The Snow Rose Read online

  Sandy smiled back at me. It was all there in her eyes. I could read what they’d been saying about me, what they were thinking – lots of sympathy, lots of interest, lots of ‘there but for the grace of God’ stuff. They’re good people, but they’re people all the same. We all, in the end, look at others and wonder if they really feel or think or understand things the way we do. Or we mull on someone’s circumstances for a while, then go back to the confines of our own existence with all its multifarious problems and pleasures.

  At the moment, no one wants to be where I am, and the reality doesn’t bear too much thinking about. They close it out and go back to worrying about all the little things that take up so much space until one day the big thing comes that makes everything else look like so much pointless trivia and you long for the time when a shit day was one where the boiler broke down, or the car got dented, or you overstayed in the supermarket car park and they gave you a fine. All the meaningless irritants that can’t really touch you.

  I had come into the office as early as possible to avoid the stares and glances, and the swooping of concerned colleagues. When I had arrived, the night security guard was still on duty at the reception desk. He watched blank-eyed as I flashed my badge at him, and said nothing, clearly not recognising me, and the fourth floor was empty and silent but for the low hum of the photocopiers and hard drives. I forgot that Sandy likes to get in to the office extra early on the days when her nanny leaves at four. She must have seen me when she came out to get some coffee from the kitchenette.

  ‘Kate,’ she said softly, ‘there’s really no need. Everything is taken care of. I don’t mean your job has vanished. It hasn’t. We’ll wait until you’re in the right place and then we’ll be delighted to have you back. But I don’t think you should rush it. It hasn’t been very long . . .’

  ‘All right, all right,’ I said, and my eyes flicked to the screen. I would log out now. It was obvious I had to leave. ‘I know. I really do. But . . .’ I smiled again. ‘It’s weird the way things can play on your mind. I feel better now I’ve sorted it out.’

  I hadn’t. I hadn’t done anything. But it didn’t really matter. Lindsey would have done it, she’s so efficient.

  ‘I’m glad you feel better. But I don’t think this is the right place for you at the moment.’

  I bristled at her words, though I hid it. She might mean to be sympathetic, kind and constructive but for an instant I heard her telling me that I was bringing something awful with me into the workplace. I was tainting it. They didn’t want me bringing in my turmoil. I was someone leprous now, unclean. Should I be ringing a little bell to warn of my approach so that the whole and healthy could get out of my way before I infected them and their happy, comfortable little worlds? I couldn’t speak as these thoughts raced wildly through my mind. Sandy put out a hand towards me, her expression sorrowful.

  ‘Kate. We’re all so sorry.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I got the flowers.’ I managed a smile.

  ‘If it would ever help to talk, I’m here for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I shut down my computer and got to my feet. ‘That’s kind of you. Really.’

  ‘Let’s be in touch about when you’ll be ready to return. We’d like you back. When you’re up to it.’

  ‘Yes, yes . . .’ I grabbed my coat from the back of my chair. ‘That’s great. I’ll be sure to let you know. Bye, Sandy. And thanks again.’

  I headed out before she could say more. I didn’t want pity and sympathy, I just wanted to be able to get on with things. There was so much to do. I was in a rush. I had to get away. There wasn’t time to think about everything.

  Rory called me that evening. I knew it was him. One glance at the clock and it was obvious. It was eight o’clock and I was busy clearing up after putting Heather to bed. Her supper things were still on the table, her bowl too full of abandoned macaroni cheese for my liking. She’d never been a hearty eater, usually eating so slowly that she managed to kill her appetite before she’d really had enough to constitute a meal, but some dishes, the ones she loved, disappeared extra fast. Lately she’d been eating less and less, and although I was cooking up her favourites as often as possible, I couldn’t seem to get enough into her. I was scraping most of what I cooked into the compost bin.

  I’ll feed her up tomorrow, I promised myself, and then wondered what I would eat. I didn’t much like macaroni cheese but my appetite for everything had diminished. I couldn’t seem to taste anything anymore. The bitterness in my mouth was too strong for food to overcome, and without the pleasure of taste, food became a boring necessity. More often than not, I put some bits of cheese on some crackers and ate that. Sometimes I remembered to pick up a pot of mackerel pâté, or something I could grill quickly and easily. I noticed in a vague way that I was losing weight, but it didn’t matter to me a bit. Once I would have gloried in the way I had to pull my belt to the very last hole, and then make a new hole, or revelled in the feeling of my clothes falling away from my skin, the bagginess at the back of my jeans. Now I couldn’t care less. My only concern was that I had to stay well, for Heather’s sake. She needed me.

