December was rushing by already. One morning Ada thought about snow as she opened the curtains, and then there it was: a dusting on the ground, as if a dandelion had blown apart in the wind. She shut the curtains, waited a moment, then opened them again. The snow was still there. She had been so busy at the pub, Val asking her to do more and more shifts – one minute trying to use up the rest of the deer, the next minute working out what the hell de-bearding a mussel was – that she hadn’t noticed how short the days were getting, or how raw the air had become.
She went outside and touched the snow with her fingers. It was crumbly and fine, not like the heavy, cloying snow she remembered, which heaped up and stuck to itself like burs. But maybe that was to come. She looked up at the laden clouds. Almost clasped her hands together.
By mid-morning, the snow had disappeared.
The sound of hammering on the roof and then the ladder bouncing as Tristan went down to get more tiles. Replacing the ones he’d already prised off; nailing them on in neat rows. A work-belt slung across his hip. He’d made his way around the house looking for the source of the leak, running his hands up walls, levering floorboards. Decided that the only way was to completely seal the roof. So now he was up there every day, only stopping when it got too dark or the wind suddenly reared up.
When Ada was upstairs, she could hear him talking to himself about what he was doing: overlapping tiles, keeping the felt taut. His voice muffled because of the nails in his mouth. She kept finding reasons to go up and listen, or watch him on his breaks – he would go down to the river and rinse his hands in the water, or cut across the bridge and walk up one of the paths. Once he’d climbed halfway up a tree and sat on a curved branch. She would make herself turn and go back downstairs. Not what she needed to get involved with. Follow the recipe exactly and everything will turn out as expected.
But it made sense, didn’t it? asking him to work on the house. Fix the leak, repair the walls. He was reliable, everyone kept telling her that, and he didn’t have any other work on at the moment. It made sense, it definitely made sense. Get it done before winter set in properly.
She went into her mother’s bedroom and looked at the wardrobe. Took a deep breath. Couldn’t keep putting it off any longer. She opened the doors. The wardrobe was stuffed – coats and shirts and trousers creased into strange poses, like a line of people gesturing at different things. A row of felt shirts, drooping at the waist and unravelling. Baggy cords with damp brown knees and flecks of yellow grass. Wrinkled waterproofs, crushed shoes and knapsacks. A pair of waders slumped in the corner, a tide-line of silt around the thighs. The overwhelming smell was of mildew, but also soil and strong coffee. The oil used to clean jewellery.
Ada unhooked a shirt from its hanger. A tissue fell out of the sleeve. There was a rip across the collar. She folded the shirt carefully and put it in the box she’d brought up. Blew her nose on the tissue, which was running from all the dust. Then saw all the dust coated on the tissue. She picked up a pair of canvas shoes with mould around the eyelets and petrified laces. She put them in the box along with a bright green belt, a horrible thing with a fat buckle. The hangers swayed. Maybe that would do for now. But she made herself take out a stack of jumpers and lay them out on the bed. One of them was much bigger than the others; a man’s jumper, navy with thick ridges. When she was growing up, she used to find things around the house: a bottle of spicy-smelling aftershave, a battered harmonica, a silver cufflink that had slipped under the carpet in the bathroom. Things that, one by one, disappeared, and she never saw again.
Ada folded the jumper neatly and left it on the bed. Then looked at the rest: all snarled together, the crusty wool stained and snagged. Could hardly untangle one from the other. She heaped the pile onto her lap and worked carefully at the wool, licking her fingers to gather loose yarn and threading it back onto itself, closing up the holes and finishing them with small knots.
The front door opened and she heard Tristan come in. The kettle clicked on. Ada tied one more knot, then went downstairs. Tristan was rinsing his coffee mug, his cheeks mauve with cold. ‘Do you want one?’ he asked. He’d left his boots by the door. Ada, her eyes acclimatised to noticing loose thread, saw a fraying lace, tattered heels on his socks.
She nodded and he reached up to the shelf and got another mug. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. She stood by the kettle; it seemed to take a long time to boil. Tristan radiating warmth and that bloody pine-and-soap smell, which stayed in the house for hours.
‘I’m working around the chimney now,’ he said. ‘You know there’s different stone there. All the rest is local stone but the chimney isn’t.’
