Winter’s Children (13 page)

Nik found himself shaking with shame at his tears of self-pity and cowardice. There would be no witnesses if he scarpered, but the body underneath would tell its own tale. Nobody could have survived that impact. He could see her white face and staring eyes like fires in his headlights, the hand raised up to defend herself. What the hell was she doing alone in the dark at this hour?

Nik extracted himself from the wreckage slowly. He must do something, not sit feeling sorry for himself. His legs were like lead. His body was shivering from shock, cold and fear. He hadn’t even a battery in his torch to search underneath. The worst must be faced and he steeled himself for bloodied, severed limbs or worse. He wanted to flee from the carnage but his legs were rooted to the spot and he bent over, vomiting his supper onto the verge.

He kneeled down to examine under the wheels. She must be dead, for there wasn’t a sound. He grovelled on his stomach, holding out his trembling hand to touch her but she wasn’t within his grasp. Perhaps the body was tossed into the air and landed across the road or over the wall. His eyes were getting used to the darkness. There was just enough moon to inch his way slowly across the road, calling softly, hoping against hope that she was still breathing. There was no sign of a body.

How could she have the strength to crawl out of the wreckage?

It was not possible that she had escaped injury but there was no one under his wheels or in the road or over the wall. She couldn’t have walked far after such an impact. He called over and over into the black night, but nothing responded and he sat back in his car exhausted.

Is this some terrible nightmare and I’ll wake up in my bed with a hangover? he prayed. The pickup was crumpled and not safe to drive. He’d bashed his head, his nose was bleeding and he could taste blood at the back of his nostrils. That was real enough. He had seen the white hair streaming behind her. He had seen her standing in the road.

Suddenly exhaustion overtook him and a sickening feeling that he knew that face of old, hiding behind the trees in the copse. There was not one bit of evidence that she was real. The old hag had played a trick on him again.

It was all some strange mirage. He felt the relief seeping into his limbs and his head was spinning. Why was she doing this to him? Who was she? Why me? he muttered. Why? Why? He could feel his eyelids closing.

Oblivion was beckoning until a tapping on the window and a voice was shouting from a far-off place.

‘Mr Snowden … Nik! Wake up … Are you all right?’

There was a flurry of movement that stirred him from his strange dreaming. The door was open, a hand was on his arm and he jumped. He stared at the pair of grey-green eyes searching his face.

‘It’s only me, Kay Partridge … You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?’

What could he say? I saw the white lady of Wintergill and ran her over. She follows me but I know she’s not real? Nik gulped.

‘Would you believe it, a badger shot across the road. I thought it was a sheepdog and swerved into the wall. I’ll try and get her started,’ seemed a reasonable reply.

‘Just get in my car and I’ll drive you home. The van can stay there for the AA or someone in the morning. You need checking over.’

‘I’ll be fine. I can walk,’ he answered, seeing the concern on her face.

‘Don’t be pig-headed. You’ve had an accident and you may be concussed,’ she was insisting, and he hadn’t the energy to argue.

‘I’ve got to get this pickup on the road. I’ve got an appointment in Skipton tomorrow. I must go,’ he could hear himself wittering.

‘Stuff the appointment. It can wait. I can take you there myself, if needs be. It’s about time I faced the Christmas shopping. Get in,’ the woman insisted, and for once he was in no position to argue. He was so tired he could hardly move. By the time they reached Wintergill farmhouse he was asleep. He was woken up brusquely, blinking at the light.

‘Good, at least you’re not unconscious. Sweet tea and bed,’ she ordered, but he was in no state to protest. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Are you always this bossy?’ he muttered in feeble protest.

‘Only when a man is being stubborn. You don’t fool around with concussion. You’re as white as a sheet.’ She marched him into his kitchen and yanked the kettle to boil on the Aga. Nik was ashamed of the mess, the grubby dishcloth and towel. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s only a scratch …’

‘That’s what they said about Tim when he crashed on the motorway … only a bang on the head. He got out of the car and walked around, trying to phone. Then he collapsed … no warning … gone …’

‘Your husband?

‘On Christmas Eve last year.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘Didn’t your mother say anything?’

‘We don’t talk much … I’m sorry.’

‘You weren’t to know.’ He could see she was close to tears.

‘That’s why you’ve come up here then?’

