Seas of Snow

by Kerensa Jennings

  She tidied the house and straightened a few bits and bobs out. Smoothed the tablecloth and gathered together the crockery. She was rather frail these days but it didn’t stop her wanting to fuss around, making the place nice.

  Billy had said they would cook her a meal, that it would be a surprise. She could hardly wait.

  She had been lonely for years. First felt its icy breath longer ago than she cared to admit. There had been a sense of neglect, of taciturn isolation. Conversations left unsaid, arguments brewing beneath the surface but never rising to punctuate the smooth calm.

  Life had carried on virtually unchanged to anyone observing from the outside. Routines were maintained … food on table, children washed and dressed, everyone to school, chores done and dusted.

  But she knew something was different. There had been a solid steadiness to her husband’s gait, now there was a skip and a lightness.

  Before, he’d been quiet but earnestly interested.

  Now he was brighter, lifted somehow. An eagerness in his eyes and a healthy glow to his demeanour.

  She, on the other hand, was retreating into a grey shell. Feeling lost and alone. Bereft.

  It went on for a while, this disconnectedness. But then all the things that happened … happened. And things changed again.

  She decided all she could do was to focus on her family, give them all of her being and devote her life to theirs.

  Life lived selflessly was a life lived well, she thought. It may not have been the happiest of lives, but in our own way we are blessed.

  Saturday arrived. The doorbell rang and two shapes were silhouetted at the door.

  It took her a minute to make her way down the hallway, her feet rather unsteady and her body more fragile than ever these days.

  She opened up and beamed at the pair.

  ‘Well don’t stand on the step all day!’ she laughed, welcoming them.

  ‘And you must be Aidan. I’ve been hearing all about you for years,’ she cried, ‘though he didn’t tell me what a handsome young man you were.’

  She gave her son a warm squeeze and planted a papery kiss on the cheek of his companion.

  Aidan instantly saw that she knew, and smiled to himself. Poor Billy, worried all these years over nothing. It was obvious his Ma was pleased as punch for him.

  They went through to the kitchen, and Mrs Harper put the kettle on. ‘I’m thrilled to see you both, just thrilled,’ she burbled away, contentedly.

  She wanted to know all about how their jobs were going and how life in the City had been these last few weeks.

  The hours passed happily and the men went about preparing supper. They had decided to do one of Aidan’s specialities – roasted Welsh lamb with rosemary, prosciutto, lemon and garlic. Billy took on the job of being sous chef and chopped, sliced, peeled and diced away as Aidan prepared the joint.

  They had made a stop off at the Waitrose on the way. Hopefully they had thought of everything. They’d also brought breakfast things for the next day. They wanted the visit to feel like a proper treat.

  As the hours passed and cooking aromas floated in the air, garlicky citrus mingling with a lamby rosemariness, Billy said he would take the cases upstairs.

  He always felt strange coming home. So many treasured memories, and yet so many difficult memories. Even in this very house – the games he and Gracie had played, the secrets they had shared, the sleepovers they had had. He fondly thought of that ridiculous time they had taken a sneaky peek at each ­other’s private places. They had been so innocent then! Oh, how life had changed.

  He took the luggage up and paused in the hallway, half-hearing her tinkling laughter. Half imagining her dashing silhouette, skipping around a corner.

  He peeped into his old room – how tiny it was! – then realised with a start that he wasn’t sure what the sleeping arrangements should be. He went into John and Simon’s, which by now had been converted into a guest room with two single beds either side of a little table. On the table sat a squat blue lampshade and a glass vase with roses from the rose bush outside arranged into a little posy. And propped up against the vase was a card.

  ‘To Billy and Aidan,’ it read.

  He opened it up quietly and pulled out an old-fashioned card with a picture of a love heart stitched with embroidery.

  Inside it read:

  ‘I am so glad you have found each other. Be blessed. Love Ma x’

  He felt a slight lump in his throat and he sighed softly, ­wondering how long she had known. He felt ashamed about not having had the confidence to say something before.

  But he felt touched and moved by her lovely words. He felt the slight hotness of tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

  He returned downstairs to find Aidan and his Ma roaring with laughter over something.

  He walked over to her and tenderly kissed her on the forehead. ‘Thank you, Ma,’ he said, softly.

  ‘I’m just very happy for you, pet,’ she said, warmly.

  Billy handed the card to Aidan wordlessly.

  They exchanged a twinkly smile.

  ‘So, the lamb needs to rest for another 10 minutes or so then we will be able to serve up,’ Aidan said, knowing Billy would appreciate a burst of normal chatter at this stage.

  It wasn’t long before Billy was pouring the gravy and Aidan carving up the roast. Delicious scents wafted through from the kitchen, making everyone hungry.

  They all sat down at the dining table and in an instant, Billy was transported back to another era. It was the same table – Formica surface, wooden legs, that his family had had when he was a little boy. The walls had changed colour these days – they used to be white and now they were yellow. But the dresser was the same and even some of the old plates decorating the dresser were the same as before. It was both reassuringly familiar and yet uncomfortably reminiscent of a difficult time.

