Winter’s Children (4 page)

The courtyard was in complete darkness, only the working dogs barking at the arrival of strangers. He took them down the track to Side House Barn and brought out the keys from his pocket. It was usually Mother’s job showing lets around the house, pointing out switches and timers and points. He just about knew about the fuse box and the fuel store. This was women’s work.

‘The storage heaters are on. The place is warm and aired. Mrs Snowden will see to the rest in the morning. She’s left a welcome basket on the table so help yourself,’ he answered, standing in the darkness, not thinking of anything else to say. Be damned if he was going to make a fuss.

‘Thank you,’ nodded the redhead in a bobble hat. ‘Say thank you, Geneva.’

The child surveyed her surroundings suspiciously. ‘Is this it?’ Evie was half asleep. ‘It’s dark. I don’t like–’

‘That’ll do, Evie. She’s so tired. I thought we’d be staying in Wintergill House itself,’ ventured the woman.

He could feel their disappointment and shrugged his shoulders, towering over the two strangers. ‘Oh, not another one … You can thank Bruce Stickley’s website for any misinformation given to you. He puts our house on the website and describes the cottage but omits to say they’re separate. You can have him for trade descriptions but this is what’s on offer. It’s all brand new. I’ll leave you both to it then, Mrs Partridge.’

He backed off towards the courtyard and his own back door with relief. He’d done his good deed for the day and now it was time for a whisky and some Bach.

Kay was in no mood for arguments when Evie started whingeing, sniffing the stale farmyard aromas of disinfectant, old manure and mud in the sharp air.

‘I don’t like this place, it smells.’

‘We’re here now. Let’s unpack what we need for tonight and have some cocoa. It’s late and we’re both tired. We’ll take stock in the morning.’ Kay was trying to keep the disappointment out of her own voice when she looked at the barn conversion. It smelled of pine and fresh paint, of emptiness and newly lined curtains, hardwood windows and a Radoxy smell of artificial cleansers.

Their accommodation was pristine, neat, perfectly appointed but soulless: neutral with sea grass carpeting, ubiquitous pine furnishings, very nineteen eighties décor. The kitchen was spotless, well fitted with basic utilitarian units. What had she been expecting? A clutter of dark oak, stone-flagged floors, ancient beams and a large inglenook fireplace. This was not how her granny had lived in their Bankwell cottage.

This house could be lifted up and transported to any suburb. Even the pictures on the walls were tasteful prints, discreet old maps and villagey scenes. Suddenly Kay felt tears welling up. They were exiles in a foreign land at the mercy of strangers. The man could not have been more gruff and begrudging. Perhaps his wife would be more helpful. Her heart was sinking with weariness.
What have I done, uprooting us into this soulless place?

She poured the cocoa for her exhausted child, made up her bed with the plastic mattress cover. Since all the upheaval Evie was unreliable at night. Kay rooted in the box for her daughter’s toadstool lamps and Beanie Babies. They would need no rocking tonight.

Then she poured a generous dollop of rum into her cup of cocoa from the booze box. There was no going back now. They were stuck up a track in a house on top of a hill. She was following that strange dream for better or worse, but why did things always seem worse in the dark?

Next morning Kay woke with a start, staring up at a beamed ceiling. The silence was unnerving: no town noises; brakes screeching, doors slamming, radio blaring or police sirens in the distance. Both of them had slept in late, and she pushed back the curtain to see the garden enveloped in a misty rain swirling like smoke. She could make out the white outline of Wintergill House itself, but no more.

She lay back again, making lists in her head. If they were going to make this their home then it needed customising a little: a throw over the tweed sofa, some gaudy coloured cushions, posters on the walls to cover the anaemic paintwork. They would find the nearest market town and find a few items to cheer up the place.

The two of them ate breakfast slowly at the breakfast bar, slices of toast and boiled eggs from the welcome basket. Evie retired to the sofa to watch children’s TV, surrounded by her latest Beanies, sucking her thumb while Kay inspected the barn conversion with closer interest. Why was the conversion so suburban in design? Where were the galleried upstairs and exposed rafters she’d seen in
Country Living
magazine? Even the great barn doors were walled in with stone, disguised rather than enhanced, ruining the spirit of the place, well crafted though it all was.

It was only when Kay put her head out of the door that she realised that the wind was whipping up the rain across the garden like smoke from a bonfire. She had forgotten how damp it was in Yorkshire. They were going to need some serious weather gear, Wellingtons and waterproofs. Their anoraks would hardly keep this onslaught from soaking them to the skin.