She nodded. ‘To get away from Christmas, sort of. But with Evie …’

‘Not easy, is it?’

‘You didn’t stay for the quiz.’

‘Too many memories in the pub tonight. My old school mate Jim ended it all with a gun just before you came. I didn’t know how bad he was feeling. I could have done something.’ Nik felt the sadness wash over him.

‘You’re not to blame.’

‘That’s what they all say, but you can’t help wondering, if only …’

‘I’m sorry. Sounds like 2001's been a rotten year all round. Drink your tea,’ she ordered, flashing her green eyes. ‘It’s too sweet.’

‘It needs to be, for shock, and then off to bed, but if you feel sick at all … I can run you to Airedale Hospital.’ ‘

‘Good night, nurse, and thanks!’ For once he meant it.

Nora Snowden looked up from her knitting. ‘Had a nice evening?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Kay was too tired for a post mortem but she knew she must break the news of Nik’s accident. ‘Did you win, Mrs Partridge?’

‘No, we came joint second because I fluffed the last question, if you must know.’ She was dying for a cup of camomile and honey. ‘Please call me Kay. Everyone else does.’

‘Did my son behave himself? He can be a bore in the boozer, especially when it’s his birthday,’ said Nora with a wink as she gathered up the bits of her jumper into a basket.

‘Oh, I wish I’d known it was his birthday. I’d have bought him a drink.’

‘He drinks too much as it is,’ said his mother.

‘Actually, there’s been a bit of an accident with his pickup. He’s fine, just a little shaken, but he may need looking at once or twice in case he’s concussed,’ she replied, seizing the moment.

The old woman put down her knitting with a sigh. ‘He’s a law unto himself. His drinking and driving’s got worse lately. Serve him right if he’d been caught. I don’t know what gets into him. I’ve no sympathy. I suppose the pickup’s a write-off?’ Nora snapped her glasses case shut.

‘Oh, no! It was just an accident on the icy road. I don’t think he’d drunk much and he left early. I really think you should keep an eye on him,’ she insisted, surprised at the hardness in his mother’s voice.

‘If you say so,’ came the curt reply.

‘Has Evie behaved herself?’ Kay asked, changing the subject swiftly. ‘It seemed strange going out without her.’

‘She’s that sharp she’ll cut herself.’ The old lady’s eyes softened. ‘Had me rooting in my memory box. No trouble at all and a credit to you. Anytime you want me to sit …’ she was offering.

‘I don’t think I’ll be going out again,’ Kay replied with a laugh, but her laughter was hollow.

As she lay in bed, unable to wind down, all those Christmassy questions were going round in her head. When the evening came to an end she was almost last in the car park, reluctant to go home. She’d enjoyed being part of a team. It was so long since she had been out with a group of women. How easy it is to feel a stranger in a crowd, she thought, when you don’t know the gossip or the people around you, and they know little about you. She felt such a town mouse, a creature from a different planet, and yet she didn’t like feeling an outsider. She was stuck somewhere in the middle, trying to fit in, but conscious she was trying too hard.

Then there was Nik Snowden, another puzzle. Why was his mother so unconcerned for his welfare, and why was she, Kay, even bothering to try to understand the two of them? It was none of her business how they bickered at each other.

Other people’s families were always a mystery to the onlooker. She’d be going back south in a few months and this would all be just an episode in this strange year of her life. She lay on her back and tried out her deep-breathing routine, in … two, three, four … hold … out, two, three, four, and then Tim’s face kept hovering in and out of focus in a mist above her eyelids. Just talking about the accident brought it all back and how furious she’d been when she knew he was late as usual. He was so unreliable. Somehow

their frequent arguments had made his death all the worse and the recovery so painful. Living with his parents had been so difficult. They wanted to make an idol of him, turn him into somebody she didn’t recognise. He’d always been letting her down. He hadn’t meant it but he was so driven, and what good had it done any of them? Now her eyes were filled with that look on Nik Snowden’s face, the hurt look of a little boy lost, so strangely appealing. Why was she thinking of him and not her husband?

Nora made her way up the wooden stairs to check on her son. She could hear his snores rasping through the door and sensed all was well enough. We’re a funny lot, she sighed. Showing affection to each other was difficult and she always put it down to the hard life they’d lived.