Upstairs, the wardrobe creaked open. ‘Grockle stone,’ Ada said. Then frowned and poured out hot water.
Tristan got the coffee and shook it in straight from the jar. ‘Are you going to Luke’s party at the weekend?’ he asked.
She had forgotten about the party. Luke had mentioned it a while ago, a small gathering he’d said, for the festive season. She imagined awkward small talk in his living room, mostly people she didn’t know. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. She would probably be working anyway. She took the jar from Tristan and spooned the rest of the coffee in. Regretting telling him he could come and go as he pleased – no idea he would be around this much.
Tristan stirred his coffee with his finger. Seemed to dislike spoons. ‘You can tell how far the stone’s come by the amount of quartz in it,’ he said. ‘A lot of people don’t like working with the stuff around here, but to me, it’s the best kind, splitting it open and finding a seam of quartz in there.’
There were bits of bark and tile snagged in his jumper. She wondered where he would go, if he had to move on. ‘Are you going?’ she asked. ‘To the party?’
‘I told Luke I would,’ he said. He picked up his mug and crossed the kitchen. Bent down to tie his boots. ‘He’s worried no one’s going to come.’
‘Lots of people will,’ Ada said. ‘I’m sure lots of people will.’
Tristan shrugged. ‘Maybe it will just be me and him. Talking about the good old days.’ He whistled a bar of quavering music, then saluted her with his mug and closed the door.
The wardrobe doors clunked. The hangers rattled. Ada went back upstairs. The box had tipped over and spilled onto the floor. The clothes in the wardrobe were rumpled and very cold. Specks of snow on the edges of the sleeves. She crouched down and pulled out handfuls of shoes from the bottom shelf: trainers, walking boots, sandals with Velcro straps. A pair of leather boots, the heel cracked like paint.
‘Don’t get rid of those,’ her mother said. She was standing by the window looking out.
Ada ran her hand along the cracks. Some of them had gone right through. ‘I think they’re broken,’ she said.
‘Everyone needs old shoes. You can get rid of any new shoes you want.’
Ada got back down on her knees and looked along the shelf. Saw hatched bootprints, tissues and dust. There was a slipper by itself in the back corner, worn right through at the toe and the heel. She reached in and brought it out, then glanced at her mother. ‘There aren’t any new shoes,’ she said.
Her mother stared at the slipper as if she didn’t recognise it. ‘Do what you want then,’ she said. ‘Get rid of all of it.’
Ada put the slipper on the floor next to the box, then gathered up the tissues and threw them away. She looked through the hangers slowly, all the clothes blurring together, the smell of coffee and oil and grass getting stronger. She saw a shirt that used to be red and blue checks, the colours now faded and the seams unravelling like old cobwebs. An unwashed fustiness clinging to it. Imagined her mother wearing it, sitting by herself in the quiet kitchen. When before she had worn it to yank up weeds and sweep the chimney. She slipped the shirt off the hanger. ‘I could keep this,’ she said. The sleeves were edged with soot.
Her mother barely glanced at it. ‘I never liked that one,’ she said.
Then fleeces, all daubed with stains. Ada gathered them up and clutched them like a bouquet. They were much smaller than she remembered. ‘I could wash these,’ she said. What she wanted to do was wash them all, smooth them out, then hang them back up neatly.
‘Get rid of them,’ her mother said. ‘Look at the state they’re in.’
Ada held onto them. ‘I could wash them,’ she said.
But her mother was looking deeper into the wardrobe. There was a dress which had fallen off its hanger. She looked at it for a long moment and muttered something. It was a brown dress with an ugly band of shiny material at the hem and sleeves. A strange glittery belt around the waist and the neck cut into a hard V. Ada took it out. Swallowed. ‘It’s nice,’ she said.
‘You can keep it,’ Pearl told her.
Ada fiddled with the belt – the material was very cold. Glitter stuck to her hands. The hangers clacked together softly. ‘I don’t think I need it.’
Her mother stared at the dress. ‘Well I definitely don’t need it.’
‘I don’t need it either,’ Ada said. There was a price tag dangling down the back of it. The first price had been scribbled out and a new one had been written next to it. Less than half price. She swallowed again. ‘You never wore it,’ she said.