This was not exactly the picture of rural bliss Kay had in mind for an autumn arrival; no newspaper through the letterbox or pint on the doorstep, no bus passing on the way to market. How would she survive without her
Guardian?
There was so much she was going to have to find out from Mrs Snowden and she must thank her for the welcome pack. In the rush to offload her larder she had brought only frozen packets wrapped in newspaper. What if they were cut off by snow? Kay started to make a survival list of provisions for their store cupboard just in case they were stranded. She felt like a pioneer in the Arctic.

Once all their clothes were unpacked, they looked too flashy for country living. Evie’s books and toys would have to go in the spare room somehow. Kay was just slamming the door shut when a hooded apparition in a battered mackintosh, looking for all the world like the famous Hannah Hauxwell in a blizzard, came battling across the path carrying a tray covered with a cloth.

‘Glad to have caught you, Mrs Partridge. Sorry I wasn’t in last night but I hope you’re settling in. Not much of a weekend, I’m afraid, the forecast is dire … very unseasonal for the time of year,’ said a rosy-cheeked woman peering out from under the hood. ‘I’ve brought you some of my baking just in case you’re short. It’s just some parkin.’

‘Come in, come in, Mrs Snowden,’ ushered Kay with her hands full of videos. ‘We were going to come and thank you for the milk and eggs and bread.’

‘You’re welcome, lass. It takes a brave soul to land themselves up here for the back end of the year. You’re our first visitor this season. As you can imagine we’ve not exactly been the most popular of venues this summer,’ replied the older woman. Her voice was soft and low, an educated voice with only a hint of a Yorkshire accent.

‘Do thank your husband for coming out to rescue us last night,’ answered Kay, and watched the woman’s face burst into a smile out of which came a deep throaty laugh.

‘Just wait until I tell Nikolas. I know it’s been a rough year but my son hasn’t aged that much, I hope. It was my son who let you in,’ she replied.

‘I’m so sorry!’ Kay muttered. ‘It was dark, I was tired, I wasn’t really looking at him properly. Oh dear!’ The old lady laughed. At the sound of chatter Evie came to the kitchen still in her pyjamas, her fair hair straggling over her face. ‘This is my daughter, Geneva. Say thank you to Mrs Snowden, who gave us our breakfast and a tray of parkin for our tea.’

‘What’s parkin?’ Evie looked at the flat brown squares with suspicion.

The smile on Mrs Snowden’s face faded as she beheld the child.

‘I thought it was just your husband and yourself, Mrs Partridge, the two of you?’ she stammered, eyeing the girl with surprise.

‘We’ve got our wires crossed, I’m afraid. No, there’s just Evie and me, just the two of us now, come to have some peace and quiet for a while,’ Kay replied, not wanting to go into details.

‘So she’ll be off to Wintergill School then? The bus collects them at the end of the lane.’

‘We’ve not decided yet … I might teach her at home for a while until we go back to the Midlands. It’s a bit of an experiment, isn’t it, Evie?’ Kay turned to her daughter but she just shrugged her shoulders.

‘It’s a good village school, one of the best. Pat Bannerman runs a tight ship. Both mine went there when they were little …’ Then the woman stopped abruptly. ‘I’m not sure this is the right place for a kiddie.’

‘I’m sure it will be. She’s no trouble and we need a break from routine so I’m not sure I want to settle her into another school.’ Kay looked up as Evie disappeared back to the television. ‘We do need to gear ourselves up for this weather though. Where’s the best place to go?’

‘How old is she?’ asked the woman in a far away voice.

‘Nearly eight. She’s tall for her age but quite young in other ways.’ Kay was curious as to why Mrs Snowden wanted to know about Evie.

‘She’ll happen find it lonely up on these tops. There aren’t many children left on the farms. They’re all bussed to school. Do watch out for her – farms are not playgrounds. I don’t usually encourage families here. I thought you were a couple or I’d have said. We couldn’t take the responsibility if anything … not that there’s much farm work happening yet,’ said the woman whose eyes were darting to the little girl as she was talking.

‘Don’t you worry, Evie is a sensible child, used to dodging traffic. I’ll make sure she knows her country code. And thank you for the cakes. Baking is not something I’ve done for ages,’ she confided. Eunice had kept the pantry full of cakes and pies but her own appetite had still not returned.

