THE VERY DEAD OF WINTER

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Terence is another folly.’ Florence wiped a dribble of butter from her chin. ‘Why she insisted that he join us here, I can’t imagine. He hates the country.’

  ‘As they live together, I suppose . . .’

  ‘She says he would have hated to spend Christmas on his own. But he wouldn’t have spent it on his own, not him. Someone would have taken pity on him – some woman. He’s very good at arranging to be pitied is Terence. I sometimes think that’s how they came together in the first place – they both need someone to lean on. That’s why he’s coming here for Christmas – because she’s afraid to be without him. In fact, if I hadn’t been very firm and said I couldn’t possibly do the journey on my own, she would have come on Christmas Eve with him.’

  ‘He will have a difficult journey.’ It was the first mention Sophia had made of travelling conditions.

  ‘I had a difficult journey,’ Florence said.

  Tea had been served in the hall. Anita, coming down the stairs, hoped this did not mean there was no fire in the sitting-room.

  ‘You haven’t taken off your jacket,’ Florence said, as if Anita might not have noticed.

  ‘I’m frozen.’

  ‘You should have come down sooner instead of mooning about up there in the dark.’

  Florence and Sophia were seated one on either side of the hearth, Sophia like some bright fungus sprouting from the floor, Florence, plump legs outstretched, face scarlet, happy as Billy Bunter at a midnight feast.

  ‘Come and join us. You can sit on the rug and make your own toast.’ Florence took the teapot from the hearth and filled a cup for Anita. ‘I’ve been telling Sophia that we must have a party.’ She was eager to take charge. ‘There must be people around here whose arrangements have been messed up by the snow who are wondering what on earth to do with themselves.’

  ‘They probably don’t want to venture out,’ Anita said.

  ‘Nonsense! It’s only townsfolk who fuss about the weather.’

  ‘There’s Frances,’ Sophia mused. ‘She would probably be glad to come to a party, poor lamb.’

  ‘There you are! And I expect there are several others besides this Frances who would be delighted to come.’

  Sophia smiled a sidelong smile, eyes reviewing her sister. Mother isn’t really in charge, Anita thought; she is simply being permitted to play, like a child allowed up late for Christmas. She turned the bread on the fork. ‘There can’t be that many people in this part of the forest, surely?’

  ‘Enough for a party,’ Florence said. ‘There’s a house not far from here, isn’t there, Sophia? Down in the hollow by the stream.’

  ‘Yes. Thomas Challoner lives there with his grandson and Frances.’

  ‘Who or what is Frances?’ Anita asked. ‘And why a poor lamb?’

  ‘Her sister married the Challoners’ son. She produced one child, Andrew, and then took her leave, saying she was unsuited to motherhood and the boy would be better off without her. The young husband decided he wasn’t better off and killed himself. The Challoners looked after the boy. Two years ago, Mrs Challoner died.’

  ‘What about the other grandparents?’ Anita asked.

  ‘They died years ago.’

  ‘A lot of death in this family,’ Florence commented disapprovingly.

  ‘And Frances?’ Anita’s voice was sharp. This story was not pleasing to mother or daughter.

  ‘Frances came to see Thomas and Andrew through a bad patch and realised she had to stay.’

  ‘How old is she?’ Florence asked, not greatly impressed by such devotion.

  ‘About twenty-two, I suppose.’

  ‘She must be mad,’ Anita said. ‘That little lot won’t be much fun at a party.’

  Sophia looked at her, head a little to one side, as if she understood what occasioned this sudden sharpness and was inviting Anita to laugh about it – a ‘you’ve been eating green apples again’ sort of look.

  ‘Now, who else can we muster?’ Florence asked Sophia.

  While they talked, Anita sat on the rug, buttering toast. The lamp did not give a strong light and it was some time before she noticed that a cat was sitting on the chest by the front door – a chocolate brown cat who sat upright, front paws neatly together, so still he might have been a carving had not the slanting green eyes blinked as she clicked her fingers.

  ‘Tobias is Burmese,’ Sophia said. ‘He would like to be a cuddly, well-mannered cat, but he has personality problems.’

