Her Frozen Heart Read online

  HER

  FROZEN

  HEART

  LULU TAYLOR

  PAN BOOKS

  To Mickey

  διδάσκαλος καί φίλος

  with love and thanks

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  THE SNOW ANGEL

  THE WINTER CHILDREN

  THE SNOW ROSE

  Prologue

  June 1940

  Tommy was coming back across the fields when she saw Bertie Potter cycling up the lane. It had been a beautiful afternoon, the colours of early summer almost too much to bear. She was dazzled by the intense cornflower blue of the sky flooded with golden light, the deep lush greens of the woods and fields, the blues, whites and vibrant magentas of the meadow flowers. The birds had been going crazy all day, thrilled by the onset of warmth and burgeoning growth; they’d zipped about the hedgerows and sung wildly from the trees. One robin had accompanied her in fluttering dashes as she’d walked the dogs up to the cottages and back. Spotty had met her there – no, not Spotty, Mr Spottiswoode, I must remember to call him that – and they had inspected the living conditions, to see if they were suitable for the girls coming that summer to help bring in the harvest. Greaves, the tenant farmer, had joined them, grumbling about having women working on the farm, even though he could remember the same thing happening in the last war.

  ‘Modern girls won’t be like the other ones,’ Greaves had declared. He was grizzled with age and decades of labouring outdoors. ‘They don’t know what hard work is. Only bothered about dancing and hairstyles and lipstick.’

  ‘Let’s give them a chance, Greaves, shall we?’ Tommy had said lightly. ‘They might not be as bad as you think. We’re all trying to do our bit with things going so badly abroad.’

  That had shut Greaves up. Everyone had been pulling together so much in recent days, since the disaster at Dunkirk – not disaster, she reminded herself, miracle. But the news was pretty awful and people were nervous about the future. If things went on this way, they didn’t stand a hope.

  We have to keep on. It’s all we can do.

  Tommy had thought of Alec, far away in France. He hadn’t been evacuated with the others. He was still there, fighting, or on the move; no one knew. She imagined him for a moment in the French countryside, the enemy nearby; then swiftly banished the image. These days she tried to think of him as little as possible. It helped.

  It’s here and now that matters. The children. The family. The house. Looking after them is how I can help.

  Spotty – oh crumbs, Mr Spottiswoode, I mean – had said that if the cottages were spruced up, the land girls could be paid less in consideration of their better boarding conditions, and Greaves had clearly liked the idea, but Tommy had said she didn’t agree, they’d get their money and a decent lodging too, and then she left the men to it. No doubt they were cursing her name and wondering why they were having to obey her, and not her brother, but she didn’t care. Let them.

  Striding back across the fields, she breathed in the sweet air and the calm of the afternoon. There was barely a sound, except for the birds chirruping and tweeting away. A blur of wings darted past her, and her robin eyed her from the nearby hedge, before swooping away again. The sun shone brightly and a line of sweat prickled at her hairline. Her jersey was uncomfortably hot so she took it off and slung it over her shoulders, letting the sunshine warm her skin through the light cotton of her blouse. The long grass waved against the bare skin of her legs below her skirt line.

  I feel . . . I almost feel alive again.

  Of course, she never would be, not in the way she once was. And why should she, when miles away frightful battles were raging, men were dying, ordinary people’s lives and homes were being destroyed? A great black cloud was rolling towards them, engulfing everything in its path, bringing death and chaos.

  Coming over the brow of the hill, she saw the house, ancient and beautiful, sitting just below her. The sight comforted her. It was home, an enduring shelter, a place of safety. It would surely continue to exist as it had for centuries. In the garden there was a flash of movement and the children appeared briefly, two small dots with bright red jumpers and bare legs, before vanishing behind the house. Where were they going? To the paddock? Into the woods? How wonderful to be so carefree.

  Then she saw him. Bertie Potter, his cap pushed back on his head, cycling along the lane towards the house.

  Tommy stopped with a gasp and her skin turned cold. For a moment, she stood staring, watching the little figure getting closer and closer to the old manor. She started walking, quickly now, oblivious to her robin, marching out through the long grass. Her heart was pounding and her face pale, but she strode on, calling to the dogs when they lingered, watching Bertie reach the house, drop his bicycle on the lawn in front before running around the side to the kitchen door. She couldn’t see him now but she could imagine him rapping on the old door, opening it to shout across the scullery to the kitchen. Out would come Ada, wiping her hands on her apron, to take his little envelope in her hand.

  Tommy knew what it was, and who it was for. She’d been waiting for this moment for weeks, though she hadn’t realised it.

  He’s dead. They’re going to tell me that he’s dead.

  It seemed to take hours to reach the lane, but it was only about ten minutes. In that time, Bertie had gone. Ada had summoned the others. Tommy walked into the kitchen, the dogs at her heels, to see them waiting for her. Her mother was there, her expression grave, and behind her Gerry, her face white, her eyes wide and frightened, biting her lip. Ada hovered about the sink, sighing and muttering, moving things for no reason, while Thornton stood against the larder door as if hoping to disappear through it.

