows grazed out of doors all winter. She said, “I can’t imagine working a farm in weather like this. It seems a question of survival rather than anything else.”

  “They’re always prepared for bad weather. Winters have always been harsh. And they’re a tough breed.”

  “They’d need to be.”

  They were on their way to view the woollen mill which was to be Sam Howard’s future. Now, Carrie wished that she had never come up with that suggestion, so casually made. I should like to see your mill, she had said, with no idea that he would be so enthusiastic about the prospect of showing her around. And that had been before all that happened later; and this morning, of course, it was too late to back out, to make some excuse, to pretend that she wasn’t particularly interested after all.

  Too late. Too late to blot out that outburst of passionate honesty, the truth that she had been so careful to keep to herself, concealed and hopefully unsuspected. She told herself that she couldn’t conceive how it had all come about, knowing perfectly well what had precipitated the breakdown of defenses, the opening up of her own unhappy heart.

  It was Corrydale. The place. The sunlit snow, the aromatic scent of pine trees, the dark-blue skies, the mountains on the far side of the glittering firth. The warmth of the low sun seeping through the padding of her jacket; the crunch of fresh snow underfoot; the dazzle, the pleasure of breathing pure cold air down into her lungs. Austria. Oberbeuren. And Andreas. The place and the man; indivisible. Andreas, here. Now. Walking beside her, talking incessantly, his voice always with that undertone of laughter. Andreas. Making plans, making love. So strong was the illusion that she thought she could smell the cool, fresh, lemony scent of his aftershave. And even as she felt his presence so strongly, she had known that it was simply a figment of her own heightened imagination. Because Andreas was gone. Back to Inga and his children, leaving Carrie with such a devastating sense of pain and loss that all at once it was no longer possible to remain cool and rational.

  Sam, talking about his wife, his broken marriage and the end of his job in New York, had simply compounded her misery, and when he had come out with that horrible word “rejected,” she had turned on him in the sort of rage that she had never believed she was capable of, the furious words had broken free, and it was only tears that stemmed the outburst. A flood of tears that left her ashamed and humiliated, and when she had tried to run away from her own humiliation, Sam had pulled her back, taken her into his arms and held her close, as he might have held an inconsolable child.

  She thought now, that in a book, in a film, that moment would have been the end. The final embrace, after reels of antagonism and misunderstanding. The camera after backing off into a long shot, panning up to the sky, to a skein of home-flying geese or some other meaningful symbol. Throbbing theme music, and the credits rolling, and the good sensation of a happy ending.

  But life didn’t stop at the end of the story. It just moved on. Sam’s embrace, his arms around her, the physical contact, the closeness had comforted, but not melted her own coldness. She was not changed. She was still Carrie, thirty years old, and with the love of her life gone forever. Perhaps that was the way she wanted to be, with a heart frozen like the winter landscape all about them. Perhaps that was the way she wanted to stay.

  Elfrida had said, so sadly, The world is full of married men. It was better not to get too close to another person. The closer you got, the more likely you were to get hurt.

  McTAGGARTS OF BUCKLY

  The mill stood on the outskirts of the small town, set back from the road behind a stone wall and an imposing wrought-iron double gateway. This was wide enough to allow the passage of a horse and cart, and overhead curved a decorative archway crowned by an ornate device vaguely heraldic in appearance.

  The gate, this morning, stood open, and beyond was a spacious area set about with circular raised flower-beds contained by walls of cobble-stones. All lay under snow, and the flower-beds were empty, but Carrie guessed that in summertime there would be a fine show of geraniums, lobelia, aubrietia, and other municipally approved plantings.

  The snow was virgin, unmarked by footprints or tyre tracks. They were, it was clear, the first and only visitors of the day. Passing beneath the gateway, Carrie had, through the windscreen, her first sighting of the mill, and could at once perfectly understand why the environmental authorities had deemed it worthy of being listed. There was an industrial chimney, of course, rearing up beyond the pitched roof, and other, more utilitarian sheds and storehouses set about, but the main building was both impressive and good-looking.

  Built of local stone, its fa9ade was long and pleasingly symmetrical. A central pediment was topped by a clock tower. Beneath this, a single window on the first floor, and then, below again, an important double door over which arched an elegant glass fanlight.

  On either side of the pediment, the two wings were set with a double row of windows, all formally fenestrated. The sloping roof was slate, pierced by skylights, and here and there the stonework was softened by the dark and glossy green of climbing ivy.

  Sam drew up in front of the big door, and they stepped down into the snow. Carrie stood for a moment looking around, and Sam came to stand at her side, his hands deep in the pockets of his Barbour.

  After a bit, “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I think it’s very handsome.”

  “I told you. No question of bulldozing the lot and starting anew.”