  ‘What a nonsensical way to talk about a cat.’ Florence hauled herself to her feet with some difficulty. ‘Come and join us, Tobias. You know you are longing to sit by the fire.’ She swept the cat into her arms.

  By the time first aid had been rendered and Florence had washed out her jumper, Nicholas had arrived with the forest gnome.

  Brother and sister were alone in the sitting-room. Anita was piling logs on the fire, watched uneasily by Nicholas, snow glinting in his curly hair.

  ‘Steady on!’

  ‘I am determined we shall be warm even if you have to cut down a tree.’

  ‘Green wood won’t burn,’ Nicholas said absently. He was a tamed Viking, the ferocity smoothed out of the face; the nose become sensitive, the nostrils slightly pinched; the slash of the mouth softened by a need to apologise. This gentling of the features had produced a chronic hesitancy. The pale eyes seemed to be constantly searching the horizon for something which had been lost over centuries.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Anita said, looking up at him affectionately.

  ‘How are things going?’ He made a motion of his head in the direction of the hall.

  ‘Blood has already been drawn. There’s tea still stewing if you fancy it.’

  ‘I think I’ve earned something stronger.’ He opened the door of a small cupboard built underneath the stairs. Anita saw a vacuum cleaner, brooms and several bottles on the floor.

  ‘How did you know where to look?’

  ‘Father had a whisky when we got here.’

  ‘Was that good for him?’

  ‘Sophia said anything he wanted was good for him.’ He hesitated, as though wondering whether to add to this statement, then turned away and poured whisky for himself. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I haven’t the excuse that I’ve been fetching and carrying.’

  ‘I don’t think Sophia would consider an excuse necessary.’ He poured a good measure, and handed the glass to Anita.

  ‘That sounds as if you had some understanding of Sophia, which is more than I have.’

  ‘She struck me as the sort of person who doesn’t require understandings.’

  Anita shrugged and turned away. ‘How are conditions outside?’

  ‘Tricky, but one can still get about. The snow has stopped.’ He went to the window, crouching to look out. ‘In fact, it’s quite magical, here in the wood – like a fairy story.’

  ‘I hate fairy stories.’

  ‘Do you?’ He looked at her with interest, as if this were something he should have known. It was charming, this gift he had of making other people’s little oddities seem a matter of friendly concern. ‘I was hoping we might go for a walk later on.’

  ‘I may. Anything to get out of here for a little while.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Anita sipped whisky. ‘And there may be an opportunity. Mother has decided we are to have a party, and as telephone wires are probably down, it could be a question of delivering invitations by hand. A chance for us to show Christmas goodwill, don’t you think?’

  In the event, the telephone was found to be working and Sophia managed to contact several people, all of whom professed themselves pleased (or curious, Anita wondered) at the prospect of meeting Florence and family. The Challoners’ phone gave the unobtainable signal. ‘You’re not the only witch,’ Anita thought, as Sophia put down the receiver after the third attempt. ‘I willed that.’

  Florence, who was making a list of delicacies, said ‘I hope you don’t cook by electric
ity?’

  The little gnome had long since been taken home, recompensed though defeated.

  ‘Neither gas nor electricity.’

  ‘A cauldron?’ Anita suggested.

  ‘A perfectly respectable Aga.’

  When Nicholas and Anita set out for the Challoners’ house Sophia stood at the sitting-room window, watching them make their slow way across the garden. Tobias, curled around her shoulders, purred nasally. Florence was upstairs with her husband. She had delayed seeing him earlier because ‘I mustn’t disturb Konrad when he’s resting – it is so good for him to rest.’

  There was no light in the room, save the last glow from the logs in the hearth. The window was beginning to frost over and Sophia opened it, the better to see out. It was a cold, glittering night, the trees silvery cones of snow, the sky brilliant. ‘Such a multitude of stars tonight,’ she said. ‘Will they find their way?’ Tobias pushed his head against her cheek. ‘It is a long time since we have had this many people here, but you must not express your displeasure so markedly. We must be kind to these poor children.’