Her mother’s face suddenly looked crumpled, her eyes pale and watery. She reached out and touched the hem, slowly working her fingers over it. ‘Actually,’ she said finally, ‘brown would probably make you look ill.’ Neglected to notice the brown jumper Ada was wearing right now.
Her mother turned away from the dress and started looking through the wardrobe again. Muttering, pushing things aside. Shirts and bits of snow fell onto the floor. She leaned deeper in, then stopped.
There was a green blazer and a skirt. The wool was thick and expensive and the blazer had brass buttons. One button was missing halfway up. Pearl moved her hand up towards it but didn’t touch it. A baffled look on her face.
‘When did you,’ Ada said, then hesitated. ‘When were these for?’ The suit must have been there all the time, hidden behind the jumpers and tattered shirts. Ada looked at the thick wool. There was a faint trace of perfume on it. The shoulders stretched out of shape from so long on the hanger. Her mother stayed in front of the wardrobe and didn’t answer.
The cardboard box was still almost empty. All the clothes and shoes from the wardrobe were piled up on the bed. Ada picked the green belt up off the floor and put it back in the box. Sure about one thing at least.
‘Definitely keep that,’ her mother said without turning round.
Ada pulled the hem of the skirt down over her knees, smoothed it, then pulled it again. It sprang back up and bunched around her thighs. The fabric too thin and clingy. She’d already had a shock off its crackling static. It hadn’t looked so bad in the shop, but maybe that was because she hadn’t been moving. And it was too much with her silky top and loop of beads, definitely too much; it was only a few people going round to Luke’s after all. Impossible not to go, what with him worrying about nobody turning up, and even Val forcing her to take the night off – she wouldn’t be serving food because she wanted to close the pub early and come along to Luke’s herself.
Ada took the clothes off and let the cold air in the bedroom cool her down. Looked at herself in the mirror – her broad hips, the silvery shadows and dimples on her thighs, the ochre freckles below her belly button, her stomach soft and slack like good bread dough. Liked to think of it as having been pummelled by Pepper. The skin around her collarbone was almost translucent; turquoise veins, more freckles splashed like dripping paint. Some flecked across her breasts, more in the folded skin under her armpits. Growing into herself year by year, her body stronger, sturdier, more comfortable.
She kicked the skirt aside. A waste of money but she’d needed to go into town anyway; suddenly a lot of things that had accumulated: boxes to drop into charity shops, jeans and socks for Pepper, paint and filler for the house. And they’d get scurvy if they went much longer without proper fruit and vegetables. She bought pink wine and pastries to take to the party, tinsel to go over the front door. Looked everywhere for a Christmas present for Pepper, but saw nothing that would rival the chipped bird ornament she stroked every time she went into Mick’s shop.
Ada had walked around the shops slowly, feeling dazed. Glad Pepper was at Judy’s rather than tugging at her hand and trying to run off. It was only a small town but it had been a long time since she’d been in a crowd of people, bright displays in windows, the orange flush of street lamps. Everything glinted and caught her eye. But there were a lot of empty shops and boarded-up windows. Posters advertising clearance sales. Broken benches and bottles. Couldn’t find the jewellery shop although she looked everywhere. The church had become a cafe, the library had moved into the corner of the information centre. But still the lovely holly tree she remembered from the car park, and the graffiti heart on the wall by the bank. She’d hurried past the estate agent’s; she’d phoned them far too many times. All the houses on display in the window looked neat and idyllic, no sign of the dark, sprawling pictures they’d taken of Pearl’s house.
She unpacked her old black dress – the one she wore for everything – and put it on. The material was soft and didn’t cling. Could move without having to pluck it out of crevices.
The camp bed wheezed behind her. ‘When did you last wear that?’ her mother asked.
Ada dug into one of the bags and found her creased black shoes. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘I know where you wore it,’ her mother said. ‘And I want you to tell me about it.’
Ada brushed her hair and twisted it into a knot, then undid it and let it hang down. Thought again about phoning Luke with an excuse – that the power had gone? He’d say come anyway. The car was broken? He’d drive over and pick them up.
