The Soprano

by England, Sarah

  “Snow?”

  She stopped.

  “You must come downstairs now. It’s freezing in here, child. Aren’t you hungry?”

  Ellen held the lamp higher in order to decipher Snow’s expression; to gauge, as the bulky shape lumped out of her chair – dressed in zip-up ankle boots, thick tan stockings and a flower-patterned pinafore – what mood she might be in; trying not to flinch at the leery, brainless grin on the young woman’s face as she lurched towards her.

  “Come on now, there’s a good girl. No–”

  Snow had more power in one hand than most grown men; had been known to bang people’s heads against the wall in a pique of rage, and Ellen, secretly because she would never confess as much to Marion much less Rosa, was terrified of her. The girl could snap bones between her forefingers if she felt that way inclined.

  “Don’t do that, Snow…don’t.”

  As was often the case, Snow was in a temper and it seemed she’d been brewing this one for some time. Pushing her grandmother roughly in the chest with both hands, the shove sent Ellen stumbling backwards.

  “I know you’re hungry and cold and it’s my fault, you’re quite right. I’m so sorry, dear, I forgot the time. Come on, now.”

  Snow loomed over her as she cowered against the wall, so close she could almost taste the girl’s stale breath. Pale, watery pink eyes stared directly into her own and she felt the chill of madness as it peered into her mind. Snow’s breathing was escalating, her chin folding up over her lower teeth – an expression she adopted when concentrating or working up to something.

  In the background the ball bounced and rolled along the wooden floor, bumping against the skirting board, and for several heartbeats it seemed the blackness of the moment would swallow them both. She knew Snow sensed her fear. She tried to swallow it down but still it kept coming, rising hotly in her throat, a sickening lump as she stared into the small pink eyes, searching for the humanity there, for a connection.

  What would happen next no one could predict. This monster-child with her suet-pudding face and deadpan stare – born to her eldest daughter, Marion, and christened ‘Lana’ after a beautiful film star – was the family secret. As long as she didn’t hurt anyone, said Marion, she’s fine. She doesn’t need special care and no one official needs to know. The Danbys could not have a mentally handicapped child. Did not have one, in fact. There was nothing wrong with Lana, who could be home-schooled, could she not?

  Only there was. And she did hurt people. Snow’s temper could explode without warning and for no better reason than not liking the meal put in front of her even though she’d wolfed it down the day before. Sometimes she could not even be touched. She’d sit in the corner of the kitchen rocking to and fro, hitting the ball with the string, flying into a fury if anyone interrupted her, even if she hadn’t eaten all day or had soiled clothing.

  A smattering of sleet blew across the window.

  “Snow? Come on, now,” Ellen said softly. “Let’s go and get supper, shall we? Would that be nice?”

  From somewhere deep inside the house there came a heavy sigh, a door creaking, and shuffling whispers in the corridor.

  “I can hear them,” said Snow, her stare finally tearing away from Ellen’s.

  “It’s just the wind—”

  “No!”

  It was rare for her to speak and rarer still for what she said to be coherent.

  “What do you mean, ‘hear them?’ Who?”

  She knew, though, knew all too well, as Snow’s cumbersome frame heaved away and ambled over to where the ball had stopped. Ellen let go of her breath, watching her, never taking her eyes from her, as picking up the ball Snow now began to scout around in an agitated manner for the string.

  Ellen scrabbled for the lamp. “There, look, it’s over there,” she said, pointing to underneath the chair.

  Snow lunged for it, then slumped back into the armchair and resumed hitting the ball with the piece of string, over and over, rocking and murmuring to herself, working herself up again; the rocking more violent than before and more determined.

  Slowly and steadily, Ellen backed out of the room. The girl’s mood would last for days now. Oh, she could hear them alright. Just like herself, except Snow didn’t hide the fact. So it was real then, wasn’t it? They were back again. But why after all this time? And who would it be for? Oh dear God, who? And why, why, why? Why any of it?

