The Dark Freeze

by Peter Gregory

  On reaching her feeding spot, Liz emitted a low whistle followed by, ‘I’m here. I’m here.’ She scoured the forest floor for signs of life. Nothing. And the trees. Nothing. She whistled and called again. Nothing. Perhaps the thunder and lightning had scared them. Made them too afraid to come down. She tried for a third time. Still no luck. Just as she was about to leave, she heard a faint rustling on the forest floor. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Was it a squirrel or… It was! It came running to her feet, stopped, and sat up like a dog. Begging. Begging for some nuts. Placing one between her thumb and forefinger, Liz offered the treat to her visitor. Gently, it accepted the gift and moved a few feet away to consume its food.

  By now, a few more had gathered. Liz fed them all. But her favourite wasn’t here. The one without a tail. Squirrel NOTAIL. How it came to have no tail she didn’t know. Was it lost in a fight? Or was it born without one? She didn’t know. What she did know was that NOTAIL was friendlier and bolder than all the other squirrels. And cute. She felt sorry for him. But why wasn’t he here? He hadn’t been… No. Surely not. Not NOTAIL.

  The rain was getting heavier so, reluctantly, Liz bade farewell to her furry friends and set off towards her car, disappointed at NOTAIL’s no show. As she hurried along the path, she felt something tug ever so slightly on the bottom of her leg. And again. She stopped and turned around, expecting to see a twig that had snagged on her trouser bottoms but, to her immense surprise and delight, it wasn’t a twig, it was NOTAIL! She’d known he wouldn’t let her down. Not NOTAIL. Her best friend. Her Manx squirrel. The squirrel without a tail. Kneeling down, she said, ‘Hello NOTAIL. Do you want some nuts?’ Then, as if he understood, NOTAIL stood on his hind legs, begging. As she’d done many times before, Liz gave him a nut. Gently, he placed it in his mouth but stayed where he was. ‘One not enough, eh?’ said Liz, offering him a second nut. He positioned this in his mouth too, next to the first, and waited. ‘Really hungry tonight, eh,’ said Liz, handing him a third nut. Sat up with three nuts in his mouth he looked so comical. And cute. ‘Sorry fella. That’s your lot for tonight,’ said Liz getting up from her kneeling position. Realising that feeding time was over, NOTAIL dropped down from his haunches and ambled off into the wood.

  Stood there, in the pouring rain, Liz was amazed how wet and cold she was. She’d been so absorbed, so engrossed, in feeding the squirrels, she hadn’t realised how hard it was raining. It was pelting down. And the wind was howling too. She was thankful she was in the wood rather than out in the open. At least the trees offered some protection.

  She hurried along the path as fast as she could and was grateful when the tarmac road came into view. The entrance was only 100 yards ahead. Not far to go now. Just as she was about to start running, a jagged bolt of lightning lit up the sky followed immediately by the loudest thunderclap she’d ever heard. The storm was directly overhead. At the same time – everything seemed to happen in a blur – an old pine tree in front of her split in two and came crashing down across the path. Startled, she instinctively jumped backwards, avoiding the falling tree by a matter of feet. Shocked and surprised, she ran to her right, clambered over the split trunk and sprinted to her car.

  Sat in the car cold, wet and soaked to the skin, Liz realised just how lucky she’d been. The lightning had struck the tree ahead of her on her right. If it had happened just a few seconds later, the falling tree would have almost certainly crushed her to death. Although Liz Conway would never admit it, she’d deemed feeding the squirrels more important than her own safety.

  3

  Liz Conway

  A hot bath had never felt so good. The water enveloped her cold body like a warm blanket. However, even though the bath water was piping hot, it took a full five minutes for Liz to warm up. To thaw out. To restore some feeling to her frozen extremities; her feet and her hands. As she soaked herself in the hot, soapy water, Liz let her mind wander. To freewheel. But her thoughts always returned to the meteor showers. The unprecedented number of meteor showers currently lighting up the night skies around the world. And about the important meeting she had tomorrow to discuss them.