Her eyes caught the framed sampler on the corner of the wall, a beautiful piece of stitch craft attributed to one of their ancestors in the time of Joss Snowden.

Snowdens might be simple country folk, she smiled, but when they set their hearts on something or someone, nothing was allowed to stay their path. She ran her finger over the gilt frame and saw the black dust and sighed. Everything has its price, especially in matters of the heart …

She smiled, thinking how she was warming to Evie, and teaching the girl to knit brought back such memories …
Don’t go there, old girl. If you want to sleep just put all that old stuff out of your mind.

How she longed for grandchildren by the hearth, but it was just not going to happen now, more’s the pity. It wouldn’t be hard for her to make a better stab at being a grandma than she had as a mother. Nik would testify to that if asked. She’d made nothing of his birthday; just a card and a bottle of malt.

Nora stared at the sampler more closely and sighed, seeing the name embroidered so neatly: Susannah Snowden. Every family had its secrets and legends, and this one was no exception. There were rumours that the family once owned a famous painting, a Constable or Turner or some such. Joss Snowden made a fine extension to the old house and it was a pity it’d come to this sorry state of neglect, but the family needed a thick wallet to keep the buildings in good repair. Upland farmers had not exactly had the best of times lately.

Nik’s office had once been an elegant morning room in the old days but now wasn’t a pretty sight to behold; crammed full of files and boxes. His computer took up all of the table – printer, manuals, stacks of mail and catalogues; the usual clutter of a busy life. He’d been glued to the damn thing for months, a lifeline and link to the outside world in the months when they had to be barricaded in like victims of the plague.

The fire grate was stuffed with his tobacco pouches and beer cans. He was in danger of letting himself go but the presence of an attractive woman around the place might buck him up a little. She knew he was worried about their finances and if she asked he bit her head off. It was a good job they lived back to back. Why did they not get on?

Come on, it’s late. Don’t go wittering on. Some things are better left unsaid, she sighed as she shut her door. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof’ said the Good Book. Who knew what tomorrow might bring?

The moonlit track across the moor is slippery and coldness chills. There are lights and noises, and a horseless carriage tears through my path like a storm battering a windowpane.

Where am I … why do I wander so far and for so long? The darkness deepens but I must not stop to ponder on such matters when I have a child to find.

There is a maid asleep nearby who will guide me to my Nonie. Children open the doors that others do not see; the maid who gathers greenery by the riverbank. She will light my path.

I cannot bear to see mothers with daughters. It hurts my eyes, pierces my heart with such anguish of soul. I have to step between them again, to save them from the sorrows that have bowed my spirit. They must be parted so the child can help me in my search. It is for the best …

A Stormy Forecast

 

‘The figures are not looking good, Mr Snowden,’ said the young accountant from behind his oak desk. It was their quarterly review of the farm accounts. ‘I know you can’t trade yet, but there’s the compensation, the grants and rate rebates, they’ll help to close up this gap. These recent cash injections are not going to cover your shortfall or your previous overdraft, however.’ The warning was clear. ‘Remember, you need provision for a pension fund.’

Nik sat glumly looking out of the window, wishing he was working on a stretch of walling. True to her word Kay Partridge had driven him down to Skipton, dumping him in the town centre while she got on with her own shopping. His pickup was towed away for an insurance estimate and repair. He felt legless without his own transport. His mother refused to give up her runabout to him. She was busy with some WI business and showed little sympathy for his plight.

If only they knew how confusing it was having the promise of cash and yet having none of it to spend. Everyone was giving him their pennyworth on how it should be used. His debt was like a hangman’s noose drawing ever tighter around his collar. He was only robbing Peter to pay Paul.

This was going to be a morning of gloomy appointments: first the accountant, then the summons to the bank for yet more financial advice. He was a farmer, not a stockbroker.

There was a time when he had sipped pints with his old bank manager, a friend of the family, but he retired early due to stress and was replaced by a series of faceless ever younger men, barely out of school, to whom he was just another difficult account to control; another set of figures that didn’t add up. Nik knew his debt was mounting despite his compensation. He should be laughing all the way to the bank but there was dry rot in his coffers.

