Chapter Six

Optimism and doubt waged a war inside me over the next two days, and I spent them in a kind of limbo. Finally, the contrary impulses negated each other, leaving me incapable of understanding the way I was feeling. I’d not experienced such moments of excitement at the notion of something that could happen in the future since the early days of my relationship with Francesca, but neither had I been dragged down by such confusion since the weeks after our break up. I realised just how severely my emotions had been damaged by all that had happened in the past year. I was recovering and I was moving forward, but I still had a long way to go. Complicating that process now was a bad idea.

For those two days I did nothing constructive at all. On the first I slept late, and once I was awake—not bothering with breakfast or washing—I wandered aimlessly around the house, seeing nothing but the damage and decay, wondering how I was ever supposed to know where to start. Then I would remember I had Anna to guide me and feel flushed with hope.

By the time I woke up on the second day, close to lunchtime, I couldn’t stand the thought of more time in the dusty, shadowy rooms, tormenting myself with the scale of the task I had taken on. I peered through the window and saw the blanket of snow had deepened overnight. Everything was smooth and serene. I needed to be part of it, to clear my head, lose myself in the pristine whiteness. Wrapping up in several layers of fleece, I pulled on my most waterproof boots, and headed out into the dazzling scene.

The cold air stung my skin sharply. Even Phoebe looked cold. There was a most undignified icicle on the end of her nose. I did her the favour of breaking it off with my gloved fingers.

“Don’t thank me,” I said to her. “I know you’d do the same for me.” She gazed steadfastly over my shoulder. Such dedication to her lost love. Had she ever been tempted to move on? Seen a sudden flash of potential in some other chiselled figure, someone to save her from her solitary longing? Maybe that was why she appeared so wistful. If I kept looking behind me, studying the mistakes and regrets instead of moving forward, would I end up like my statue friend, cold, alone, and frozen? I didn’t want my story to go that way, but could I dare to hope for different?

I looked away from her serene face before the tears came. Crying while gazing at a statue was ridiculous. I looked out over the vista of the park instead. To my left was the snow-covered driveway and the trees which lined it. To my right the snow-smoothed meadows were rolling, gradually sloping downhill towards the river. I’d only taken short walks in the park so far. Now I decided I wanted to go as far as the river and see the bridge I owned. Possessing a bridge was still a bizarre concept to comprehend.

The undisturbed snow was ankle deep and powdery. Traipsing through it, leaving footprints where no one else had walked, was incredibly satisfying. I’d not seen this much snow in England since my childhood.  Throwing myself to the ground and waving my arms and legs to make a snow angel was tempting, but sensing the house with its sophisticated history behind me, I suddenly didn’t want to do anything Winter would disapprove of. Not in sight of the house, anyway.

The landscape was almost entirely monochrome, the sky sunless, dull light flattening my surroundings. The silence suggested the snow had suffocated every living thing. Thick, like a sinister blanket, the snow obscured so much detail. Threatening and peaceful at the same time. The temptation to try to lose myself in that silence, to push away the urge to move on, and to stagnate pulled at my heart. I’d still not finished mourning my mother. I should be concerned by my distant relationship with my sister. I had no job and knew I could not return to the career I’d spent most of my life building. Ideas for my future financial security had come and gone over the past few months, but nothing had seemed to fit. Now I had a rundown manor house to take care of and a potential business to provide me with part of a solution, but one which would take a lot of work. On top of it all I was falling head over heels for a woman I had no business being attracted to at this point in my life. My heart was still sore from my break up with Francesca. I still missed her. I really shouldn’t fling myself into any further entanglements yet. So many considerations I wanted to hide myself away from. I looked around me and drew in a deep breath of the cold air. The calm, white nothingness of the snow allowed me a blissful emptiness, as I let it inside me and felt it erase those worries for the moment.