‘You can tell me,’ her mother said. ‘How many people came?’
There had been hardly any. Herself and Pepper. Luke. Two or three people shuffling at the back of the church. Ada had kept checking her watch, waiting for the stream of people. She crouched down and fiddled with her shoe. ‘There were lots of people there,’ she said.
A crushed leaf fell out of her mother’s sleeve. She touched her fingers lightly together. The room was so quiet Ada could hear her watch ticking. ‘I suppose I closed myself off,’ Pearl said.
Ada took a step closer to the bed. ‘There were people there,’ she said.
Her mother suddenly reached out and gripped Ada’s wrist. It felt like Ada had plunged her arm into the river. The watch ticked loudly. A draught caught the curtains and made them sway. After a moment, Pearl’s grip loosened and fell back. Left Ada’s arm blue and tingling. ‘You’re going to be late,’ she said.
Ada lingered in the doorway. Halfway through the funeral, the church door had creaked open and she had turned quickly, but it had just been the wind.
‘You’re going to be late,’ her mother said again.
Ada looked at the crushed leaf. As she went downstairs, she heard her mother muttering: ‘I hope that godawful vicar didn’t say anything pious about me. Because I told him once before that if he dared . . . ’
Ada found Pepper by the kitchen table. Leaning on her elbow and crumbling bread between her fingers. She was wearing her shabbiest trainers and a sweatshirt with a dragon on it. Refused to brush her clumped hair. ‘How long do we have to go for?’ Pepper said.
‘Not very long,’ Ada told her. ‘We just have to talk to a few people, be polite, and then say we’re tired, OK?’
But it didn’t end up like that at all.
A swathe of bright lights surrounded Luke’s house. As they drove closer, Ada saw that there were at least thirty cars pulled up around the front. And more coming. Horns blared out. A cacophony of noise – voices, engines, snatches of clashing music. A big group of people crushed on the front steps. She held Pepper’s hand and tried to get through. Someone called out; she stepped on someone’s foot. Drinks were passed over their heads. Pepper stiffened, quivered slightly, then let out a high-pitched note from between her lips. Seemed to suddenly absorb the underlying energy, like a spring absorbing pressure. She broke away and vanished into the house.
Ada pushed her way into the kitchen. The hot fug of breath and bodies. No sign of Luke anywhere. She put her bottle of wine down, and the box of pastries, which were swallowed up on the vast table, amongst the huge bowls of crisps and cans of beer.
She opened a beer and drank some down. It was warm. The music in the kitchen was yowly jazz; in the hall, something with bass that thrummed. Voices roared and droned. Someone outside banged so hard on the window that it shook. A plate smashed on the floor. She glimpsed Luke through the kitchen door and waved, but he was swigging from a bottle and didn’t see. He disappeared through the hallway.
Ada finished her beer and opened another. Ate some pickled onions out of a jar – then pushed them aside before she ate the lot. Two women next to her started dancing. They gave off a cloud of perfume and cigarettes; flinging their feet and elbows out. Another plate smashed. A dog bolted into the kitchen, skidded on the floor, turned and bolted out again.
The music got louder. A group of men surged in, went straight to the table and emptied one of the bowls of crisps. They spoke quietly to each other; their shoulders jostled; low laughter escaped like steam. One of them was Jake. He saw her and came over holding a mug of drink, said something that she couldn’t hear over the noise. ‘What was that?’ she shouted. Cupped her ear.
Jake leaned closer. ‘Who brought this stuff?’ He held up his mug which was brimful with her pink wine.
‘No idea,’ Ada shouted. More people pushed in. She and Jake were pressed against the sink. The kitchen was boiling – her hair was damp against her forehead, her mouth dry. She opened another beer.
‘Australia. Move out sometime,’ Jake was bellowing. ‘Forty thousand, fifty thousand a year.’ She was close enough to see coppery bristles on his cheeks, and his long eyelashes, just the same as they always were. ‘Me and a few of the boys,’ he shouted. ‘Enough work for everyone out there. Hot sun.’
Ada glimpsed Pepper slaloming among legs and chairs. A small boy following behind her. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she shouted. Gestured towards the hall. Jake nodded and made his way back to the table, stopping to adjust a blanket round the legs of an old man sitting in the corner.