  Refreshed and warmed after her relaxing hot bath, Liz put on her robe, went down to the kitchen and made herself a mug of steaming hot coffee. Coffee was one of her favourite drinks. Not only did it taste good, it smelled good too. She loved the aroma of freshly made coffee. Clasping the mug in both hands, she lifted it to her nose and took a deep sniff of the black liquid before taking her first sip. It tasted so good, and warm, as it slid smoothly down her throat. She knew that drinking coffee just before bedtime, especially strong, black coffee, was wrong. The caffeine would keep her awake, making sleep difficult. But what the hell. She liked it, so why not indulge herself? Anyway, tonight she had an excuse. She needed something hot to warm her up – the driving rain had chilled her to the bone. If it did prevent her from sleeping, well… she’d just do some work. Some work on the puzzling meteor showers currently drenching the planet. With her mug of coffee in one hand and a chocolate biscuit in the other, Liz walked into the lounge, sat in her favourite armchair and turned off the lights. Safe and snug in her comfy chair, she sipped her coffee, nibbled her biscuit and closed her eyes. She thought about her family.

  Elizabeth Esme Conway was the eldest of two girls born to her parents, John and Mary Conway. It wasn’t a name she was particularly fond of. Elizabeth. In her eyes, it was too old-fashioned. Too staid. A name used by royalty. But it was better than the names some of her classmates at school had called her, Betty and Beth. She hated Beth and, if at all possible, never acknowledged anyone who called her by that name. Betty wasn’t as bad but the name she preferred was Liz. Liz was okay. It was cool, crisp and modern. It slipped easily off the tongue. And so Liz was how she was known. The name that everyone called her. Her family, friends and colleagues. The name used by everyone who knew her. Everyone that is, except one. Rupert Templeton-Smythe. He always called her Beth.

  Liz often wondered if her parents had a wicked sense of humour by giving her the middle name Esme. It’s not that she didn’t like the relatively uncommon name, it was the effect it had on her initials. EEC. Not just Elizabeth Esme Conway but also the European Economic Community, the forerunner of the European Union. Perhaps it had been an oversight by her parents but then again, perhaps not, because her little sister had inherited a similar problem.

  Beatrice Blu Conway was six years younger than Liz. Her parents were fervent Everton supporters and hoped their second child would be a boy. It wasn’t to be but, from the day she was born, they always called Liz’s little sister Baby Blu. Baby Blu after their team’s colour and the boy they never had. It was a name that stuck. A name they made official in the Christening ceremony. A name that has been used ever since. But it presented Beatrice with a problem even worse than Liz’s. BBC. Beatrice Blu Conway aka the British Broadcasting Corporation. Perhaps her parents had been mischievous after all.

  Liz’s grandparents lived in Toxteth, a rough place with a history of riots. Jack and Edith Conway did their best to provide a decent living for themselves and their only son, John. Jack Conway was a welder, a welder who found work easy to come by in the thriving dockyards of Liverpool in the 1950s and 1960s. A welder who began to earn enough money to enable them to consider moving out of their council house and buy a house of their own. A house away from Toxteth. His wife had always hankered for a house across the Mersey, a terraced house with a view over the river to Liverpool. Just as they were on the brink of making their dream a reality, Jack Conway was crushed to death. A metal plate he was welding on to the hull of a new cruise liner suddenly broke free and crushed him, killing him instantly. He was 52.

  The sudden and untimely death of her husband made Jack’s widow even more determined to move out of their council house and buy one of her own. She couldn’t stay there anyway. It held too many memories. So, using the money they’d managed to save, plus the compensation
she received for Jack’s death, Edith Conway bought one of the terraced houses she’d always fancied. It wasn’t in affluent New Brighton – the houses there were out of her reach – but in the poorer area of New Ferry in Bromborough. It was where she lived until her death.

  By the time her son, John Conway, Liz’s father, was ready for work, the dockyards were in decline. They had no future. So he took an apprenticeship at the giant General Motors plant in nearby Ellesmere Port, working on the car assembly line. It was here that he met, and later married, Mary, a local girl from New Brighton.