  Terror stole across her mind so quietly, so stealthily, so imperceptibly, that absently stepping back into the corridor and closing the door behind her, she was quite taken unaware.

  ***

  Chapter Four

  Danby, 1951

  Hazel Quinn

  Earlier that same evening, Hazel Quinn switched off the wireless, poked the fire and for at least the tenth time in less than an hour, walked over to the window and peered into the street. Every house on the cul-de-sac was a 1930s semi, curtains drawn against the dusk - red, green and blue Christmas tree lights twinkling between the gaps, reflected on white lawns. Fresh snowfall topped the shrubs and car roofs alike, muffling everything. There wasn’t a sound out there. In the glow of the street lamps flakes of it fizzed around like desiccated coconut – a wonder it ever settled, Hazel thought. The trains were still running, though. And Max should have been home hours ago.

  Hazel was not a happy woman. At thirty-three, she’d been married to Max Quinn for seven years and it had taken her every one of those to realise why he’d picked her out of all the beautiful girls, as his late mother had so memorably sniped, he could have had!

  She looked over at the Jaguar parked on the driveway, willed to her just last year by her father, along with the velvet mills, now sold off to Vic Holland of all people. Max had wanted to invest in a nylons business in Leek – something that would make them far more money, he explained, than what would soon become the dying velvet trade. Everything was changing, he said, the fire of ambition in his eyes, and now that post-war austerity was over they must look to the future and be a part of it.

  Yet as far as she could see, Vic Holland was the only one who appeared to be prospering, buying up chunks of land in Ludsmoor and Grytton as fast as they became available. She frowned. He must be greasing palms – had to be. She knew how business was done. Oh, he’d been seen right enough, enjoying drinking sessions with councillors, farmers, solicitors and the like in The Quarryman or The Feathers in Danby. He was one of those men she never felt comfortable with, the way he let his eyes roam all over a woman and then smirked. She shuddered at the recollection. Yes, quite a mystery when you came to think of it – the son of a dirt-poor miner in Ludsmoor now a rich and successful property developer with acres of land. And all without putting in a day’s work.

  ‘Shrewd’ was the word Max, who seemed overly keen to join Vic’s inner circle, used. ‘Crooked’ was the one she’d opt for. As crooked as the long, hooked nose on his face. And within months of buying her late father’s mills, which dominated the Ludsmoor landscape and employed most of the local women, he’d also built Spite Hall. And no one was ever going to persuade her, not even Max, that wasn’t just plain nasty.

  Spite Hall overlooked the lake at Grytton. An odd name to call a house! But then it was an odd place to put it – slap bang in front of Ellen Danby’s Lake View Villa. Where once the woman and her daughters had looked out over verdant lawns and the rippling expanse of Grytton Mere – Aaron Danby’s legacy - the only view they now had was of drainpipes and guttering, their previously sunny rooms cast into permanent gloom by the audacious proximity of a solid stone wall. Quite a scandal that had been.

  Oh, where the hell was Max?

  She hurried upstairs to the front bedroom, convinced he’d be walking down the street any moment now. Handsome bastard, he was. Still made her heart flip – that first second when their eyes locked; the shock and confusion at his male beauty catching her off guard every single time. The trouble was he made every other woman feel like that too, with those big, sad eyes
of his. What a combination – a strong, angular body and puppy-dog fragility. How easy he found the game.

  She sat at the window, hunched on the dressing-table stool, picking chipped varnish off her finger nails. The air in the front bedroom was as cold as a morgue, the chill of it sinking into her bones. Let it. Somehow it felt better to be cold with her agitation. Who wanted to be warm and comfortable when they felt like this? She stood up and paced. Sat down again. Paced. Then sat down again. Who could settle to a play on the wireless or concentrate on a book when every few minutes their mind skittered back to what they really wanted to know?

  Where was he? Where? Where?