  When the phone rang, the irritation surged through me. Couldn’t he leave me alone? Why keep pestering me like this? It wasn’t going to make any difference.

  ‘What do you want, Rory?’

  ‘Just to talk to you for a bit. See how you are.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Can I come over?’

  I glanced around at the mess still waiting to be dealt with: dirty saucepans, the colander, spoons, the sauce-spattered worktop, the yellow strands of grated cheese that had fallen about. ‘No. I’m busy.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Rory . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s none of your business what I’m doing.’

  ‘I think it is. I care about you. You’re my wife.’

  ‘For now,’ I said briefly. I didn’t care what he made of that. I didn’t care about hurting him. After all, what could really hurt us now?

  ‘Kate.’ His voice was heavy with sadness. ‘This doesn’t have to happen to us. We can get through it.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I meant it. I really didn’t think it was possible. I could vaguely remember that we were happy once. He made me laugh so much. He cherished me and protected me, and we built a life together. Then he spoiled everything. He drove us apart. And no matter what he thought, I was sure it could never be put back together.

  ‘I wish you’d let me see you, so we can talk.’

  ‘What will we talk about?’ Immediately after I said it, I wished I hadn’t. I couldn’t open the way to that. ‘Listen, you can’t come round. I’m sorry. We’ll talk another time.’ I put the phone down and stared at it for a moment. I supposed Rory and I would divorce at some point, when I’d got the time to think about it and the strength to tackle the dreary admin it would involve. The business of the house. The division of money and belongings, such as we had left. What would happen to Heather. The other unspoken things.

  He’s not taking her away from me. It’s what he wants. It’s what they all want.

  Now here we are, in this grand but deserted old place. Just the two of us. Safe at last. I know they think I shouldn’t keep her. My mother thinks it. That’s why I won’t see her either, or my sister. They’re in cahoots with Rory, all of them scheming how to get her away from me. That’s why I have escaped them while I can, while I still have the opportunity.

  I’m outside the bedroom, looking through the crack in the door. The lights inside are off. I can make out the dark shapes of the bed and the man sitting on the edge of it. I hear the small voice asking, ‘Daddy, are you going to die? Will Mummy die? Will Heather die?’

  The answer is gentle. Firm, but absolute. ‘Yes. We’ll all die.’

  ‘When? Will we die soon?’

  ‘We might. No one knows.’

  I can hear Rory’s resolute emphasis on honesty. We always sai
d we won’t lie to the children. We’ll tell them the truth about everything. About how they were born (no gooseberry bushes or storks), about what they can expect from life, about how transient it is, with no promise of God or afterlife or anything like that. We won’t fudge, or patronise, or condescend. We’ll tell the truth.

  The boy’s voice is anxious. ‘Tomorrow? Will you die tomorrow, Daddy?’

  ‘I might. We could all die at any time.’

  ‘Don’t go out tomorrow, Daddy!’ The fear vibrates through his voice. I can almost see him clutching hard at his father’s hand. ‘Stay at home where it’s safe.’

  ‘C’mon now, buddy. It’s not that likely. I’m sure it will all be fine. The chances are that I’ll make it through tomorrow.’

  ‘And the day after?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘One day we’ll all die. It’s horrible, but that’s the way it is. Now, shall we talk about something else?’

  But the boy can’t talk about anything else. He only wants to talk about death until at last he is persuaded to sleep.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I say later, when we’re in front of the fire, glasses of wine on the table before us, ‘just tell him you won’t die!’

  ‘But I can’t guarantee it.’ Rory sighs. I can tell he hates the thought of causing pain but that he’s made a decision and feels he should stick to it.

  ‘Can’t you see you’re scaring him? Is that really the best way?’

  ‘I won’t lie to him. Didn’t we always say we’d tell them the truth?’

  I look over at Rory, his brown eyes so full of sincerity and so well meaning. I already know he’s lying to me, every day. He’s been lying for months. And I can’t help thinking we don’t know the truth. We don’t know anything.