  “I was expecting a dark, Satanic mill. Or a factory. This looks more like a well-established public school. All that’s missing are a few playing fields with goal-posts.”

  “The original null buildings are round at the back, nearer to the river. This block was put up in 1865, so it’s relatively new. It was conceived as a form of window-dressing. Offices, sale-rooms, conference rooms; that sort of thing. There was even a reading room for the employees, a good example of Victorian paternalism. On the first floor, the space was for finished goods, and, above again, in the lofts, wool stores. You have to remember that the business has been going since the middle of the eighteenth century. The river, of course, was the reason that the original mill was sited in this particular spot.”

  Carrie said, “It all looks in such good order. Hard to believe it’s suffered a fatal flood.”

  “Well, brace yourself. You’re in for a shock.”

  He produced, from his pocket, a considerable key, fitted this into the brass lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. He stood aside, and Carrie went past him and into a square, high-ceilinged reception hallway.

  And devastation.

  It was empty. The high-tide mark of the
floodwater reached to nearly five feet. Above this, handsome flock wallpaper had survived, but, below, all colour had been soaked away, and it peeled from the wall in ruined tatters. The floor, too, bare boards, was much damaged: old planks rotted and broken; gaping holes revealing original joists and the dark cavities of deep foundations. There hung, over all, the pervading and depressing smell of mould and damp.

  “… This was the reception area. For visitors, or new customers; an important first impression. I believe it was all furnished and carpeted in some style, and with portraits of various McTaggart founders glowering down from the walls. You can see that the plaster cornice survived, but the flood rendered everything else beyond repair and it all had to be jettisoned.”

  “How long did it take for the water to go down?”

  “About a week. As soon as possible, industrial blowers were installed to try to dry things out, but too late to save anything in here.”

  “Has the river ever flooded before?”

  “Once. About fifty years ago. After that a dam and a sluice were constructed in order to control the level of the water. But this time the rain was relentless, and to make matters worse, there was a very high tide, and the river simply burst its banks.”

  “It’s almost impossible to imagine.”

  “I know. Come and see. Careful where you walk. I don’t want you falling through the floorboards.”

  Another door stood at the back of the hallway. Sam opened this, Carrie followed, and it was a bit like going through the green baize door of a large house with servants’ quarters. For it led into a stone-floored space as big as a warehouse and glass-roofed for light. It was empty, echoing, and piercingly cold. Here and there were evidences of past industry, like the mountings set into the flags where once had stood the weaving looms, and at the far side an open-treaded wooden stair led to an upper gallery.

  It felt dead, and sadly desolate.

  “What went on here?” Carrie asked, and her voice rang back at her from the soaring roof and the empty, stained walls.

  “This is a weaving shed. Fergus Skinner-he was the guy in charge of the mill at the time of the flood-told me some of what happened. That night, they went on working here until eleven o’clock, because even as the water trickled in, they were still hoping that the flood would abate. But it didn’t, and the rest of the night they spent lifting everything they could off the floor. A desperate but hopeless task. What was possible to salvage was-the spinning frames, although they were badly damaged. Old wooden scouring machines survived, and the teasel-raising machines. Financially, the worst disaster was the ruination of all the finished goods. Orders worth thousands, packed and ready for delivery. It was that loss, really, that finally finished McTaggarts off.”

  “Was the office on the ground floor?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Fergus Skinner told me that he remembered wading in there, to see if he could salvage any tiling, but the water was waist-level by then, the computers drowned, and letters of credit floating towards him down the aisle….”

  “What happened the next day? The workforce … ?”

  “All laid off. No alternative. But as soon as the waters subsided, about a hundred men turned up to salvage what they could. Half of the machinery had to be scrapped including the German electronic shuttle looms which had only recently been installed. So much for modem, and extremely expensive, technology. What did survive was some of the older, less sophisticated machinery. Looms which had been bought second-hand, and were already forty or fifty years old. The engineers stripped down the carding machine and cleaned it off before the rust set in, so that can be set up again. And there was some specialist machinery from Italy, but that’s in store right now, and we plan to send it back to Milan for refurbishment and reuse.”

  Carrie, fascinated and attentive, was, nevertheless, starting to feel tremendously cold. Damp chill crept up through the thick soles of her boots, and all at once she shivered. Sam saw this, and was remorseful.

  “Carrie, I’m sorry. Once I start expounding, I forget everything else. Do you want to go? Have you had enough?”

  “No. I want to see it all. I want you to show it all to me, and tell me what you’re going to do, about the new plans, and where everything’s going to be. At the moment, I am completely bewildered by the prospect of doing anything at all. It’s mind-boggling. Like being given a totally impossible task.”

  “Nothing is impossible.”

  “But still… being the guy in charge.”

  “Yes, but with the resources of a huge conglomerate behind me. That makes a hell of a difference.”