  Nicholas and Anita had only just reached the palings which were the boundary of the garden. The snow was deep but they were both tall and could have made better progress had they so wished. Now, they turned to look back at the cottage. ‘They are troubled,’ Sophia said, scratching Tobias’s head.

  ‘I don’t want to go back there,’ Anita said.

  ‘It will be better in the morning.’

  ‘No, it’ll be much worse. Mother will have us all preparing for this stupid party.’

  ‘But that’s no different from any other Christmas,’ he said gently. ‘This will be macabre instead of irritating.’

  He put his hand under her elbow, urging her forward. ‘You’re enjoying this,’ she said. ‘Now that you’re out of doors you feel safe. You don’t even have to sleep in that cottage.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do. Sophia is sleeping in the hut. She was very insistent.’

  ‘That’s taking hospitality a bit far.’

  ‘I got the impression it wasn’t a question of hospitality.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I don’t think she wanted me in the hut.’

  Anita stumbled and caught her breath. ‘I like this less and less.’

  ‘People have their funny ways.’ He veered away from controversy. ‘I sleep in the sitting-room. No problem.’

  ‘I had hoped you’d be in the hut and I could come and talk to you – get away from the cottage.’

  ‘You’ll have Terence.’

  ‘Terence won’t put his nose out of doors once he gets here. Even before the snow started he felt he was making a considerable sacrifice coming here. Goodness knows what sort of mood he’ll be in by the time he arrives tomorrow.’

  ‘Tell me about the people we’re going to meet.’

  Anita stopped. ‘I had forgotten.’ She looked at the shrouded trees. ‘We’re never going to find our way there, and even if we do we shan’t get back.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. This isn’t trackless moorland. The trees mark paths.’

  ‘But they’re all alike now.’

  ‘Of course they’re not.’ He spoke as to a child. ‘The pointy ones are firs and they still have their leaves; look how the snow bunches between the leaves. The skeletal ones are birch and oak and you can see their bark in spite of the snow.’

  ‘All right, all right. I’ll allow that you can find the way back. But how do we find the way forward when neither of us has ever been to the Challoners’ house?’

  ‘We’re going downhill and we’ll come to a stream. The house will be beside the stream. Nothing simpler.’

  She stood still, a hand to her chest. ‘I haven’t any breath.’

  ‘Wrap your scarf across your nose.’

  ‘I’ll have even less breath then.’

  ‘No. It’ll warm you.’

  ‘I’m going to die, like Daddy.’

  He put his arms round her. ‘Oh, Annie, don’t!’

  Something moved in the snow; yellow eyes glanced and vanished.

  ‘What was that?’ Anita gasped.

  ‘A fox. Look where his brush has swept the snow.’

  Anita, still holding close to her brother, said, ‘Didn’t you hate taking him in the car? All that time alone, with him so ill?’

  Nicholas, looking over her shoulder into the snowy depths of the wood, replied, ‘I thought I would, but he was quite content – as if he was looking forward to coming here. We hardly spoke, there seemed no need. It was very peaceful.’

  He thrust Anita away from him abruptly. ‘Come along. It can’t be far now.’ He strode ahead without looking to see if she followed. ‘We’re lucky to have a night like this. No ugly glow from the town, only the light of the stars.’

  ‘That’s all very well for a time; but when you come back after one of your expeditions, would you really want to be without all modern comforts?’

  ‘It depends what one finds comforting.’

  She pursued him, treading in his footprints. ‘And what would be the point of your away trips if things were just the same at home? Where would you run to Nicholas?’ The path was going downhill steeply now and Anita lost her footing. After that she was too concerned with her progress to badger her brother.

  ‘There!’ Nicholas pointed to a house in the hollow, clearly visible in the brightness of snow and stars. It was more substantial than their aunt’s cottage, built sideways on to the stream, now still and glazed. The curtains had been drawn against the night and the house presented a blank face to the wood. ‘Probably gone to bed early,’ Nicholas said, uneasy at the prospect of causing inconvenience.