  Chapter Two

  It’s dark when we finally arrive at our destination, which lies behind a long, high wall some way from the nearest village. There is a pair of vast iron gates at the roadside, and I have to get out to open them. They are padlocked, but there is a key-safe box on the brick gate pillar, openable with the code they sent me via email. I tap in the series of numbers and it clicks open obediently, flooding me with relief.

  See? It’s all going to work. You just need to know what you’re doing, and everything comes right.

  A bunch of keys lies inside the metal locker, limp on the end of a worn leather keyring. There are several on the ring, and I have to try a few before I find the one that undoes the padlock. Then I push the heavy gates open and get back into the car to drive through, before jumping out again to close and lock the gates. I like the feeling of snapping the padlock shut and letting the chain drop against the railings. As far as I know, no one has seen us drive in. And now I’ve locked the rest of the world out. As I get back in the car, I see that Heather is awake.

  ‘Are we there?’ she asks, straining at the belt of her seat. Her wide blue eyes stare through the car window at the murky shadows beyond. The driveway is edged with high, overgrown shrubbery.

  ‘Yes, we’re here.’ I sound jolly, reassuring. Everything is all right. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  The headlights pick out a huge shape ahead of us as the car crunches up the gravel drive. It’s hard to make out much. I’ve seen pictures, of course, the photos on the website, but the place is blanketed by darkness.

  ‘We’re at the house I told you about,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Isn’t it amazing? It’s like our very own castle!’

  I gaze at the vast building in front of us, only a small portion of it illuminated by the car’s headlights. It’s brick built, and the pattern looks crazed, improbable, in this light, a herringbone madness of red blocks and black lines. We’ve stopped in the forecourt, a gravelled rectangle in front of the house, and there’s nothing to show that there’s any life within. The house is so large that it retreats into the shadows, a great mass of a thing. It’s so much bigger than I expected. I wonder if it is as beautiful as it looked in the photographs, with its elegant lines and large windows, three storeys under gabled roofs ornamented with high chimneys.

  ‘Is this our new home?’ Heather sounds tired, and I can tell she just wants to be asleep somewhere warm and safe, that isn’t moving. But when I glance in the rear-view mirror, I also notice how overwhelmed and intimidated she looks. Her blue eyes are wide and questioning, a little afraid.

  ‘For now,’ I say with determination, and undo my seat belt. ‘It’s going to be fine. I promise. The first night in a new place is always hard.’

  There it is again, that bitterness in my mouth. My promises so far have proved to be hollow; why should she believe me now? She must have guessed that things are not the way they seem. Children are so trusting, so sure that they are meant to be here, so excited by the world and what it holds for them. How do we tell them the bitter truth? That things can’t always be safe and normal and secure. Mummy and Daddy can’t always make the bad things go away. We’ll always tell them the truth. Won’t we? But how can I? Why would I? Why not let them live in sweetness for as long as they can?

  ‘Okay,’ she says in a little voice. She’s had to accept so much lately and she’s tried so hard. My heart swells with love for her, my beautiful girl.

  ‘Wait here a moment, sweetie, while I get the door open. I’ll have us sorted out in no time.’

  After all, we’re bound to be happy in a place called Paradise House.

  I use the torch on my phone to shine a beam of light onto the front door. I examine the keyring. Which one is for this lock? And what, besides the gate padlock, do the others open, for goodness’ sake? I fumble with the ring of keys, trying them one by one in the lock, quickly losing track of which ones I’ve already tested. Panic starts to flutter inside me.

  This is a disaster! We’re going to be locked out all night, until I can call the people in the morning. Oh God, I knew it was all going to fail . . .

  Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a key slides into the tight little lock and turns. Relief drenches me again. It’s going to be all right after all.

  I don’t know how much more of this I can take. The seesawing of extreme emotions is exhausting.

  I step into the pitch-black interior and start patting at the wall just inside the door, feeling for a light switch. It’s not until I relight the torch on my phone that I find them: a bank of old-fashioned round dolly switches in dark brown Bakelite mounted on a wooden board. I click one on and a bare bulb glows dimly over my head, the light weak and orange and sickly. Without waiting to look around, I head back to the car. I’m not leaving Heather alone for a moment longer than I have to.