The accountant was only doing his best but he couldn’t work miracles. Time was when Nik’s father could look any bank in the face, paying up promptly, cash on the nail. Tom Snowden, like other Dales farmers, was careful with his money, bought only the best and bought to last. He wore hand-made tweed suits, expensive brogues and changed his car every three years. He never took a holiday, paid for Nik’s private schooling, drank little and smoked even less. He would be horrified to see his son in this mess.

‘We got out of last year’s difficulty with the sale of the oak furniture, I recall.’ The man looked up hopefully. ‘Is there any other antique gem hiding in your attic to tide you over?’ He laughed at his little joke. ‘Or are we now thinking about selling the house to realise capital? It’s the sensible option, Mr Snowden, given the facts. You’d have a good pension pot to fall back on. The compensation is more money than you’d have got for your livestock in the present climate.’

At least he had the decency to pause, seeing the look on his client’s face.

‘On today’s buoyant market the house alone would fetch upwards of three to four hundred thousand, subject to change of use and planning permission … and then there’s the renting out of your land, another steady income.’

‘Wintergill is not for sale,’ Nik snapped.

‘I know how you must feel, but with a couple of acres and a paddock there must be a ready market for such a property. Have you had it valued lately?’ The lad was not listening to a word he was saying.

Nik shook his head. How could this fresh-faced townie have any idea how it felt to be facing such an option? ‘I was hoping that the compensation and extra income from the winter let would cover all of my previous deficit,’ he argued, pointing to the figures.

‘It all helps, of course, but the cost of the renovations swallowed half your injected capital, as I recall. Then there’s the everyday living expenses for you both this year. Have you thought of moving into the barn conversion yourself and selling the house as a country house hotel or a tele-cottage business centre?’ came the next hopeful suggestion.

Nik could feel his hackles rising but he swallowed hard. ‘Not really. I’m sure I can come up with something to tide me over.’ He was trying to sound confident. ‘Once I restock.’

‘It’s all going to take time, Mr Snowden,’ the accountant was muttering. ‘Have you any other item to sell as a stopgap?’

Nik felt like choking him on the spot. ‘We’ve sold the family silver but I can always sell the barn when the time comes.’ He was trying to sound casual, swallowing his fury. ‘I have some interesting Victorian memorabilia that may perhaps stem the flood, if needs must.’ If only the rumours of the old family painting were true, he mused.

‘I must advise you to realise as much capital as you can if your compensation is to stay in the bank. Selling the family silver is no answer to this dilemma. There comes a time when the options shrink. You’ll have to rethink your position. This uncertainty must be worrying but you are now in a good position to retire and be better provided for than before. It’s a good time to get out of farming,’ the manager added.

‘And do what?’ Nik argued.

‘I’m sure you have transferable skills,’ the young man smiled. ‘These are unusual circumstances. I’m sure your bank will say the same thing. I do hope so. We do sympathise. You’re not the only farmer in this boat … not that that is of any comfort. Bad times. Who would have thought it would come to this?’

Mr Pinstriped-Suit stood up, bringing the interview to a close, and Nik shook his head in defeat. What did this boffin know about anything? He’d never taken a risk in his life, nor given a lifetime of hard graft to see it all tumbling around his ears. All he was worried about was making sure his fees were covered.

As he strode out into the High Street, lined on either side with market stalls, Nik was caught up in the bustling Christmas crowds; the Christmas trees stacked up on the pavements, the holly wreaths, the rolls of wrapping paper and tinsel, and the Sally Army brass band was playing carols across the road.

He felt like telling them to shut up. There was nothing ‘God Rest You Merry’ about this gentleman! There was just time to grab a pint and sandwich before he set off for the interrogation at the bank. There was some exhibition at the Auction Mart to look at successful diversification schemes, and a team of Defra experts on hand to talk about restocking and extra funding for hill farmers. He could do with some creative suggestions. His mind was a blank with worry.

Later, he sat exhausted, depressed and out of sorts by the fire in the Red Lion, waiting for his lift back to Wintergill. He was watching tired shoppers with their parcels and packages chattering like starlings on a rooftop. There were pensioners sipping bowls of soup, enjoying a day out.

Nothing he had heard or seen that afternoon had cheered his weariness. He was awash with leaflets and good advice, warnings and cash projections. He felt so flattened by failure, by the sadness of Jim’s death, his mother’s indifference and now there was the Christmas jollies to endure.