The hallway was dark and the music throbbed. No sign of Pepper. She stepped on a kid with orange hair, who was gone again before Ada could see if he was alright. Someone grabbed her elbow. Mick. He guided her into a space, wanted to talk to her about working out some kind of special rate if he started supplying the pub. Maybe she could mention it to Val? Another man came up and dragged him away, saying, ‘I’ve got the matches. Tell Luke I got the matches.’ Then there was Luke himself, red and reeling. He bowed theatrically. ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘To my home.’ Beery breath and his smart jacket with a rip in the shoulder. His eyes were watering. He staggered away towards the front door.
Someone pushed another drink into Ada’s hand. A man draped in tinsel shouted that he could smell smoke. Ada leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The wall felt sticky. Then, two cool hands touched her cheeks. ‘Dance with me,’ Judy said. She held Ada’s hands and pulled her forward, whirled her around and bumped against her hip. Something loosening in Ada’s chest.
She closed her eyes, felt the floor tilt, and opened them again. ‘All these people,’ she shouted.
Judy took off her scarf and shoved it in her pocket. It had parrots printed all over it. ‘There’s less than usual,’ she shouted back. She spun Ada round in a woozy circle and Ada slipped, thudded into the wall. A picture shook and fell onto the floor. The glass cracked.
Judy picked the picture up. ‘It was like that when we found it,’ she said. She hung it back so that it was facing the wall.
Ada rolled her eyes. ‘Good one,’ she said. ‘Luke’ll never notice that.’
Judy straightened the picture. ‘If he finds out, just tell him it was me. He owes me about sixty quid for duck eggs.’
Everyone suddenly surged towards the door. Judy swept one way, Ada another. ‘Robbie’s driving people back later,’ Judy called. ‘Come and find us.’
Outside, the freezing air felt good. A lot of people had gathered around a smoking heap of wood.
‘That’s pretty close to the house,’ a voice said in her ear. Tristan. They stood and watched as Luke threw on more wood. Then Luke called something out and Robbie ran over with a can of petrol and boom, the whole lot went up and streamed into the air. Orange streaked with blue and green. Luke prodded it with a broom, didn’t seem to notice how close the wind was pushing the flames towards the house. ‘More fuel,’ he shouted. He went inside and came back with a chair, which he threw on in a cascade of sparks.
Tristan’s skin was glowing orange. Ada shivered and he leaned closer. She glanced at him, saw him looking at her, flicked her eyes away. Then back. He leaned down, his face tilting towards her.
‘Your leg,’ Ada said. ‘Luke told me about your leg.’
Tristan frowned and straightened up. ‘What about it?’
‘The accident,’ Ada told him. ‘When you were travelling. You had to walk by yourself.’ She breathed out slowly, held her hot palms to the cool air.
‘Luke told you that?’ He looked at the fire for a long time. ‘I fell out of a tree,’ he said at last. ‘I was sixteen. It was a pretty small tree, so I tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. I carried on for about a week. The break didn’t set properly.’ He shrugged; again that small twitch in his mouth that made it seem like he was about to laugh. ‘If it had been a tall tree, it probably would have been different.’
‘You could have just told everyone it was a tall tree,’ Ada said.
Tristan rubbed his palm over his jaw. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘I suppose I could have done that.’ The bonfire sparked and cracked. Smoke poured upwards. ‘Isn’t that Pepper over there?’ he said.
The little sod; she knew she wasn’t meant to go near fire. Ada ran over the hummocky grass, but by the time she got there Pepper had gone. And when she turned, Tristan had gone too.
She went back into the hall. In the kitchen, Val was sipping tea among broken plates and spilled cutlery. Ada swayed and closed her eyes. Something thumped against the house. Two men hurtled through the door, trying to wrestle each other to the ground. Laughing but one of them with a bloody nose. Knocking into Ada. Then someone held her wrist and pulled her out of the way, pushing her up against the wall. Tristan’s face so close, they knocked teeth together, his hand on her thigh, hers pressed onto his stomach.
Outside, the fire snarled and crackled and more petrol went on in a whoomph that seemed to shake the whole house.