Seas of Snow

by Kerensa Jennings

‘And then, Da said he was going over to check on Gracie’s Ma and find out if she needed medical attention. He said he would find out what to do about the police.

  ‘Gracie smiled up at him gratefully, as if my dear old Da in his brown trousers and white shirtsleeves could make things better. She was beaming at him with such appreciation, he gently placed his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘“Has he been frightening you, too?” he asked.

  ‘At that, Gracie’s face dropped from a smile to a frown and the darkness I’d seen before crept over her face.

  ‘“I think he is a wicked man, like the wicked witch or the monster or the dragon,” she said. She spoke so seriously I don’t suppose either Ma and Da doubted her for a second.

  ‘“Don’t worry, Gracie, we will fix this.”

  ‘And again she gave him what I used to call her “sunshine smile” at him. She looked so relieved that at long last someone big and strong was going to deal with Joe and let her and Ma get on with their lovely happy lives.

  ‘Later she told me that what she was hoping was for life to go back to normal again, with Joe gone. Forever. I remember her telling me that she was looking forward to it being just her and her Mam again. She talked about how nice it would be to just sit and read fairy tales together again. And that there would be days being outside blowing bubbles again. And carefree moments making tarts. And day trips to the estuary to fish for cockles.’

  At this, Billy found his eyes moisten. He was describing the perfect life Gracie had imagined for herself. Aidan patted him gently on the arm.

  ‘What happened next?’ he said, encouragingly.

  ‘Well, just as he said, Da marched out the door and we heard his footsteps gradually fade away.

  ‘“Come on you two, you need something to eat. How does jam sandwiches sound?” Ma always knew how to make things seem alright. We both turned to her gratefully and took our places at the table.

  ‘There was a blue and white gingham cloth draping down and blue napkins placed in a pile at the end. Ma began slicing into a large loaf of snowy white bread and delved into the larder for some butter and the jam pot. She handed everything to us and instructed us to make the best possible jam sandwiches that had ever been made.

  ‘Happily busy with all this activity, Gracie and I got on with our new game, a sandwich competition where the best sandwiches would get served at the Royal Banquet. It was easier, somehow, to chatter in our play world rather than talk about what we’d heard. Gracie made a particular point of having a smear of butter but oodles of jam. “It’s what the Queen would like,” she explained.

  ‘I preferred to get the butter–jam ratio exactly even.

  ‘We tried each other’s and both proclaimed the other the winner. And giggled together for the first time in several hours. It was a good feeling.

  ‘Tucking into those sandwiches that day felt like a turning point in our lives. It was the moment we’d glimpsed the ­complexity of adult life. We had experienced the brutality of violence and seen the veil of shame. But rooted in it, no matter what, was our friendship.

  ‘I remember thinking that something had changed. And I could feel it, viscerally, that Gracie seemed lighter and freer than I had seen her in ages. I remember realising how very much she was looking forward to Joe leaving their lives.

  ‘If only it had turned out that way …’

  He paused and looked at Aidan, tears welling up gently in his big brown eyes. He took a sip of red wine and looked away into the distance.

  ‘Do you think it’s the right thing, keeping going to see her at the home?’ Aidan asked. He didn’t want to influence Billy but at the same time was keen to help if he could.

  ‘I think so. In fact, I know so. It’s comforting in a sense for me to see some of her old things. Her poetry books, photos, things like that. But you’re right, it’s hard, and it’s taking a toll on me. I never stop thinking “what if” and I never stop wishing things had turned out differently.

  ‘But she doesn’t have anyone else, and even though her memory is scarcely there these days, I think it brings her some small lift to see me. I take her the papers and we natter about inconsequential things, mostly. Sometimes we’ll both get whisked away in a memory, and that can be painful. But if I didn’t go, who would? It can’t be right for someone to live out their last days completely on their own, can it?’

  Billy was almost wondering out loud, but he knew his own answer. He was duty-bound to see her right, to do what little he could to soothe a balm over the past.

  Dots

  She had lost track of how long she had been staring out of the window. The rain had cleared up now and the garden had a freshly washed greenness about it. Yellow dandelions were popping up all over the lawn and the yellow and pink crocuses were dotted sprightly in bunches at the bases of the trees.

  There was a white china vase on the windowsill, stuffed full with fresh new flowers.

  Yellow daffodils, cheerfully sunning themselves in the light.

  Continuous as the stars that shine

  And twinkle on the Milky Way …

  She loved daffodils. They must be the happiest flowers, she thought to herself, with those big golden trumpets thrusting out to embrace the day and egg-yolk-yellow petals radiating out like mini suns. She couldn’t think why such optimistic flowers made her feel so sad. It was as if an uncomfortable memory were buried deep among the pollen, shying away from speaking up.

  She dismissed that feeling as nonsense and went back to admiring their bursting springness. Wondering who had brought them in for her.

  She looked around the room and saw that a fresh bottle of water had also been brought in, together with a new glass. An old tea cup from this morning, she supposed, had been taken away. On the dressing table was a raggle-taggle collection of things. A box of rose and violet creams – oh how lovely! She did love those. She strained to think how they had got there but was met only by a blank fuzziness. Oh, what did it matter, how lovely.