  But she knew. Knew the inevitable was coming. The screw had begun to turn a while ago – reality cruelly twisting into knot after knot with every more minute that passed. And the clock on the bedside table ticked on and on and on…from six to seven to eight. Until finally, finally, her heart plunged with hollow acceptance: he wasn’t coming home tonight. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  God, it hurt… Every single time it just hurt so bloody much.

  ‘Yes she did have brains in her head,’ she’d snapped at her father. ‘And yes she did know–’

  “So why, then?” he’d demanded. “Why marry a bloke like him?”

  It sounded lame even to her own ears, but so help her God it was the truth. “I love him, Dad. I just love him.”

  That had been eight years ago. Eight years since they’d announced their engagement into the echoing silence of family hostility. In her naivety she’d thought her parents might be pleased: there were precious few men of marriageable age around in the aftermath of the Second World War, and Max had been her father’s protégé – successfully selling their velvet into major outlets all over the country. He was good-looking, had survived the war, made them money…She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him ever since he’d been invited to dinner at the house. In some ways, the small, fox-like face with a slight bump to the nose and a jutting chin, should not have worked – but boy they did, they really did – combined as they were with olive skin and a silvering of the hair. He had a slight stoop because of his height, and an easy laugh, gentlemanly manners and the softest of touches with long, sorcerer’s fingers.

  She shivered inwardly, aching with a long, distant memory of him nuzzling the nape of her neck, running one hand oh-so-gently down the curve of her waist; his breath soft against her hair - breathing her in as if he could never get enough.

  So how long until she saw what everyone else saw? That he had the same effect on almost every woman he met? Christ, how it ripped into the soul when you knew you weren’t special – not unique at all – and that your beautiful moment turned out to be exactly the same as someone else’s. Yes, it tore you down and, yes, it left you on the floor, worthless and expendable. But that was as nothing compared to the thought of a future without ever seeing his face again or feeling his arms around her… not ever…

  Tears dripped down her face and she swiped them away.

  And at what point had the sharp wit he’d used to make her laugh, turned into ill-concealed, frustrated boredom? It was all so obvious now - the pique of irritation in his voice, the set of his mouth. God, when had that started? And at what point did he stop even trying to pretend - flipping full volte-face into cruel barbs?

  “How long?” she said out loud to the empty room. “How long have I been like this?”

  It was almost as if she had become the enemy, the way he spoke to her, treated her… The thing was, he hadn’t been like this before meeting up with Vic Holland, had he? Was that the tipping point, then? Because there was something about that family - an undercurrent - impossible to pinpoint, though. Maybe she was missing a bigger picture? But what?

  Perhaps it was simply that Max was driven and ambitious and wanted to be part of an upcoming group of men paving the way for the future? And like her late mother had said, ‘All men stray…’ So maybe there was nothing wrong at all? Oh God, this was just going round in circles. Maybe it was simply her own insanity talking – being alone again - always so very much alone?

  Her stare burned into the spiralling, snowy haze – gardens and rooftops now white over. Must be what, maybe two or three inches fallen in the last hour? The air was dense with fat, fluffy snowflakes, as solidly and steadily they stuck and settled, spreading winter in a ghostly hush. Trapping her here. How could she sleep? How could she rest? Oh, damn him! Damn him to high hell! He could at least have rung.

  Her fingers were waxen-white. Dead. Flexing them to get the blood back, she forced her mind to tack onto something – anything - if only to stave off the madness, the impotence, the rage. Think, think… Yes, it was around the time he did that deal with Vic Holland that it all started. And why had Max sold off the factories so cheaply to him? Why do a fast deal with Vic Holland? Why ingratiate himself with the Hollands at all? This was the key – the key to understanding it all, she was sure…

  Grace Holland!

  She felt sick.

  Of course…

  It had been just before Christmas when she’d had the flu, Max had insisted they go to see Grace perform, Pie Jesu from Faure’s Requiem. They should support local talent, he said. It had been over in Derbyshire somewhere – Bakewell, was it? Miles away, anyway; a trans-Pennine journey with her nose streaming and not an ounce of energy in her shivering limbs. When she caught sight of herself in the Powder Room during the interval she’d almost screamed in fright at the ghastly apparition in the mirror with its red-rimmed eyes and sickly pallor. Nauseous and exhausted, far from being a treat it had been an endurance to sit through the evening in a draughty church hall; especially since Max had not once held her hand or spoken one word of kindness.