‘It’s a way of life up here, or was, but now the young ‘uns seem to like shop-bought stuff. You never know what’s in it, do you? I’d better leave you to settle in. Is everything to your satisfaction? Anything else you’d like to know?’ Mrs Snowden made for the door.

‘I’d like to know more about your old house. I thought we’d be staying in part of it. I can see it’s got a history,’ Kay replied. There was no use in hiding her interest.

‘It’s got so many bits, added on and knocked off, you’ll have to ask my son about all that. It’s his interest. It’s been in my husband’s family since Queen Elizabeth’s day. Ask Nik to give you the tour, if you don’t mind the mess. We live back to back, so to speak. It suits us that way.’ Mrs Snowden smiled and, despite her forthright manner and stern visage, Kay liked the look of the woman. She must have been a beauty in her day with such high cheekbones and fine piercing blue eyes.

‘And your husband? Does he still farm?’ Kay asked.

‘Lord, no! Not unless he’s ploughing St Peter’s fields. He passed on years ago, before all this bother with the farming industry. He was a Maggie’s man and thought the good times would last for ever.’

‘I’m sorry. I can see the fields are empty. It must have been a terrible year up here,’ Kay nodded with sympathy hoping she hadn’t upset the widow.

‘Aye, lass, one I never thought I’d see in my lifetime. Tom had a good innings. I was younger than him and times were easier then. You could educate your children off the moor. He worked hard for his family – you can’t ask for more. I’m glad he wasn’t here to see his stock culled. Are you on your own by choice?’ Mrs Snowden paused, waiting for an answer.

‘My husband died suddenly last Christmas in a car accident. It’s not been easy.’ She always found it hard to spit out those words but it was better to be open. She wanted no misunderstandings.

The older woman looked her straight in the eye and something unspoken passed between them. ‘I’m sorry … You won’t be wanting much of a Christmas then, I reckon.’

‘That’s about the sum of it,’ she sighed. ‘But Evie is too young to understand this.’

‘I hope you don’t mind plain speaking,’ Mrs Snowden whispered. ‘Put her in the school. She’ll get a good Christmas there. Then you can step back and let it all wash over you. It might help. I hope you have a good stay though. A change is as good as a rest, but you never get over what you’ve been through.’ The farmer’s wife paused. ‘Get yourself down to Skipton market on the High Street. You’ll find your winter togs there at half the price. The weather here is unpredictable. Still, you know what they say about Yorkshire climate: it’s nine months winter and three months bad weather,’ Mrs Snowden laughed.

‘My granny Norton used to say that. She lived in Bankwell. It used to rain for England in my school holidays,’ Kay offered.

‘A Norton, indeed! Then we’re practically relatives, if that’s the case. There’s been plenty of them in this family way back … Should I know her?’

‘She was Betty Norton, married to Sam. My mother was Susan … she went to the High School at Settle.’

‘I’d be long gone by then … Fancy, it’s a small world. Was she in the WI?’

‘I expect so. She died many years ago though. Mum sold the cottage.’

‘Something small in Bankwell would suit me fine but that’s another story … I must shift myself. Just wait until I tell Nik you thought I was his wife!’ Mrs Snowden edged out of the room but not without pointing to Evie. ‘Mind that child and get her into school.’ She waddled back to the big house still etched in the mist shaking her head.

‘So what shall we do today, muppet?’ Kay perched on the edge of the sofa.

‘Get a video and a takeaway pizza,’ came the reply.

‘Dream on. This is the country so let’s go out for a walk and get an airing. I want to see the old house. There’s so much to explore. Let’s blow the cobwebs away and collect autumn bits for our windowledge. Come on, boots and anorak, it’ll do us good,’ Kay said briskly, trying to sound more positive than she felt. There was no harm in telling the old lady the bare bones of her circumstances but she hoped they would not be pestered. Perhaps the village school was not a bad idea.

Mistress Hepzibah watches over the tray bakes cooling on the kitchen table. The dog in the corner has his eye on the pepper cakes but dare not move for fear of her. It is the season for soul cakes but these are but a poor effort. Holy day cakes begin the little Lent at Martinmas, a time of prayer and fasting. Hepzibah sniffs for the scent of honey and milk, tokens of heaven and earth, for pepper, allspice and almonds. Where were her bakestone and griddle pan gone? The young know nothing of sacred culinary arts. How can the poor be fed and the sufferings of the dead be alleviated by such tokens?