As I continued to walk, and the exercise began to make me feel better. I laughed at myself as I pondered the safety of hiding away in Winter and avoiding potential relationships. A less complicated life beckoned. I could be a traditional English eccentric, haunting the rooms of my decaying home. Perhaps I’d adopt stray cats and have dozens of them in every room. Maybe I’d become the stuff of local legend. I just had to resist the temptation of Anna.

I drew in another deep breath and tried to rid my mind of the image of Anna. She stayed with me with remarkable persistence for a daydream. Frustrated, I bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, forming it into a ball and aiming it at the trunk of the nearest tree. I missed. The skeletal branches of the tree, outlined black against the pale grey sky, mocked me. Again, I half imagined the trees of Winter were likely to come to life. This one looked ready to tear my eyes out. I turned away from it with a shiver.

My route took me over the slight brow of the hill and then down a long shallow slope to the bank of the river. Compelled by some reckless urge, as soon as I began downhill, I broke into a galloping run, my feet dragging as they barely cleared the snow, which found its way into my boots and melted into my socks. I cut a path of destruction through the smooth, perfect surface, sending snow flying in all directions, and almost losing my footing several times. I didn’t think, allowing the exhilaration to overtake me. When I arrived at the bottom of the slope, drawing in rapid lungfuls of the frosty air and my face stinging from the cold, I looked up at the mess I had made of the snow with some satisfaction. At least it looked as if someone had been here now. I’d made my mark, made myself solid, not just a spectre haunting the house and not so easily obliterated. Another unexpected wave of optimism swept through me, and I resumed my hunt for the bridge enthusiastically.

I walked for about a quarter of a mile alongside the small river. The water was jet black against the white of the snow, glassy but rippling under the surface. A willow tree wept into the river, and where its branches skimmed the water it was covered in crystals of ice. The sheer beauty of it was breathtaking. To own such magnificence was extraordinary, to be able to explore it at will liberating.

The river meandered to the left. I followed the curve and there, before me, the bridge presented itself. Three pointed arches built in grey stone spanned the water gracefully. Half the bridge was coated in windblown snow. From where I stood, each end of the structure was framed by snow-encrusted foliage, including dark green ivy. It was spectacular, a picture an artist might have painted in oils. Amazed, my spirits soared as I took on board that such beauty belonged to me. Remembering Anna’s suggestion, that Winter would be a perfect location for an artists’ retreat, I imagined sharing this beauty with people with a real appreciation of its charms. Such a perfect solution for both my future and Winter’s. The future shone brightly again. I would bring Anna here, hopefully before all the snow had melted. I was sure she would appreciate the graceful architecture of the bridge. Gothic arches, if I wasn’t mistaken.

I set off in the direction of the bridge, and walked to the centre of it, looking down on the swiftly flowing river below. I smiled to myself and thought how bizarre it was to have been craving oblivion and nothingness just a few minutes ago. I wanted movement, fine detail, all the beauty of life. I was still here, still breathing. If I’d learned only one lesson from the last year, watching my mother fade slowly from the world had taught me how precious every moment is. I had to hold onto that when life seemed challenging and take time to appreciate my surroundings. The water trickled beneath the bridge, and the gentle sound soothed me. A lump of snow dropped from the branch of an overhanging tree and sunk into the water with a satisfying splosh. The landscape was waking, coming alive around me, with sounds and motion, throwing off the pall of silence.

One sound in particular reached my ears. A thudding, rustling sound, somewhere from the other side of the bridge, a regular sound, increasing in speed. I heard a sharp whistle and a cry of, “Pepper, come back here, boy!” in a distant female voice.

In the next instant a black and white blur raced to my side and woofed happily, before nosing my thigh. I stared at the tall Dalmatian, astonished and bemused as to where he had come from. He appeared amiable, so I stroked his head, and he pressed against me appreciatively. His head was nearly level with my hip.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I heard from the direction the dog had appeared from, “he’s just so friendly.” A broad figure wrapped up in a winter anorak and headscarf came into view, carrying a dog leash. Recognition dawned on me.

“Maggie?” I called as she approached, trudging heavily through the snow onto the bridge.