  Alongside the box was a hairbrush and a hand-held mirror, both with silver handles and mother of pearl gleaming on their backs. They were placed mirror and brush side down so the soft shininess of the shell gleamed prettily in the light. There was a small jewellery box, silver again, with some embossed swirls and the letters ‘GS’ engraved in a framed area at the top. She couldn’t quite remember what was in the box, and reached towards it, elderly hands struggling to lift the lid.

  Inside nestled a long string of pearls and a golden crucifix without a chain. There was also a locket. With some effort, she sprung the locket open and a curl of blonde hair fell onto the dressing table.

  She looked at the curl for the longest time, her mind blankly joining indistinguishable dots. Nothing.

  Then, a sense of knowing rose up in her, and to her surprise she felt the prickle of tears stinging the backs of her eyes.

  The poetry of lost innocence, beauty and love floated in the back of her mind.

  The dots were still indistinguishable but memories of a lost world fleetingly took shape. A gorgeous little girl. A sweet smile. A veil of shame.

  As swiftly as the memories appeared, they faded and the curl retained its mystique for another day.

  She clumsily attempted to twist it back into the locket but was unable to do so. She thought she would ask someone next time she had a visitor.

  Her gaze wandered over the other bits and bobs on the dresser. An ancient bottle of L’Air du Temps with their lovebirds entwined together at the top. A small black and white photo in a silver, swirling frame. She examined this more closely to try to identify the picture.

  A slim figure of a woman in her early thirties with dark hair and a placid face. She was sitting down on the ground, on a lawn perhaps, and had her legs tucked under her. She wore a serene look and was apparently distracted by something off into the distance. In her hands was a pure, white rose. A single stem.

  She placed the frame back carefully and willed her mind to conjure up the sense
of all these eclectic objects. Evidence of a life; mementoes of a past long gone.

  She realised there was a book partly open on the bed and picked it up. It was the diary she had been leafing through earlier. It was open on a page which chronicled all the names of all the plants and flowers of May Close. What a funny little thing she’d been.

  She flicked forward a few pages and alighted on a passage which described the young girl’s decision to write a poem inspired by Rilke’s epitaph.

  ‘I just want to try to create something complex and ­beautiful,’ the childish hand had written, ‘something to make people think. Something I can be proud of.’

  A little further down, she was musing about the poet himself. ‘I wonder if Rilke wrote for other people, or for himself? I think the best thing to do is write for myself, then when I’m an old lady (hahaha) at least I’ll be my own fan.’

  A few pages onwards, and there was a carefully scripted verse in beautiful handwriting. Just above the verse, there was a line of explanation: ‘The original is in my poetry book of course but I thought I would share it with you, diary, as I’ve been talking about it for so long and I know you’ll want to see what I came up with in the end.’

  White petals folding in

  A calmness resting

  Quietly

  Stillness in sorrow

  Buried gently, softly,

  The sweet, sweet calm of a new day.

  Reading it now through old eyes – old, forgetful eyes – a connectedness and a profound sense of loss and sadness was rising up in her.

  These days, she couldn’t make sense of what the poem was supposed to mean, though she sensed a white rose played a starring role. The connectedness faded in and out like old memories.

  An overwhelming sense of unhappiness wafted over her. It was at once complex and beautiful. The little girl had crafted something she had been proud of.

  ‘So what do you think diary? It’s not anywhere near as good as Rilke’s of course but I’m pleased with it.’

  Tears began to flow down old, papery cheeks. The sweet, sweet calm of a new day.

  Routines

  Number 38 Poplar Avenue. He let the words linger on his tongue, a tiny droplet of saliva escaping his mouth.

  He had been back three separate times now. He needed to get a sense of her routine, needed to know the types of places she went, and when. He was the master of shadow lurking, blending into the background. For such a handsome, striking man he had a remarkable ability to shrink into the white noise of nothingness, unseen by anyone.

  He’d learned that her name was Polly. They had just the one child, Charlie. She got up early every day and with a precision you could set your watch by, she went first to the butcher’s, McKinsey’s on Church Street; then the greengrocer’s, the brightly coloured Apples and Pears on Market Street. She would always finish up with a dash into the baker’s, a place a bit further up Market Street known locally as Stotties.

  Armed with her supplies, she would march straight back home, presumably planning her menu for that night’s supper. Charlie was a noisy child, clattering and chattering like toddlers do. He seemed happy enough, bumbling along with his mother every day.

  The rest of the morning they seemed to spend together. There was the odd boisterous sound of play and occasionally an indulgent ‘Oh, Charlie’ drifting out of the open window, ‘what are you up to now?’

  Quiet time seemed to happen straight after lunch. He got the impression that was when the child took a nap. She never left the house during these quiet times. From what he could see through the bunched white nets at front window, she used this time for knitting. If you stood at just the right angle off to the right-hand side of the house you could glimpse in through a gap in the curtains.

  An hour or so would pass then the wail of a sleepy child would pierce the air.