  Made more difficult with his recent discovery. He wondered whether his Ma had been completely in the dark or whether she had known, but accepted. She had always had a sunny nature, his Ma, and rarely lost her temper. He remembered as they got older and the Joe business got worse, she seemed to suffer too. It affected them all, he supposed, in different ways.

  But she had always been kind and sweetness radiated out of her. How could his Da have done it?

  Distracted, he didn’t realise that Aidan had asked him a ­question.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say, I was miles away,’ he said, slightly guiltily.

  ‘I was just wondering if you could pass the cauliflower cheese please, looks like you’ve done a top turn again.’

  Aidan was doing a fine job nattering normally and keeping the sense of chit-chat going. He was always rather wonderful at making conversation with anyone and everyone, it was one of his gifts.

  Billy was more grateful than ever that they had come here together.

  On the way up, they had discussed the sorts of subtle questions they could pose to his Ma, to try to establish whether she knew anything but without giving anything away. The last thing either of them would have wanted to do was to reveal a horrible secret she hadn’t been aware of and ruin her memories forever.

  But similarly, they felt if she had known then it might have been a burden for her, protecting him all these years. Perhaps by now she may wish to talk about it?

  They had fretted together and decided there was no point planning it, something would emerge, or it wouldn’t. Life would evolve as it should.

  Scribblings

  Outside, white mistiness shrouded the canopies of the trees. Snowflakes fell, softly, hovering a moment or two in the air before finding a new home on the ground. Underfoot, a soft, thuddy crunchiness built up, layer upon layer. An absence of colour but an almost blinding bleakness as the purity of the new landscape bathed in a gleaming, winter sun.

  Gracie was in her bedroom, staring out unseeingly, lost in thought. She had decided that she should start to make sense of her life by chronicling it. Perhaps if she wr
ote it down it would feel like a story – like someone else’s story.

  So there would need to be a beginning, a middle and an end.

  Well, perhaps not an end, but certainly a beginning and a middle.

  The silence outside created the perfect backdrop to a storytelling moment. She wished there was a roaring log fire to warm the place up. She could see her own breath and her fingers were frozen.

  She reached for the blanket and wrapped its cosiness around her, tightly.

  Then stretched out for the notebook she had found, and a black pen. Warm up, hands, warm up … she willed her fingers to work.

  She pondered how to start.

  And then she did.

  Once upon a time, she began, there was a young girl called Gracie. She was born on September 4th, 1940. She lived with her Ma in May Close and had a best friend called Billy.

  Gracie didn’t have a Da.

  But she didn’t mind very much. After all, her Ma loved her and she had no end of happy times.

  Only one day, the happy times came to an end.

  A bad man called Joe entered their lives. Her mother’s brother. Only unlike families you read about in stories or see in other people’s homes, this new-shaped family wasn’t right. Wasn’t right at all.

  But let’s not talk about that right now. Let’s talk about the young girl’s life before that day. I have decided to start writing a diary, and here we are. I found this blue notebook the other day so hello, diary, I am going to fill you with all my thoughts and my memories and my hopes and my dreams and I am going to try to remember everything. My name’s Gracie and this is all about me. Welcome to my life, I’ll try to show you around …

  School days had their comforting routine but now the evenings were taking on a sense of predictability, too. Every day Gracie would rush back to put more detail into her burgeoning diary. In between homework, helping her Ma with the cooking and tidying up, writing up her memories and luxuriating in whatever poetry she was reading that week, she was creating enough distractions for herself to try to blot out the dreaded feeling that sooner or later Joe would come back, to carry on with whatever it was he had started.

  She had tried reasoning with her mother, but the deep look of shame that had etched her face that first time Gracie and Billy had overheard the awful attack in the kitchen seemed to be assuming a permanence that Gracie wasn’t comfortable with at all.

  The fear in those eyes had deadened into nothingness and her once placid face was newly crumpled into a criss-cross of lines. It was as if she was sleepwalking through life, barely participating.

  Gracie hated the idea of bringing up the subject because she didn’t want to inflict yet more pain. And she had great hopes that Mr Harper would be able to do something, but these were fading as there still didn’t seem to be a plan.

  She and Billy sometimes hatched plots to go to see the police, but every time they convinced themselves it was the right thing to do, they always felt the idea unravel when they remembered they were only children and no one would take them seriously.

  There was nothing else for it – they would have to rely on the grown-ups, have to rely on Gracie’s Ma. She would have to stand up to Joe, she would have to …

  Leafing through the diary now, virtually every page was filled with scribblings and sketches and poems and lists. It was a thorough, meticulous piece of home-made history and it ­captured all the nooks and crannies of her life.

  There were moments these days when its memories would take shape and paint themselves into reality. But they offered scant comfort, replete as they were with devastating reminders of all the lost opportunities that were wasted.

  It was sunny outside, but that sort of silver sun you get in the depths of winter. The garden was crusted in twinkly whiteness, and you couldn’t see a blade of grass or a thread of bark.

  Shards of shimmery light danced onto the wall beside the bed, where she was sitting, leafing through the old book that had become her chronicle.

  The faint smell of yesterday’s dinner was wafting in through the corridors. It always seemed to smell like boiled cabbage, whatever they ate.