  ‘It might be all right,’ Tommy said in a flat voice, but she already knew what the envelope her mother held out to her would contain. As she turned it over, she saw the cross stamped on it that meant the worst news of all.

  Not a prisoner. Not injured.

  She stared at it for a long time, her heart racing, hundreds of images of Alec tearing through her mind. The last time she had seen him: calling goodbye at the station as Alec leaned out of the train window, tiny Antonia waving a white handkerchief in farewell. Tommy had h
eld Harry up high so he could get one last look at the baby. Alec, in his scratchy great coat and cap, kit bag still over his shoulder, had waved back, his dark eyes unreadable, a cigarette dangling from his lips, before he’d ducked back into the carriage and disappeared.

  Suddenly she looked up and handed the envelope back to her mother.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Gerry asked in a small, scared voice.

  ‘You open it. I know what it says.’ She turned to the scullery doorway, a square of sunshine beyond the gloom of the kitchen. ‘I’m going to find the children. I must tell them first of all.’

  ‘Oh Tommy.’ Gerry’s voice broke on a sob. ‘How terrible this is!’

  ‘We’re sorry, Thomasina,’ her mother said in a quavering voice. ‘You must be suffering very much.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tommy said, in the same blank tone. At any other time, her mother’s sympathy might have touched her, but not now. ‘Thank you. But I must go.’

  She went out into the warm afternoon.

  Alec is dead.

  Her life would never be the same.

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  ‘Come on, Max,’ Caitlyn pleaded, almost falling under the force of her son’s embrace. She dreaded this. Every time she hoped it would be different, but it never, never was. ‘Let go, darling. Let’s go inside.’

  They were standing on the gravelled drive in front of the school’s grand entrance. Caitlyn’s hopes had been raised when she had managed to get Max and all his kit out of the car and right to the door, but it hadn’t lasted. At the sight of the open front door, he’d lost it, dropping his hockey stick and backpack on the ground and grabbing her. Now he was holding her tight, his arms clamped around her, his sobbing harsh and unceasing. With what breath he had left, he was stammering, ‘Don’t go, Mum, don’t go, d-d-d-d-don’t leave me!’

  Other parents went past, herding their own small boys, shooting her sympathetic looks or politely ignoring the weeping Max and Caitlyn’s efforts to prise him off her. None of the other boys seemed to be having anything like Max’s reaction to going back to school.

  Max’s abject grief was almost more than she could stand. She hated leaving him here, especially when she hadn’t really wanted him to come in the first place, but Patrick had convinced her that it was in Max’s best interests. He’d been in love with the whole idea of prep school and what he thought it entailed: cricket, dorms, tuck, midnight feasts, high jinks, life-long friendships.

  ‘It’s what I want for Maxie,’ he’d said firmly, but Caitlyn had suspected it was what he wished he’d had himself.

  The only concession she’d managed to win was that Max wouldn’t go till he was ten years old. Patrick wanted him to go at seven, but Caitlyn couldn’t bear it while Max was still holding her hand and skipping as they walked to school, and still needed to hug his teddy and snuggle up to her while she read a bedtime story. Even then, when Max turned ten, he still seemed too young to go away from her.

  ‘Please let go, Maxie!’ Tears were pricking her own eyes as she attempted to peel back his arms. He was immoveable, his grip rock solid around her as if he really believed that by hanging on long enough, he could make her give up and take him home.

  ‘We have to go in!’ she said, almost sobbing now herself. He was practically pushing her over with the force of his embrace and she stumbled on the gravel. ‘I’m sorry, Max, I hate it too, but you have to stay.’

  ‘Here – can I help you?’ It was Max’s housemaster, a young man with a beard and glasses and a friendly smile. Someone had obviously sent him downstairs to them. ‘Hey, Max! Great to see you, pal.’

  Max ignored him, his torrent of tears unceasing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Reynolds,’ Caitlyn said, raising her voice over the sound of Max’s crying, anxious in case the housemaster should be offended by Max’s evident disinclination to see him. ‘He’s still finding it hard . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Mr Reynolds smiled at her. ‘He’s not the first, don’t worry. He’ll be fine once he’s upstairs. Honestly. C’mon, buddy.’ He put his hand on Max’s arm and patted it.

  He means so well, she thought. He’s a nice man.

  Mr Reynolds was one of the reasons she could bear leaving Max behind. He was young, empathetic, and relentlessly positive. He radiated good humour and tolerance, and when Max was being at all upbeat about school, it was clear he rated Mr Reynolds very highly, from the way he was always up for an after-supper game of football, to the eagle eye he kept on them all, alert to signs of any trouble among his charges.

  But none of that had made any difference to Max’s despair at parting.

