Forty-Seven

The snow had been falling all night.

It lay in smooth, unmarked drifts below the hedge, turning the paddock that ran down to the river into an eerie, brilliant cloth, whiter than the sky that lowered into the valley. The river was almost black by contrast, threading in loops past houses, through fields, until it came to the foot of the hill where it scooped a series of spectacular arcs, a lazy scrawl of letters, until it reached the grounds of the Priory.

Here it was subdued into a narrower band. All the old sluice gates in the water meadows stood open: small blackened landmarks in the December snow. Mark Werth stood in the hallway, looking at this monochrome scene through the narrow windows on each side of the door, thinking how hard it was to believe there was anything green under such a covering.

The roads out of the village were all but impassable.

He had come down yesterday, and been ambushed by the weather, a storm that swept quickly over the south of England and closed all but the most major routes. In a landscape like this, where all roads out involved steep hills, you might as well abandon any thought of moving until the farm-sponsored four-wheel-drives forced a way through. He had been out that morning to watch them chugging a path out; but, as fast as they moved on, the snow closed in behind them.

In truth he was not really inclined to go, anyway.

He caught a brief movement further along the drive, and pulled on his coat and gloves. Theo was already hurtling through the dug-out trench of snow. Seeing Mark, he stopped, and scrambled around to point at the woman coming up behind him.

Werth went down to meet her.

It was one of the mothers from the village, out of breath and very red in the face.

‘I’ve lost my own,’ she said, laughing. ‘They’re fighting it out with the Clarks.’ She sighed and put her hands on her hips. ‘Gosh! It’s bloody hard work through this lot.’

Werth looked back at Theo, who was busy pushing a snowball across the lawn, picking up sticks and shreds of dark grass as he rolled.

‘Thanks for bringing him.’

‘It’s no problem. He’s been fine.’

‘Ready for Christmas?’

‘Is anyone?’ She smiled. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Anything you need?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘That’s great.’ She turned to go. ‘’Bye now.’

He spent ten minutes helping turn Theo’s snowball into a boulder, then took the boy’s hand and dragged him indoors. ‘You’re frozen,’ he said. ‘You want me to have to tell your dad you turned into a snowman?’

‘Yeah,’ Theo said, delighted with the idea. Without taking off his outdoor clothes, the boy ran into the sitting room, and launched himself onto the couch.

Lin was sitting there, surrounded by coloured paper strips.

‘How’re you doing?’ Mark asked.

She had held out her arms and Theo wriggled into her lap. ‘Hey, you’re wet,’ she objected. ‘Mind the things.’

‘I do decorations,’ Theo said.

‘OK.’ She smiled, holding up a short string that she had already glued together. ‘So much for your therapy,’ she told Werth. ‘Look at that. An hour to do twelve of them.’

He smiled back. ‘It’ll get better.’

Lin had turned back to Theo. ‘Take off your …’

She paused momentarily, fingering the cloth of his waxed jacket. A spasm of frustration registered in her expression; her eyes trailed past her son’s face, trying to find the neural corridor of association that would enable her to recall the word. ‘Take that thing off,’ she said eventually.

‘Its name?’ Theo said, unbuttoning the coat.

‘Yes, I forget its name.’

‘Jacket.’

‘Jacket … jacket,’ she repeated. ‘That’s the one. Take it off. Hang it up.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Mark Werth said. ‘Want some tea?’

‘Mmm … how is the snow?’

‘Stopped falling, but deep now.’

She smiled at him. ‘Now we got you.’

He laughed. ‘I don’t mind. It’s my week off. Nobody wants me.’ He handed her the letters he had taken from the hall table. ‘Post finally came.’

She looked at the envelopes, and set them down. Theo snatched up the first, with an airmail stamp. It was addressed to him. Two photographs spilled out as he unfolded the page. He glanced at them, then handed them over to her.

‘Hey, look,’ Lin said. ‘Spaceships.’ She read the reverse. ‘In Florida.’

Werth sat down, facing her, glancing at Kieran’s precise, small handwriting. ‘How much longer will he be away?’

‘Oh, weeks.’

‘He didn’t consider coming back for Christmas?’

She smiled. ‘Florida for Christmas? Would you?’

Werth glanced at Theo.

‘He’s promised us a holiday at Easter, somewhere warm,’ Lin said.

Werth did not comment.

Theo hauled himself down from the couch and went over to the fire.

‘Don’t put logs on,’ Lin warned him. ‘Just look.’

Werth looked towards Theo. ‘I’d rather you weren’t here on your own,’ he said.

‘We’re not alone,’ she told him. ‘Mrs Sawyer comes in every day, and the people in the village are superb. And I can walk, make beds, do the whole thing—you know that.’

He returned her smile. ‘I know you’ve defied every instruction to take things slowly,’ he said.

‘I should damned well think so,’ she replied.

He considered her. ‘No recurrence at all? You’re sure?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing after the last seizure?’

‘Nine weeks ago.’

‘You still take the medication?’

‘Of course.’

He paused. ‘No time losses, no precognitions, no voices?’

‘For heaven’s sake!’

Her face was such a mixture of expressions, somewhere between exasperation and regret, that he moved over to her side of the couch. ‘And you’re still determined on college next year?’

‘Yes,’ she said, with utter conviction. ‘The refresher takes three months, and I register in June. The course itself starts in October.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure. After my degree, with any luck, I’ll be able to do post-graduate research. That’s what I want.’

‘What kind of research, do you know?’

She smiled slowly. ‘Ah, wait and see.’

He started to pick up the pieces of paper that Theo had inadvertently knocked to the floor. ‘And Harry left you alone, finally?’

She laughed. ‘Harry wasn’t the pain. That was Lazenby. But I won’t do TV. I can’t anyway. I don’t want to scramble words in front of a camera. And that show with Robbie England …’ She pulled a face, and sighed. ‘Still, I said my piece, even if no one seemed to hear it.’

‘I’m sure no one thinks any worse of you,’ he told her. ‘Everyone knows it was the illness. The papers were very sympathetic in the end.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.

‘Still not tempted to take over where Kieran left off?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I just don’t want Kieran’s world secondhand. I want my own.’

They paused, watching Theo, who was stretched out full-length on the rug in front of the fire.

‘What’s Harry doing now?’ Werth asked.

‘He’s found a new supernova: that basketball player turned actor.’ She laughed to herself. ‘Certainly running rings round poor Harry—but nice profitable ones.’

She picked up a cushion, smoothed it, and hugged it to her chest.

Werth nodded. He stood up, stretched, and walked over to switch on a table lamp. ‘I’ll get that tea.’

‘Might as well make yourself useful, while you’re stuck here.’

He gave her a rueful smile and went out.

The dying afternoon drifted on in silence. After a minute or two, Lin got up with some difficulty, and walked to the window, where, after looking out at the snow, she slowly drew the curtains. The room condensed to a cosy glow. Going to the fire, she sat down on the rug next to Theo.

He lay with one hand stretched before him, silhouetting it in front of the flames, waving it to the side, describing circles in the air.

She watched him. Then they both began to listen …

For a while neither of them moved.

Mark Werth had turned on the radio in the kitchen. The sound of a recorded play drifted down the hall, filtering through to them in faint, disconnected phrases.

However, they were not listening to that at all.

But to something else.

Theo turned to his mother. ‘Are the pretty people coming?’ he asked.

She nodded slowly. ‘Sssh,’ she said. She smiled, and glanced towards the door leading to the kitchen.

Theo grinned, and grasped her hand.

‘Lizbeth,’ he whispered.

And in the glow of the fire they waited, looking patiently into the shadows.