Hugh stared out. ‘Snow,’ he repeated quietly to himself. ‘Snow.’
Polly, her arm round him to keep him warm, tried to remember what it was like to see something for the first time and to have no idea what it was, what it felt like, tasted like, how it behaved, whether it was to be welcomed or feared. She groped after a fleeting sensation but it eluded her, moving just outside her memory. She gazed at Hugh’s rapt face trying, through him, to regain the magic. It was no use. It was beyond her. She sighed, feeling for a brief moment that she had lost something indefinably precious.
‘Come on, Huge,’ she said, lifting him to the floor and kneeling before him. ‘We’ll get dressed and, after breakfast, we’ll make a snowman.’
‘What’s a snowman?’ he asked, allowing himself to be divested of his pyjamas.
‘You wait and see,’ promised Polly, who felt that to explain was just impossible. ‘Now, what do you wear?’
Hugh pointed to the little chair on which his clothes were piled and Polly bundled him into warm layers, sending up a heartfelt prayer of relief that he was now out of nappies.
‘There!’ she said. ‘You’re ready. Mummy’s left a lovely present for you. She’s hidden it somewhere as a surprise. Can you find it while I get dressed?’
Back in her room she shivered. Hugh’s room and the bathroom were kept warm by radiators run from the Aga, as was Harriet’s bedroom. But the spare room and the boxroom had no form of heating and Polly had never dressed so quickly. Out on the landing she listened for Hugh. He seemed to be rooting about in the bathroom.
‘Found it?’ she cried and he appeared in the doorway, beaming happily and clutching a gaily wrapped parcel. ‘Well done, Huge.’
They went down the stairs hand in hand, one step at a time, and into the kitchen. Max waved his tail a little but didn’t move. Ozzy got up, stretched mightily and sat down again, unwilling at present to extend himself too far. Who knew what this strange woman might not feel it incumbent upon him to perform? He felt it wise to conserve his energy.
Polly swung Hugh into his high chair and he started to unwrap his present. She studied Harriet’s list.
Ready Brek, she read. Toast. Honey or marmalade. Yes. This was well within her scope. ‘Max has four biscuits for breakfast,’ she read on aloud. Max’s ears pricked up. This was more like it. ‘Ozzy has six. And occasionally a beaten egg.’ She went into the utility room where the dogs’ food was stored and took down the biscuit tin. They watched from the doorway.
‘Here we are.’ She put the biscuits on the flagged floor and, wondering if they might need to go outside, went to the door and opened it with difficulty. Snow stood piled as high as her thighs and formed a barrier across the doorway. The earlier gleam of sunshine had disappeared and snowflakes fell softly but insistently from a leaden sky. ‘Gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘How are you going to get through that, chaps?’
Ozzy finished his breakfast, shouldered his way through the snow and disappeared but Max, having taken one look, finished his biscuits and hurried back into the kitchen.
OLIVER PEERED WITH DISTASTE into a saucepan containing the remains of some porridge, flexed a slice of rather tired-looking toast and felt the cooling teapot. He sighed. It seemed that he would have to prepare his own breakfast. Perhaps, if he waited a little longer, Saul would be down and he could con him into making it for them both. Saul was quite a decent cook. Oliver had learned very early on that it was a great mistake to own to being good at things. People then expected you to perform, to be helpful, and Oliver did so hate to disappoint people. The telephone rang.
‘Telephone,’ he bellowed, after a moment.
The ringing ceased and Oliver could hear his mother speaking in the hall. Tom appeared in the doorway.
‘Has it ever occurred to you to answer the phone yourself, instead of shouting at people?’
Oliver grinned at him. ‘What a brilliant idea, Pa. I wonder why I never thought of that. Want some coffee?’
‘No thanks. I had my breakfast approximately'—Tom looked ostentatiously at his watch-’an hour ago.’
‘Poor old thing,’ sympathised Oliver. ‘Must be all those years as a jolly jack tar that makes it impossible for you to sleep later than seven o’clock in the morning. Still, that doesn’t stop you from having some coffee. Ah! Here’s Saul. He can make it for us.’
‘Make what?’ Saul came yawning into the kitchen dressed in the ancient tracksuit that he wore as pyjamas in very cold weather. He sat down at the table. His dark hair stood on end and his eyes were heavy with sleep.
‘You’ve been selected from a host of applicants to make breakfast,’ Oliver told him kindly. ‘Two lightly grilled rashers and some scrambled eggs will do beautifully for me.’
Saul told him, briefly and succinctly, what he could do with himself.
‘Really! Your language!’ mourned Oliver. ‘And in front of your father, too. I hope you’re not going to let him get away with that, Pa. When I was his age you would have thrashed me.’
‘Oh, very funny.’ Tom laughed mirthlessly. ‘If I’d been allowed to knock some sense into you, you’d be twice the man you are now. Can’t even cook your own breakfast!’
Oliver winked at his brother, who grinned unwillingly. ΌΚ, I’ll do it,’ said Saul with a resigned sigh. ‘But you can jolly well make me some coffee first.’
‘On its way, dear boy. Sure you won’t have some, Pa?’