  Neither John nor Mary settled at General Motors. They didn’t like the repetitive nature of the work or the culture, especially the dominance and belligerence of the unions. And they certainly didn’t like the strikes. They hated going on strike, the industrial disease of the seventies and eighties. Eventually, they could stand it no more and both left. John got a job at Unilever whilst Mary trained to become a teacher. By studying part-time for seven long years at Liverpool John Moores University, her father got himself a BSc (Bachelor of Science) degree in chemistry.

  Because both her parents had steady, well paid jobs – her mother became a primary school teacher – Liz’s family were never poor. They were never rich either, just comfortable. When her grandmother died, Liz’s father used the inheritance from selling her terraced house to help buy a nice semi-detached house in New Brighton, a house in a pleasant residential area. A house that her grandparents could only have dreamed of.

  Her devoted parents ensured that both her and Baby Blu had a wonderful childhood. They took them to the seaside, for walks in the country, teaching them to respect and love nature, to National Trust properties – Formby Point was always their favourite – to museums and to the cinema. Both Liz and Baby Blu loved the little fairground at the bottom of the Marine Drive in Southport – it’s now a MacDonalds. They’d clap and cheer when her father parked on the car park, paid the attendant and received a free book of tickets to use on the fairground rides. She and Baby Blu would race each other to the little train, their tongues hanging out in eager anticipation, to see who would reach it first; the little train with the red engine that went over humps and bumps and through a dark tunnel. Later, they’d frolic around in the paddling pool, laughing and giggling as they splashed each other with water. Then, they’d have a meal, all four of them, sat outside their favourite cafe in the sunshine. (It always seemed to be good weather then.) Finally, an ice cream would round off a perfect day.

  Liz also remembered the time two bullies tried to steal Baby Blu’s ice cream, pushing and shoving her and making her cry. Even though they were older and bigger than her, Liz ran at them full pelt, crashing into them with such force that she knocked both of them to the ground. Standing over them like a conquering hero, she yelled at them so loud that the terrified bullies scrambled to their feet and fled for their lives. No one treated her precious Baby Blu that way. No one.

  Everything was fine and dandy until the day she arrived home from school to find her mother waiting for her at the front door, something she never did. She looked upset. Very upset. ‘What’s the matter, mummy?’ Her mother didn’t answer. Instead, she flung her arms around her eldest daughter, hugged her tighter than she’d ever done before, and burst into tears. Without knowing why, Liz burst into tears too. ‘Mummy, what’s the matter,’ she repeated, becoming frightened by her mother’s sobbing.

  ‘Darling. Oh, my little darling. I’ve got some terrible news.’

  Although she was only 12, Liz knew what ‘terrible news’ meant. They’d said that when her grandmother died and she feared the worst.

  ‘It’s your daddy,’ continued her mother, ‘he’s…’

  ‘NO!’ screamed Liz. ‘No, NO, NO! He can’t be. He can’t be dead!’

  Her mother knelt down so that her face was level with Liz’s. ‘No darling. He’s not dead but he’s got a very serious illness. He’s been diagnosed with muscular atrophy.’

  Liz burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably, holding on to her mother as though her life depended on it. ‘There, there, dear,’ said her mother, regaining a little composure. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be alright.’

  Liz didn’t know whether her daddy would be alright or not because she didn’t understand what muscular atrophy was. But her mother knew. She knew that progressive muscular atrophy, a form of motor neurone disease, blocked signals from the brain which affected the nerves and muscles, causing weight-loss and impairing speech. It was a debilitating, untreatable, pernicious disease that is, ultimately, fatal. A death sentence. But a delayed death sentence. A death sentence that had struck down her husband, her beloved husband, at 39. Struck him down in the prime of his life. Struck him down when his daughters were a mere 12 and six-years-old.

  Her father’s illness sent her mother off the rails. She couldn’t cope. Although she tried her best, the realisation of what was to come, coupled with the strain of looking after her sick husband and two young daughters, proved too much. She suffered a nervous breakdown.