“Yes, pet, it’s me,” she replied, close enough to speak normally now. “Not much chance of it being anyone else out here on a day like this.” The dog left my side to stand close to his owner, and she rubbed his flank affectionately.

“No. How are you?”

“Well as can be in this weather. Pepper insists on a walk even on days like this.” She looked down at the dog, who gazed back with unlimited adoration. “Don’t you boy?”

“Pepper?”

“What else can you call a Dalmatian?” she asked, with a cheerful smile. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else out and about today, pet. Thought you’d be keeping warm inside.”

“The warmest place is my hallway, where I have an electric heater, but I can’t sit in the hallway all the time. I’ve not made it down to the bridge before.”

“Oh, it’s lovely down by the river. Better in spring though. You don’t mind me walking Pepper here do you, hun? It’s your land now.”

“Gosh, no, don’t be silly, of course I don’t,” I replied, surprised that she had even asked. “I don’t even really think of it as my land.”

“I’ve been coming down here for years. Wait until you see the bluebells next year.”

“Sounds perfect.” I dwelt for a moment on the energising thought of spring and new life coming to Winter. “Though it’s a picture today.”

“If you like the cold.” Maggie shivered obviously. “I prefer the summer myself. So, how are you doing in the house?”

“There’s not been much work done yet. But I’ve been talking with the architect and I think we can get started soon.” Speaking of Anna in her professional capacity was a little surreal. She was so much more than merely the architect to me now.

“You’ll have to wait for the snow to melt, I imagine.”

“Yes, I expect so.”

“Thought I might have seen you at the farm before now.” I felt instantly remiss for not visiting her sooner.

“I have been meaning to visit.” It was nearly true. “Things have just been a bit strange though, you know, in a new part of the country in a rundown house.”

“Don’t worry about it, pet, you know where I am if you need me.” Maggie was unperturbed. “Oh, get away, you daft thing!” Her last sentence was addressed to Pepper, who attempted to rear up and apparently embrace her with his front legs. Not at all offended, he returned to all fours and ran around in an excited semicircle, barking happily. I smiled at his enthusiasm.

“Maybe I should get a dog,” I said, almost serious in my pondering. An infinitely more sensible idea than roomfuls of cats.

“They’re good company, for sure. A royal pain in the backside sometimes, though.” We watched Pepper play in the snow contentedly.

“It’s good to have company,” I said, feeling the surprising truth of it. Maybe I really would get a dog. I wondered if Anna liked dogs. I pictured walking down to the bridge with her, a little brown dog, maybe a spaniel, frolicking around us. Down by the river, where the green river bank was flooded with bluebells, an artist was painting the bridge in watercolours. I smiled at Anna and she leaned over and kissed me.

Maggie jolted me out of my daydream, and suddenly I was cold again. “Talking of company, what are you doing for Christmas, pet?”

“Christmas?”

“Yes. You know it’s next week.”

“Is it that soon?” I’d seen the decorations, cards, and gifts in the shops in Durham, I knew Christmas was coming up. Only I’d been trying to ignore its approach and had so far been quite successful. Now Maggie wanted to know my plans.

“Comes up quick, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m…I’ve got some friends coming to visit me.”

“Oh, that’s nice. If you’d been on your own I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to the farm. It won’t be a big occasion, just me and my son, his wife, and their baby girl, and my daughter, who’s coming up from London with her new chap.”

“Sounds lovely. If I didn’t have other plans, I’d love to have come,” I said. I could envision Maggie’s Christmas perfectly. I saw the big farmhouse kitchen, the table loaded with food, the happy family gathering, a roaring fire…I knew I was idealising, creating a picture from a storybook. Chances were Maggie’s son and daughter argued all of the time and her daughter’s boyfriend was new because she’d never found someone who she truly loved. No one’s life was perfect. But suddenly I faced the prospect of my own Christmas. Alone in Winter Manor. I planned to just let it pass me by. The only celebration I intended to allow myself was buying a small Christmas cake, since it was the one festive treat I was partial to. There were no friends and no family who would want to spend the day with me. I felt the optimism slipping. So much had changed since last Christmas when I’d spent the day alone with Francesca, having refused my mother’s invitation to dinner. Now my mother was dead, and I had no real idea where Francesca was. Yet Christmas approached inexorably again, as though everything was perfectly all right and it would be welcome.