  She tended to take her tea in her room. Didn’t like going into the communal space – they always had the television on in there and they always put it on so loud. And for some reason, people were always arguing. It was the opposite of restful. There was one elderly gentleman called Bob who always insisted on sitting in the same chair, and got very cross if anyone else dared to sit there. There was a woman called Elizabeth who wore long, holey cardigans and spewed vile filth at whoever cared to listen. A pair of twins – Mildred and Margaret – always sat in the corner, squabbling with one another, sometimes even lashing out at each other and once attempting to pull each other’s hair. They didn’t seem to like one another very much.

  It wasn’t the happiest of places.

  Not the carers’ fault, of course, they did their best. It was clean enough and they often came around with a little glass of something cheering to lift the spirits of an afternoon.

  But it wasn’t the sort of place you would choose to live out your days. Too much time for wallowing in grief and in retribution.

  Too many memories crowding in and hurting her head. Other days too few memories to make sense of any of it.

  She knew it couldn’t be long now. Thank goodness for Billy visiting as often as he could. Where would she be without dear Billy? She couldn’t remember the last time he visited. Had no idea how many days would pass between one to another. But she was always pleased to have that connection with her past, even though she knew from the shadows of memories that she had, joining the dots with the diary, that the past most certainly wasn’t the happiest of places, either.

  She stared out of the window, unseeingly, lost in thought.

  Plans

  Joe was sentenced to 10 years. Would be allowed out in eight if he behaved himself. He had got away with manslaughter, managing to persuade the jury that the politician had been drunk and disorderly so Joe was acting out of self-defence. Just like he’d persuaded his Ma previously about what happened with Finnegan.

  Beguiled by his clean good looks, and swayed by the testimony of some of the old stalwarts who’d been bored to tears by the young man at the pub, they accepted the story.

  In the gallery, his mother wept. No one else came – no one else knew him and no one else cared. His sister didn’t come, but no surprise there.

  As the judge passed sentence, he sighed a small sigh of ­victory that he had got off lightly. In the same breath, an overpowering sense of disgust for the politician welled up an anger in him that began to consume him.

  As he was led away, he didn’t turn back to his mother, who was waiting, hesitating, to wave goodbye to her son. If he’d bothered to glance her way, he would have seen how broken she was. How wretched. And even if he’d seen, he wouldn’t have cared a damn.

  Instead, he made the effort to look at the jury, one to the other, to the other. Holding their gaze. And sneering.

  For years afterwards more than half of them were plagued by doubts that they had reached the right verdict. Was it manslaughter – or was it murder? As his handsomeness morphed into a grim, hard-set stone, they saw him for what he was. And they felt sick.

  It was the twenty-third of March, 1940.

  Joe would go on to bide his time carefully in prison, keeping himself to himself and not causing trouble. He would relive his memories and had more than enough material to satiate his darkly growing appetites.

  He didn’t talk to the other inmates and he didn’t engage in the plotting and the swindling the others did. They eyed him with suspicion, wondering who on earth he was and why he wasn’t one of the gang, any gang. Unlike some of the others in there, he wasn’t a wayward miscreant or a dodgy chancer. He was simply bad.

  It suited him to dwell in his own world, watching and waiting. Sometimes training himself for weeks to hover in that sweet ecstasy of pleasure-pain, on the cusp of so
mething that would sting in its intensity.

  He found the time passed quickly. But he also found himself growing agitated, wanting to savour not just the memory but the reality of the contract with new accomplices.

  He would devise exquisite new plans, imagining a series of scenarios to whet his thirst.

  Days morphed into weeks, weeks into months, months into years.

  With monotonous sameness, six years passed, and to his surprise, he was released even earlier than he had thought. He had barely appreciated that the War had come and gone in the time he was inside.

  He was walked to a stark room with a large, wooden door. There, a wrinkly, bespectacled husk of a man handed him a small handful of belongings. The dungarees he had been wearing the night of the attack, the checked shirt, some coins and a key. A pair of brown shoes with laces. Spatters of dark brown crusty stains splattered over everything apart from the metal. They hadn’t bothered to clean his stuff. But what did he care, he was free.

  He changed into the clothing and walked into the foggy morning air. Money jangling in his pocket, a jauntiness in his gait that he wouldn’t normally have. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the familiar ozone buzz of the seaside air. Hands stuffed deep down, he felt a piece of paper in the right pocket. He pulled it out. An address.

  He searched his memory to try to work out who it belonged to – then he remembered – his sister.

  He realised he could go to see her for some food and for some shelter. And more … But that could wait. First – there was stout to be drunk.

  When he was imprisoned, the withdrawal pains of being denied alcohol were crippling. He would wake up with night sweats, throat parched and stomach wretched with agony.

  He drifted in and out of consciousness, craving the taste and the sensation of black, creamy liquor.

  It took about three months for his body to adjust to a new regime – but he adapted with the same rigour and discipline he applied to his plans. He knew that by waiting, waiting, waiting – for the alcohol and for the new contracts he would make – the taste he would be rewarded with would be sweeter than anything he had ever tasted before.