How he loathed the idea of Christmas: the meal eaten in silence, the pints or three in the half-empty pub, all the meaningless rituals of the season. What was there to celebrate but empty fields full of weeds and uncertainty? Even his night out had been a disaster.

Quiz night was always a bit of fun. It usually took his mind off things, like music and walling did. His vehicle needed repair and he could still see those icy staring eyes in front of the windscreen. What was all that about? Everything was going pear-shaped.

Then there was the two of them in the barn. His mother had taken to their tenants, especially the kiddie, but then she was always one for girls. It was strange having a kid about the place. He knew now about her father’s car crash and understood why the mother had done a bunk. He didn’t blame her at all if she wanted to give the festivities a miss. It was not every mother who took time out in the country to spend with her kid. He could have done with some of that when he was younger himself.

He was never quite sure how to be around children, whether to stay aloof or act daft. He had often wondered if he and Mandy had had a kiddie whether they would have made more effort to stay together. He wondered what she was doing these days. They’d gone their separate ways. He’d heard down the grapevine she’d had a baby. He sipped his pint and sighed. She’d be having a family Christmas, no doubt.

We were so ignorant, he thought. We thought that sexual attraction was enough to withstand the rigours of life on top of the Pennines. Where there was a will there must be a way. How wrong can you get? There had to be more to marriage than four legs in a bed. He’d never given her any proper time, lumped her with his parents, forgetting she was not used to his way of life. No wonder it ended like it did.

It didn’t take long for Mandy’s looks to fade, her eyes to lose their lustre, her interest in both him and the farm to wane until there was nothing left between them both but arguments over wedding presents. He’d been gutted but at least he’d never given his wife the satisfaction of seeing his wounds. That was something he had learned early at his mother’s apron strings.

Whatever Mother felt about losing Shirley and then Tom, it was never discussed or expressed. He used to think that they had their own special Iron Curtain; a curtain that was drawn across the past as if the time before he was born never existed. There were no photographs, no references made to Shirley’s childhood. Things were After Shirley or Before Nik.

Even her death was shielded from him. They thought he didn’t know how she died. It took only a week at the village school for some tyke to knock him over in the playground and point to the churchyard. ‘Shut up or you’ll end up over there with yer sister!’

There was a baby portrait of him sitting on a mat with ringlets and one other photograph of a girl in a party dress, on his mother’s dressing table. He knew which one got kissed every night and it wasn’t him.

‘Who’s that?’ he used to ask.

‘An angel too good for this life,’ came the reply like a door slamming in his face. Shirley was held before him as always good, well behaved, who never scuffed her knees or tore her trousers. He was a poor second in this race. How could you win against a shadow?

Sometimes he would linger after school and go to the grave, but even the words on the headstone he didn’t understand for a long time. He watched the pink-leaved maple growing taller and rounder. In his mind Shirley grew in that tree. She was not human at all.

Nik jolted himself out of his daydreaming, half his pint untouched; this was not like him at all. What’s past is past, he sighed, and looked down at his watch. Kay was late. Typical woman. No sense of timing. There must be a way through this gloomy predicament without topping himself, like Jim, or selling out to Stickley, but he was damned if he knew what.

He put some money in the collecting box as the Sally Army officer came round the bar. Don’t be a mean bugger, he thought, you’ve got some brass in the bank. Some have nowt. It was not their fault he was in this mess.

There was a time when the sound of a brass band outside took him back to carolling round the village by torchlight with the school, frosty nights and throwing mince pies like snowballs, with the usual clip round the ear from Mr Hampson, the headmaster.

Bah, humbug! He shook his head grimly. I’m turning into Scrooge. I’ll give Christmas a miss this year, forget the whole business. Christmas was a waste of good brass, and they never did anything much. Mother was always odd around the season, and he just sat around the Spread Eagle out of her way. He might as well go and shoot some rabbits.

The accountant had got him thinking, though. Perhaps he should use the time to take down some of those boxes in the attic and sift through what was left of the memorabilia to see what might be sellable. Joss and Jacob were some of his most successful ancestors. There was talk of pictures they owned but no one had ever seen them. Perhaps there was something hidden up there that might cause a sensation at the
Antiques Roadshow.
Don’t be an idiot. You’re clutching at family myths and legends to rescue you, he mused, draining the dregs of his glass. It was all a load of nonsense. How could Turner or Constable have ever darkened their door?