“Don’t worry about it, hun,” Maggie said, patting my arm. Perhaps she thought the alteration in my countenance was a result of wishing I was free to visit her at Christmas.

“I will pop over and see you one day soon though, I promise,” I said, forcing a smile.

“You’ll be very welcome, pet. I’ve got mince pies and cream.”

“Lovely.”

“And don’t forget to bring your washing.”

“If you insist, that would be a big help.” My heart was aching now, and even Maggie’s kindness could not quite soothe it. I expected these moments to come, from time to time, but it didn’t make them easier when they did.

I looked back down at the water sliding beneath the bridge. As if she was reading my change of mood, Maggie said, “It’s awful to think of, but do you know the story is that a girl killed herself here once?”

I looked up at her, surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation. “No. Is that true?” Hearing such a rumour left me unexpectedly unsettled.

“Well, according to the story I heard, her family tried to cover it up as an accident. She was a strange girl, apparently.” Maggie’s brow furrowed into deep lines as she tried to recall the details.

“When was this?”

“Oh, I can’t say for sure, pet. Sometime in the eighteen sixties or seventies, I think. She was one of the Richmond family, who owned Winter then. If I remember it right, her brother inherited in the end, but spent most of his time in London, because the old place reminded him too much of his sister.”

“A strange girl?”

“Yes, as I heard it, pet. Who knows what they meant by that in those days, though?”

“That’s such a sad story.” I gazed at the water and tried to imagine what urge would be so terrible that a girl would drown herself here. Tears came to my eyes. The most tragic aspect of the whole tale was that Maggie couldn’t even remember her name, let alone her story. A human life vanished just like that. I felt the horror of it as a deep-rooted pain. Maggie and I were both silent, mutually pondering the story she had related. I imagined an Ophelia-like image of a beautiful, pale-skinned, dark-haired woman, floating in the river, her skirts billowing, her hair drifting in the current. Surely nothing could be so bad. For all that my life had lost its direction, I couldn’t picture needing to obliterate myself so totally and finally.

Pepper bounded up to his mistress and barked, bringing us both out of our reflective states of mind. Large flakes of snow began to drift down from the sky, tickling lightly over my skin. “Oh, will you look at that,” Maggie exclaimed, looking skyward, “as if we haven’t had enough already!” Pepper whined. “Yes, I know, boy, come on, let’s get us back home shall we?” She smiled at me. “Better go, while we still can,” she said. “See you soon, pet.”

“Yes, you will. Nice to see you today.” I smiled because she was so kind. Maggie turned and walked away from me, Pepper lolloping past her, then pulling up sharply to wait for her to catch up. I found myself feeling envious of even that companionship and loyalty. I wouldn’t get a dog. What if I didn’t want to get up and walk him every morning? I’d be a terrible owner, I was far too selfish and inward looking. Maybe changing that should be my New Year’s resolution.

Maggie and Pepper disappeared from view. I stayed where I was and looked at the sky, the greyish yellow of a fading bruise, and full of whirling, turbulent snowflakes. I stared at them and felt dizzy, overwhelmed. Against the sky they were another shade of grey, dark, like smuts of soot. They were transformed as they fell, and I saw them against the darker trees, becoming pure white and delicately fluffy, twirling all around me, brushing over and teasing my forehead and cheeks, settling on my shoulders which turned rapidly white. I stood perfectly still, my face to the sky, letting the snow hypnotise me, feeling it cling to my eyelashes. It fell so silently, its accumulation was so insidious. I felt as though—if I closed my eyes, allowed it the chance—it would begin to cover me, smother me, erase me entirely. I forced my eyes wide open and tore my gaze from the sky. I wouldn’t be obliterated so easily.