  The doctors advised Mary to go into hospital for specialist treatment, but she refused point blank, fearing that if she did, her husband might be unable to cope, resulting in her two young daughters being taken into care. That was the last thing she wanted. Instead, both she and her husband managed to persuade the authorities to allow them to receive medical care at home, arguing that it was better to keep the family together than split it up. It was a close run thing but, eventually, the authorities agreed. Because her father was in the early stages of the disease, he was still physically mobile and fully compos mentis. It was this, Liz believed, that edged the decision their way. In practice, the decision to look after the family at home placed most of the burden on Liz’s young shoulders, a heavy burden for a 12-year-old child to bear. The Social Services helped too, but they weren’t there 24 hours a day, not like her and Baby Blu.

  For all her good intentions, as time passed her mother became withdrawn and far away, as if she was in another world. She took to drinking to blot out the harsh reality of their situation. Even the simple tasks were too much for her and she spent most of her time alone in her bedroom, either asleep or drunk. Or both. It was Liz, with the help of her little sister, who attended to most of the family chores.

  Watching her beloved father waste away before her very eyes broke Liz’s heart. Broke her heart watching his body wither and die and his mental faculties diminish. Little by little. Bit by bit. Every day. Unrelenting. As she helped him eat his food in the evening, they’d reminisce about the past. About the great times they’d had. It cheered them both up. Occasionally, very occasionally, she’d catch a glimpse of the man he used to be. A caring, devoted father and loving husband. He wasn’t rich or famous. Or a top sportsman or celebrity. He was none of those. But he gave them something far more precious than money or fame. He gave them the gift of his time. His time to play games with them, to comfort them, to make them happy when they were sad. He taught them to believe in themselves, never to accept anything at face value, always to think about it, evaluate it and, if necessary, to challenge it, even if it meant flying in the face of accepted dogma. It was the best thing he taught them: how to think for themselves. To thank him for all of this, Liz always ended the evening by squeezing his hand and kissing his forehead. It was the least she could do.

  Time is a great healer. Liz had heard her parents say this after bad things had happened. Bad things like the death of her grandmother. Like any desperate child, she hoped that time would heal her parents. In her heart, she knew it wouldn’t heal her father. Nothing could do that. But she hoped it would heal her mother. Help her revert to the mother she used to be. Gradually, time worked its magic. As the weeks turned into months and the months into years, her mother improved. She took more interest in Liz, and Baby Blu, and even helped with the daily chores; the shopping, cooking, washing, ironing and cleaning. In fact, she was almost back to normal. As her
health improved, the doctors reduced the dosage of drugs; the tranquillisers, anti-depressants, pain killers and sleeping pills she’d come to rely on. Their mother did her bit too by cutting down on the drinking, the drinking to which she’d resorted to blot out the world. Liz and Baby Blu had their real mother back. Almost.

  The burden of caring for both parents at such a young age would have affected the education of most children, but not Liz. The desire that burned fiercely within her chest to become an astrobiologist drove her on. She knew she needed a good education with good qualifications at the end of it and worked really hard to ensure that she got them. Her GCSE (General Certificate of Secondary Education) results were excellent. She got A and A* grades in three of the most difficult GCE (General Certificate of Education) ‘A’ level subjects – mathematics, physics and biology – and graduated from Liverpool John Moores University with a BSc honours degree in astronomy.

  Her graduation at Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral was one of the proudest moments of not only hers, but also her family’s life. Being the first girl in their family to obtain a degree made the occasion even more special. The only downside was the health of her father. The nine long years since he’d been diagnosed with the deadly disease had taken their toll. Now aged 48, he was frail and weak. Unable to walk and confined to a wheelchair, he was nothing more than skin and bone. A skeleton. The doctors were surprised he’d lasted so long. But his family, and especially Liz, weren’t. They knew he’d hung on to see his eldest daughter graduate. The daughter he’d nurtured and taught. And loved. He wasn’t going to die without seeing her graduate.

  The choice of who should attend the ceremony had been a difficult one for Liz. Only two guests were allowed, so Liz had taken the diplomatic option and opted for her father and mother. She’d have liked to have Baby Blu there too, of course she would, but that wasn’t possible. Her mother was having none of it; she gave her place to Baby Blu. ‘I want your father and his two daughters present today. Hopefully, I’ll be around to see Blu graduate,’ she said, knowing it was something her husband would never see.