  “Even so. They chose you to take on the job. I wonder why?”

  Sam grinned, and all at once looked, not simply boyish, but at the same time, bursting with eager confidence. He knew what he was talking about. He was on his home ground.

  He said, “I suppose because, basically, I’m a Yorkshire boy. And where there’s muck, there’s brass. Now, come, before you freeze, and I’ll show you the rest….”

  By the time the tour was finished, and they stepped once more into the outdoors, Carrie was chilled to the bone. She stood in the snow, waiting while Sam closed and locked the door behind him, and then he turned and saw her, hunched into her thick grey loden coat, with her hands dug deep into the pockets.

  “You look frozen, Carrie.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”

  “I liked it. It’s just that my feet are frozen.”

  “I hope you weren’t bored.”

  “Not at all. Fascinated.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “It’s half past eleven. Shall we go back to Creagan, or would you like a heartening drink? From the look of you, a Whisky Mac might be the best thing.”

  “Hot coffee would do the trick.”

  “Whatever. Come along, get back into the car, and we’ll warm you up.”

  So they drove away from the deserted mill, over the cobbles, under the handsome gateway, and then turned right and went on down the road and into Buckly, making their way along narrow winding streets and across a small square where stood the War Memorial. There weren’t many people about, but little shops had their lights on, and brave Christmas decorations in windows. Then over a stone bridge that spanned the ravine of a river in spate, and beyond this, Sam drew up by the pavement outside a gloomy-looking establishment with the duke’s arms in curly gold capitals above the door. Carrie eyed it without much enthusiasm.

  “I am sure,” Sam told her, “that in Buckly there are more lively spots, but this happens to be the only one I know. And it is, in its own way, unique.”

  “It doesn’t look a riot of fun.”

  “We shall make it so.”

  They got out of the car and crossed the pavement as Sam led the way, pushing open the door and letting loose a warm and beery smell. Gingerly, Carrie followed. Inside, it was dark and seedy, but gloriously overheated. A coal-fire glowed and flickered in the oldfashioned hearth, and over the mantelpiece hung an enormous fish in a glass case. Small, wobbly tables held brewery beer-mats and ashtrays, and there seemed to be only two other customers, both of them silent, male, and very old. Behind the bar, the proprietor was intent on a small black-and-white television set, with the sound turned down to a murmur. A clock ticked, and a bit of coal collapsed in the fire with a whisper. The atmosphere was so dour that Carrie wondered if they should simply turn about and tiptoe away again.

  But Sam had other ideas.

  “Come on,” he said, and his voice rang around the room, in a very off-putting way.

  “Sit here, close to the fire.” He pulled a chair away from a table.

  “I’m sure you’ll get a cup of coffee if you really want one, but would you try a Whisky Mac? It’s the most warming drink in the world.”

  It sounded more tempting than coffee.

  “All right.”

  She sat, pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat, then spread
her hands to the heat of the fire. Sam went over to the bar, and the barman dragged himself away from the television set and took his order. After that, in the way of all countrymen in pubs, they fell into conversation, their voices low, as though they spoke secrets.

  Carrie pulled off her fur hat and laid it on the chair beside her; she ran her fingers through her hair. Doing this, she looked up and caught the eye of the old man who sat beneath the window. It was a rheumy eye, and blazed with disapproval, and Carrie guessed that the Duke’s Arms was not an establishment frequented by women. She tried smiling at him, but he only munched on his dentures and returned his attention to his beer.

  The exchange at the bar continued. Sam stood with his back to her, in the classic attitude of a man at ease in his pub, with one foot on the brass rail and an elbow on the polished counter. Very slowly, as they talked, the barman assembled Sam’s order, pausing every now and then to check up on what the television set had to say.

  Carrie leaned back on the hard chair-back, stretched out her legs, and watched them, and thought that this morning she had seen, for the first time, the other side of Sam, the man who had walked in out of the snow only three or four days ago and been forced by the vile weather to stay. He had become, with no apparent effort, nor forced bonhomie, an integral part of an ill-assorted little household. Absorbed as easily as an accomplished and experienced house guest.

  She thought of him dealing, unasked, with a number of not very exciting day-to-day tasks. Like humping great baskets of logs, filling the coal bucket, walking the dog, carving a roast pheasant, and even gutting the salmon which Elfrida, in a mad moment, had been impelled to buy from the man who sold fresh fish from the back of his van. Uncomplaining, Sam had shovelled snow, pushed trolleys around the supermarket, stocked up Oscar’s wine-cellar, and brought the Christmas tree home. Even better, he had set it up on its dicey-looking wooden stand, and then managed to unravel and get working the annual headache of the Christmas-tree lights.

  For this noble effort, Oscar was particularly grateful.