  Mr Reynolds put his hands on Max’s heaving shoulders and began to pull him away from Caitlyn. With his mother tugging at his arms and Mr Reynolds pulling from the back, Max began to release his grip. It was time to give in. He had made his protest, but he knew how it had to go.

  ‘I’ll be back soon, darling, you know I will. Daddy and I will come and see you at the first opportunity. His bags are here, Mr Reynolds.’ She gestured to Max’s pile of kit on the gravel: sports bag, trunk, tuck box, shoe bag, school bag, and a small pile of outdoor things plus a blazer.

  ‘Thank you, we’ll sort it out.’ He grinned at her and nodded at the car. ‘I think you’d better head off while you can.’

  Caitlyn cast one last forlorn glance at Max, who seemed to have given up the fight and was leaning against Mr Reynolds as his sobs calmed a little. ‘Goodbye, darling. I’ll see you soon. I promise.’

  Is it worth it? she asked herself on the way back to London. There are almost three more years of this. Surely he can’t go on being so upset whenever I go? He’s got to settle sometime. Perhaps the summer term will make it easier – longer days, games in the evening.

  But she wondered for the umpteenth time if she ought to put her foot down and tell Patrick enough was enough, and they must take Max out of Spring Hall.

  It wouldn’t happen. When had she ever made Patrick do something he hadn’t wanted to?

  He was back tonight and she was looking forward to seeing him. Life lost its velocity when Patrick wasn’t around. Sometimes she felt as if she was on an exciting ride, and Patrick was the pilot while she had to cling on for dear life as he took corners too fast or made madcap turns. It was mostly thrilling but it was Patrick who was in charge.

  Was that how it was from the start? Or did it gradually become that way? I really can’t remember. I don’t suppose it matters anyway.

  As she finally pulled up at the house, she wondered if she let herself be too much of a doormat. Ought she to protest more, make more of a stand about things?

  But Patrick knows his own mind. I don’t think I ever know what I really want.

  Patrick was so good at persuading her round to his point of view. She would set out with a firm idea but within moments Patrick would make her see everything in quite another way and her own opinion would wobble, turn puny and collapse.

  Caitlyn sat at the kitchen table with her cup of coffee and flicked through the Sunday papers on her tablet, Chopin nocturnes wafting down gently from the concealed sound system. There had been an email waiting from Mr Reynolds to say that Max was calm and happy, watching television with the other boys, and there was no need to worry. Comforted, Caitlyn settled into the calm and quiet. This was where she was happiest. She wished that Patrick was reading on the downstairs sofa, stretched out in that way of his, the book held up high over his face like a shield, and Max was sitting on the floor, playing with his Lego as he had been this morning, and all she had to do was have a bath and go to bed. As it was, Patrick was due home in an hour or so, and she would cook dinner: one of his homecoming favourites. The porchetta, perhaps, or the soy salmon; there were the ingredients for both in the fridge. It didn’t matter to her, she wouldn’t eat either of them. They would open a fresh bottle and talk about his trip, catch up on all the news. Then he would unpack his travel case, no doubt with a bo
ttle of expensive scent for her from whatever airport duty free he’d lingered in that afternoon.

  She remembered that last time he had brought her a bottle of Fracas.

  ‘How lovely, thank you!’ she’d said, and then laughed.

  ‘What?’ Patrick had said at once.

  ‘Nothing. Only . . . it’s Sara’s favourite. She always wears it. Didn’t you know?’

  He’d looked cross and said, ‘Is it? Don’t open it then. Give to her as a gift. From you. I’ll get you something else.’

  Her eye was caught by a flash of colour on the expanse of blonde-wood floor by the window, and she noticed that a small tubful of Lego pieces had not been cleared away when Max had finished playing. She got up quickly and hurried across the room towards them, looking for the tub which must have slipped somewhere out of sight, and just as she was about to reach them, the telephone rang with a sudden violence that shattered the silence.

  Caitlyn stumbled with surprise and stood hard on several small pieces which cut through her fine socks and dug into the sole of her foot. ‘Ouch! Bloody hell, that hurts!’ She reached the side table where the phone was still bright, flashing up the caller ID and singing out for her attention. She scooped it up. ‘Hello, Patrick?’

  ‘Are you all right? You sound like you’ve been running.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, just stood on some Lego. Where are you?’

  ‘On the M4 in a cab. The traffic’s not too bad considering.’

  ‘How was the flight?’

  ‘Fine. Nothing to report. I’m looking forward to getting home, though.’ Patrick sighed. ‘It’s been a long weekend.’

  ‘Max was sorry to miss you.’

  ‘I know. Rotten timing.’

  ‘What time do you think you’ll be home?’

  ‘It’ll be an hour at least. I’ll keep you updated.’

  ‘I’ll get supper going. Do you want porchetta or salmon?’

  ‘Oh. Oh God, I don’t know. You decide.’

  ‘All right.’ She felt a tiny droop that he didn’t seem excited by either option when she’d gone to the trouble of stocking up on both. ‘See you later then, darling.’