  She’s waiting patiently in her car seat, not sleeping but showing dark blue circles under her eyes.

  ‘Ready?’ I ask.

  She nods, and I unclip the seat belt. She scrambles out on her own – at six years old, she’s almost too old for a child seat now – and slips awkwardly to the ground, stiff after hours of sitting.

  ‘Shall I carry you?’

  She shakes her head. She hasn’t let me carry her since that night. Instead she slips her hand into mine and I click the car locked. It chirrups, its side lights flashing as it folds its wing mirrors in neatly. The descending locks make a chunky sound as the car closes down, its interior lights fading to nothing. Heather gazes straight ahead as we go towards the light, the bulb inside now glowing more brightly, adding just a little more cheer to the bleakness of our destination.

  ‘Bed soon, darling,’ I say with more certainty than I feel as I lead her inside, my free hand fumbling for the room plan I’m carrying. I know that there’s a bed in a room towards the back of the house. All I have to do is find it, get the bedding from the car, make it up and settle Heather. Then, at last, we’ll be able to rest.

  Rory and I are lying together in bed. I’m on my back, staring up at the blackness of the ceiling, my eyes still adjusting now that the bedside light has been switched off. He rolls over, kisses my shoulder and squeezes me. ‘Night,
darling,’ he says.

  ‘Night.’ I intended to say nothing, not yet, but I can’t stop myself. ‘Oh . . . how was your day? I didn’t ask earlier. How are things at work?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says vaguely. ‘Fine. Busy.’ He yawns. ‘I’m absolutely zonked. Do you mind if I go straight off to sleep? We can talk tomorrow if you like.’

  ‘Of course not. You’re tired.’ I’m rigid with tension and make an effort to relax. I don’t know how long I can keep all this going. ‘But . . . your day . . . was fine?’

  ‘Yes, you know. Same old. Train was packed. I got collared by Andy at lunchtime, had to go to the pub with him. The usual meetings in the afternoon – budgets.’ He sighs. ‘That’s why I’m so knackered.’ He kisses me again. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Okay.’ I say. Within minutes he’s asleep, his body twitching as it relaxes into slumber. I can’t sleep, though. Not now I know.

  I wake in Paradise House the next morning with the first red tinges of dawn that find their way through the thin curtain at the window. Our surroundings are grey but visible. The room we’re in is huge but extremely bare. I don’t think it can have been a bedroom originally, but now it has a cast-iron double bed with an old striped mattress which I covered with our bedlinen last night. A naked bulb hangs from a greying flex in the middle of the ceiling and the walls are whitewashed, speckled with holes and with faded grey outlines where pictures once hung. A fireplace has been painted white as well. It’s almost like a stage set, or a location for the kind of ultra-chic interior shoot that makes a virtue of stripped-back shabbiness. There is an old pine wardrobe with a mirror set in the door, though the glass is smeary with dust, and a battered antique button-back armchair. Cobwebs festoon the corners of the room and feathery dust balls sit along the skirting. My nose tingles and I fight the urge to sneeze.

  Heather is still asleep and I make sure not to disturb her as I slip out from under the duvet. The bare floor is cold under my feet and I shiver in my pyjamas. My slippers are in a bag somewhere, probably still in the car. I brought in only our essentials last night – my case and Heather’s. Hers is a small purple sit-on thing that all the children have and it’s open, her clothes neatly folded inside. I put her pyjamas on the top so that I could get at them easily when we arrived, along with the small pink oilcloth toilet bag with her toothbrush and strawberry toothpaste inside. I tiptoe to my suitcase, pick up a jumper and pull it on over my pyjamas. Instantly warmer, I decide to look for the kitchen and see what’s there. In the car is a box of supplies but I might be in luck – there might be the tools for a cup of tea or coffee. I let myself quietly out of the bedroom and into the corridor beyond. As I walk down it in the gloom, I wonder at my ability to have found the bedroom last night when we were so exhausted. Somehow, with only the basic room plan provided by the company, I managed to get there on the first attempt. The lights I switched on are still glowing dustily, the low-wattage bulbs only just providing enough illumination. This place both is and isn’t what I expected when I looked at the pictures. It’s bigger and shabbier – I can see places along the walls where the plaster is blown and the picture rails that line the walls are black with dirt – but it has the kind of dignity I expected from an old building like this.