  Instead he’d been entranced by the vision on stage. Grace Holland was dressed in a long, white evening gown with a plunging neckline that exposed a pair of heaving, pillow-breasts. Diamante had been woven into a coil of gleaming black hair on top of her head; and scarlet painted lips with smoky, dark eyes upwardly inflected like those of a feline, completed the hypnotic effect.

  “Absolutely magnificent,” he kept saying. “Don’t you find it moving? Can you not appreciate the beauty?”

  She nodded. The music was heart-rending and the woman’s voice could certainly shatter glass.

  “Come on,” said Max, jolting her sharply when the choir finished and people started to file out. “We’ve an invitation to go for dinner with the star of the show.”

  “What? No, no, I can’t. I’m not well enough. You go and have a drink with them. I’ll wait in the car.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Hazel. Vic and Grace are expecting us, and the rest of the family are here too – Vivien and the kids. You remember them, don’t you?”

  Oh yes, she remembered the visit to Wish Lane Cottage and Grace’s cousin, Vivien, arriving with her three children. Nice family, but Vivien’s dark eyes hadn’t missed a trick, eventually coming to rest on her own with an arched, raised eyebrow.

  Her frown deepened. That night watching her husband flirt with Grace had probably been the most painful and humiliating experience she’d ever been forced to suffer; and after they got home he’d slept in the spare room until she ‘stopped sulking,’ and anyway, he ‘didn’t want to catch the flu, did he?’

  Jesus Christ, where was her self-respect?

  Silently, she nodded to herself.

  Oh, why the hell had she married him when he made her feel like this? More to the point, why had he married her? There wasn’t exactly a dearth of eager women around at the time, and he’d been a young man of talent and promise, with, as his mother had repeatedly pointed out, his pick of beauties. Her family weren’t particularly rich back then either – the business had only taken off once the war was over and people had a bit of money again.

  Max always said he’d liked that she was quiet, a thinker, didn’t gossip or shout in the street, which in retrospect made her wonder at the kind
of life he’d led, at the female company he kept. But he did love her, he said, loved that she enjoyed reading, music, sewing. Not that she could put her mind to anything of late. When had she last picked up a book or listened to any kind of music, for fear it might elicit a flare of emotion she couldn’t cope with? And when had the anxiety, the need for pills and doctor appointments crept in? Weeks ago? Months? It had taken its toll anyway, leaving her weepy and exhausted.

  Maybe she really was a barren, frigid old nag with a pancake chest, just like he said? But surely he could see how being childless had left her isolated among women? It was a rare event for her to be invited to any of the many social events around here; a polite nod or a pitying glance bestowed at best. Clearly it hadn’t occurred to him she might need his support. He had never been cruel before, but now – now, he sure as hell was. Well, perhaps in a way it made the coming task easier.

  The dull ache inside her opened up into a chasm. She hung her head. Her shoulders sagged. And volcanic misery suddenly erupted, tearing out of her body in a great riptide of sobbing and choking as the agony burst out.

  It was time to let him go. Let him go… just let him go…

  After a while, she sat dabbing her swollen eyes. That would be the last time. The very last time she ever cried over Max. She had mourned for long enough already. This man, when all was said and done, was making her intolerably miserable; but unlike many poor souls she was lucky enough not to rely on him financially. The money, thanks to her wily old father, was hers. Max could do nothing without her signature, and her parents were not around to witness the disgrace of a divorce. She could go anywhere – to the other side of the country if she wished – and start again. Maybe buy a small business: a café by the sea? And the wound he’d gouged into her heart? Well, in time that might heal over, mightn’t it? As long as she never saw his face in her dreams and remembered how he had once looked at her.