  The afternoon seemed to be devoted to chores – cleaning and dusting. That woman seemed to scrub the floors every single damn day.

  Around four-ish there would be visitors – another mother with a child coming over to play, he presumed. He could just picture the two women gossiping, over coffee and cake, too distracted by their own nattering to pay attention to the children.

  He had no idea what women found to talk about and didn’t much care.

  He was far more occupied by trying to identify a moment in the routine when he could do what he had to do.

  He decided the only option would be to strike in that quiet moment after lunch. He would have to watch and wait for the child to go down.

  Bide his time and pick the precise instant when there would be no chance of distraction and interruption. This was a critical part of the routine he had slowly established. He needed calm in the air so he could fully luxuriate in the sexual completeness of what he needed to do.

  The slightest noise would spoil it, end it. He was playing a high-stakes game with a high-risk hand, but high rollers get their kicks by beating the odds. And that was how he could achieve the yearning, violent high he craved – beating the odds.

  Today was the day.

  He went through the start of the ritual, slowly. He washed himself, taking his time, feeling the groaning ache that had been growing inside him for the last two weeks. Release would come today, and it would be fucking immense.

  He allowed himself some slow strokes, starting at the base of softness and working up to the hardening core. He closed his eyes, savouring that sweet, hurting ache.

  He thought of her tiny waist and pictured the womanly curve of her hip. He knew she would want him, desire would be hers and submission would be his. There would be that delicious cunt, wet and wanting, parted just for him, inviting him in. It would be dusky pink and gleaming with evidence of her need.

  But she would play the game, oh yes she would. She would make frightened animal eyes and squeal and make noises of protestation. She would resist and pretend this wasn’t what she wanted at all. She would do a good job of trying to look convincingly scared. If he’d judged her right, she would have that beautiful combination of vulnerability and need. She would be angel made woman and good little housewife made slutty whore.

  He gripped himself at the thought of it. He was going to enjoy this. A surge of deliciousness shot through him and he felt his ache intensify.

  Not long now, he promised himself, not long now.

  He got dressed stiffly and checked his hair in the mirror in the bathroom. He flicked it back and inspected with disgust a small spot on his forehead. He sneered in repulsion and dealt with it, causing a little blood to seep out.

  He waited for the bleeding to stop, just a moment or two, then let himself out of the door to begin the brisk walk to Poplar Avenue. To begin the brisk walk to Polly. Polly with the small waist and wet cunt. Nice.

  It was a dull day – a slight breeze stirring in the air but no sign of sunshine. Greyness abounded – the walls of the buildings, the expressions of the people. There was no excited chatter in the air today, just people bustling about their business and getting on with life. Children playing in scattered clumps together – a group of boys kicking a ball around over here, a group of girls gathering to skip and play over there.

  Nothing and no one interested him. All his focus was on the task ahead. He had worked out what he would do, carefully, weighing up the type of person he thought she was and what she may or may not respond to.

  In no time at all, he had arrived. This was going to be the first time he had picked a place which was the home territory of the accomplice. So dangerous, even higher stakes. But he knew what that would mean, if he got it right …

  He had already observed the architecture of the street. Having worked in construction for a while now, he could recognise the patterns of different types of houses and know exactly where back doors would be located, or how safe and secluded back gardens would be.

  Poplar Avenue wasn’t a wealthy street but it was a perfectly pleasant road. Good, solid houses. Some semi-detached and some d
etached. Mr and Mrs Businessman lived in a semi-­detached house, which was better for external access. He knew he had to slip down the side of the house and let himself in the back door, or back window if needs be, all without being seen. All in broad daylight. And all very, very quickly. He would have to be in and out within an hour to ensure the child’s wailing didn’t come too soon.

  He glanced up and down the road, and as always at lunchtime here it was pretty quiet. There was a young lad running around with a dog further up – but he’d left those other pockets of children behind when he’d turned into the avenue.

  He heard the dog barking but otherwise the wind rustling in the leaves was the only sound.

  He looked at his watch and then up at the house. He was about four houses down. All quiet.

  And it was time.

  He turned in silence and walked down the side passage of the fourth house down. He’d visited the area a few days before to plan everything out, and knew all he had to do was move swiftly but noiselessly and within a few paces he would be at the back of number 38.

  He just had to hope that there would be no one out in the gardens. He doubted it, it was only housewives who were home in the daytime and they were normally getting on with lunch for their charges at this sort of time. If it had been a nice sunny day of course, it would have been a different story. But there was a reason he’d picked a grey day with a chill to the air.

  He eyed up the back door and made his move.

  He turned the handle downwards, quietly, praying that it wouldn’t be locked.

  The latch lifted and the door opened outwards. He let himself in.

  This was the kitchen, a small room with a small table. A pile of sixpences nestled in a saucer. Washing up plates were stacked up on the side of the sink, drying off gradually in the cool air. A stack of melamine bowls nestled into a corner. The smell of Harpic and Jeyes fluid hanging in the air.

  There was no sound of Charlie. Good. He’d counted on the boy being tucked up somewhere upstairs, and he was right.