  ‘I’m sure this Frances person will be making mince pies, or doing the ironing or attending to some other worthy task.’

  ‘Who are these people?’ He stood looking doubtfully down at the house, as though he hoped it might disappear beneath his scrutiny.

  ‘Mr Challoner, his grandson Andrew, and Andrew’s mother’s sister, who is by way of being a saint. Come on, let’s get this over with.’ She began to slither down the slope. Nicholas followed, more surefooted.

  ‘But what if they’ve gone to bed?’

  ‘Then we get them up. I haven’t come all this way just to turn back now.’

  ‘We could put a note through the letterbox.’

  ‘So we could, but we’re not going to.’

  As they approached, a dog began to bark, the noise coming from a very deep chest. ‘Let’s hope he’s under better control than Tobias.’

  ‘This is awful,’ Nicholas protested. ‘We can’t stand here and say we’ve come with this silly invitation.’

  Anita knocked firmly on the door. The barking of the dog crescendoed. ‘Yes we can. And it isn’t going to sound awful; it’s going to sound lovely and friendly and Christmassy, because you’re going to do it with your unfailing charm.’

  Footsteps crossed the hall. Nicholas gave a little whinny of agitation which was answered by furious snuffling from the far side of the door. ‘Who is it?’ a low voice asked.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Nicholas said cheerfully. ‘It’s the people from the cottage up above – Sophia’s nephew and niece.’

  ‘Friends, Jasper, friends.’

  The door opened and Nicholas found himself closely inspected by a huge mastiff, paws on his chest. ‘You’re a handsome fellow,’ he said, looking into the bloodshot eyes.

  ‘He won’t hurt, but he likes to inspect rather than take my word. Come in.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’ Nicholas asked, looking over the dog’s shoulder. ‘And what about my sister?’

  ‘She’ll be all right now he’s accepted you.’

  The speaker remained masked by the shadow of the door and Anita, imagining herself speaking to a child, said, in her professional voice designed to clarify and to reassure, ‘I’m Anita Müller and this is my brother, Nicholas, and you must be . . .’

  The shadow speaker said, ‘I’m Fra
nces,’ and stepped into the light.

  At first, Florence had read aloud to Konrad because this was something she was good at. She had crouched by the hearth, imagining she remembered doing that in this very room as a child, reading to Sophia by firelight. But she soon became very hot and her eyes smarted and the crouching position did not suit her ample body. She was annoyed by the fact that she had to roll herself to one side before she was able to get up. This was one of the many ways in which Konrad’s illness had served to remind her of her own age. ‘You are as young as you feel,’ she told herself, standing by his bed, panting.

  ‘That was very good.’ His voice was laboured as a rusty hinge.

  ‘I had to stop because there isn’t a lamp in here. The electricity has gone off and we have to be sparing with the oil.’

  ‘I like firelight in a bedroom.’

  She wondered where his mind was. There had never been firelight in a bedroom in their house in Chiswick. The adult Florence had soon equated fires with drudgery, and electric heaters had been installed in all the open hearths in the house. Now, usually brisk in dismissing any question of fires, she found herself obscurely disturbed by Konrad’s rambling remark.

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t have a fire in your bedroom in Houndsditch. Is it Germany you’re remembering?’

  She could not account for the strong need she felt to track down the source of this memory. But the question, far from leading to clarification, seemed to remove a barrier to other questions which came flooding in. He had spoken so little of his past that she could not be sure it was Germany – could it have been Austria? – that he came from. Was she right about Houndsditch? And to what part of his early life did this firelit bedroom belong? For some reason, the image opened up a world as strange to her as a fairground or a circus.

  ‘Where was it, this firelit bedroom?’ she insisted. ‘Was it a wood fire, coal, peat . . . ?’

  But he only opened his eyes and gazed at the fire.

  Florence’s heart was beating fast and her hands were clammy. She went out of the room and called from the landing to her sister.

  ‘You must come up and sit with us. It’s important we share this.’ As Sophia came up the stairs, she said sharply, ‘You’re not bringing that animal with you?’