The flakes melted against my skin and made my cheeks wet. More snow fell, caressing so lightly it tickled. Snow and Christmas were a perfect combination, of course. Christmas. I’d never realised that it meant so much to me before now, but the prospect of being alone was one that weighed heavily on me. I would miss the option of visiting my mother on Christmas Day, though for years I’d refused it. I would miss Francesca terribly too. That our relationship had ended was undoubtedly, unavoidably, for the best. My being alone for now was undeniably the only sensible course. To allow my bruised heart to recover and be ready to love again, avoiding any entanglements for a while, was the only way forward. Loneliness also meant time to think and to clear my head, to reconnect with myself, wherever that self was buried under layers of mourning and confusion. But being alone at Christmas was not a prospect I wanted to dwell on.

 I stared through the thick flakes towards the hill up to the house, feeling quite desolate. I could still see the path I’d made when I ran down the hill. The falling snow was beginning to obscure the tracks I’d made. I felt a flash of sudden anger that it could wipe out all traces of me so easily, like the years had wiped out the memory of the dead girl in the river, and summoned the strength to climb back up the hill and make my mark once again.

*

By the time I reached the top of the hill, I was panting, and my chest was beginning to hurt, but I did not slow down. I stormed all the way back to the front steps of the house. Phoebe’s expression was impassive as I swept past her without even acknowledging her. The hinges of the front door creaked their usual welcome as I entered the hallway. I closed the door heavily behind me, glad to shut out the snow.

The familiarity of my hallway residence was more comforting than I expected. Winter was finally beginning to feel like home. Which was just as well, since I felt sure Winter, with its rotting rooms and echoes of history, was the only part of my immediate future I could be certain of. The prospect of anything else frightened me, left me exhausted. I threw my outer clothes to the floor, perched on the edge of my camping bed, and tried to wrestle my emotions back under control. I thought again of the sad story Maggie had related to me, and I knew Winter had seen its share of tragedy and misery. Did I want to be part of that, another sad, wistful chapter? Or did I have the courage to hope for, even demand, a brighter future?

An unexpected sound reached me from the direction of the Saloon, quite different from the usual creaks and groans of the house. I got to my feet and went to investigate. As I entered the large, airy room, still grand despite its disrepair, there was no obvious source of the unusual sound. I looked around me curiously, listening hard.

Eventually, my gaze settled on the large Venetian window. I could see the snow was still falling heavily outside. Then I knew what had caused the strange sound. Just outside the window was an old oak tree. One of its aged branches had bowed and snapped under the weight of the snow and now hung at an odd angle, resting partly on the snowy ground. It had been the straining and breaking of the old wood I’d heard. I pitied the graceful tree, with its thick trunk and apparent strength, its symmetry so easily undone by an accumulation of feather-light snow.

I also experienced a curious sense of empathy with the oak, its strength deserting it under the build-up of cold weight. The sight of that fallen limb, the sharp, broken end, finally recalled me to myself. It had been a terrible year, but I couldn’t give in and break under the strain. The girl in the river, and countless others who’d been in Winter’s grand rooms, had surely suffered heartaches greater than my own. I wasn’t the only one to linger in the high-ceilinged Saloon and wish that life had turned out differently. I wasn’t that important. The thought made me ashamed of my depression and determined to be more optimistic, for the sake of Winter, if nothing else. Surely all problems could be overcome?

My thoughts turned back to Anna. She wasn’t a problem to be overcome, either professionally or personally. I was delighted to have her talented input into the renovation, and pleased my feelings for her proved my heart hadn’t died when my relationship with Francesca had, even though I still needed to heal before I could contemplate loving anyone again. Anna seemed to feel the same, false wedding ring and all. Good. It was fun to flirt—in a taciturn sort of a way—and now I knew she was unattached, I could do so without guilt. I had to remember not to hope for anything else and that my emotional balance was far more secure that way.