‘I’ve said I don’t want any,’ said Tom, testily. ‘And why you should give in to him, Saul, I really don’t know. All his life people have been at his beck and call . . . ’
Cass appeared and took in the scene at a glance. ‘Whatever’s going on?’ she asked. ‘You’ll have a heart attack if you bellow like that, darling. That was Thea asking for Polly. She was supposed to be going over there today. Oh, Ollie, darling. Is that for me? Is the sugar in? Lovely. Now, out of the way while I cook you a nice big breakfast.’
WHEN SHE PUT DOWN the receiver after speaking to Cass, Thea immediately lifted it again and dialled Harriet’s number. The line was engaged. She went back to washing up the breakfast things, thinking about Polly. She wondered how she was reacting to being up on the moor all on her own—as it were—at Lower Barton. Nobody knew better than Thea how Polly hated the isolation of the cottage. It was not that Polly minded being alone but she hated being cut off from civilisation. At least she had Ozzy and Max to look after her and Hugh would prove a distracting influence. With luck she’d have her hands too full to think about her loneliness and perhaps Michael would be back later. Thea glanced out of the window. The snow lay thick and George had not attempted to get up to London. It would be too awful if poor Polly were to be stuck up there for days. A thought occurred to her. She finished the washing-up and went to find George, pausing on the way to try Harriet’s number again. Still engaged.
George was shovelling the snow away on the platform. He stopped as Thea approached and blew out his lips. ‘More to come if you ask me,’ he said. ‘Get the kettle on, darling. I’d kill for a cup of coffee.’
‘It’s on,’ said Thea. ‘George, I’ve just been speaking to Cass. Michael’s taken Harriet in to have the baby and Polly’s all on her own at Lower Barton. If Michael can’t get back she’ll be frightened up there on her own. I suppose there’s no chance of me getting up there? I could stay with her till Michael’s back. Or better still, we could fetch them all down here.’
‘Out of the question.’ George shook his head. ‘Honestly, darling. Look at it. There’s no chance of making it up there. It would be madness to try.’
‘D’you think that Michael will be able to get back from Plymouth then?’
‘Difficult to say. The main roads will be cleared but there’s no way I’d risk going out on the lanes.’ He saw her face fall and spoke more bracingly. ‘I’m sure that Michael will get through. He’ll come straight out on the main road and he’d think nothing of walking the last few miles. But I’m not risking these back roads. Don’t wor
ry, Michael will make it. Now, how about that coffee?’
Thea went back to the kitchen. At least she could telephone Polly and see how she was coping. She’d give George his coffee and then they could have a nice long chat, assuming that whoever had been talking to Polly had now finished and the line was free.
IT WAS MICHAEL WHO had telephoned.
‘It’s another hoy, Polly!’ He sounded jubilant. ‘And they’re both doing well. He’s a big fellow—nearly eight pounds—and poor Harriet is exhausted. But everyone’s very pleased with her and he’s beau tiful. Dark, well, he would be with both Harriet’s and my colouring . . . ’
Polly listened patiently while he delivered a eulogy about the baby and Harriet and sent all sorts of messages to Hugh, and she accepted with equanimity the news that he would be staying at the hospital. ‘I doubt if you could get up the track, even if you wanted to,’ she told him. ‘It’s really thick up here.’
‘Mmm.’ Michael sounded thoughtful, as if he had just returned with a bump to the practicalities of life. ‘Yes, it would be. You never get the same idea of it in the town, of course. Listen, Polly. This is very important. My worry is that you may lose the power and probably the telephone. I can’t do much about the telephone but at least with the Aga you’ll continue to have something to cook on, hot water and heat upstairs. It runs on oil, the tank’s full and it needs no electricity to keep it going. If you get a power cut, move into our bedroom where it’s warmer.
‘Now, light. I don’t feel happy at the thought of you fiddling about with the paraffin lamps but in the utility room, up on the high shelf above the dogs’ food, are three Gaz lamps. I want you to go and get one while I’m still on the phone. Go on, I’ll hang on.’
Polly hurried out into the utility room and looked round. Three odd-shaped lamps stood in a row on the high shelf. Standing on tiptoe she reached one down, went back into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.
‘Got it,’ she said. ‘It’s jolly heavy, 1 nearly dropped it.’
‘Right. Now I’m going to explain how to light it. Damn! You’ll need matches. Right-hand drawer of the dresser.’
Polly dashed over to the dresser, seized the matches and grabbed the phone again.
Feeling that she was taking part in some sort of assault course, Polly obeyed Michael’s instructions. She jumped as it roared to life, dropping the glass shade and trapping the still burning match. Gingerly she lifted the shade again and retrieved the match, burning her fingers before she was able to blow it out.
‘Right,’ she said, when she had retrieved the phone.
‘Now, don’t use all the lamps at once. Always have one at hand with the matches, wherever you are after dark, in case the lights go out suddenly. There’s a torch on the windowsill behind the sink. See it? Right, keep that handy, too. Oh, hell! We would have weather like this, wouldn’t we? I hope you’ll be OK.’
Polly stoutly assured him that they would manage perfectly well and passed the receiver to Hugh, who had been watching the proceedings from his high chair.
Presently, Michael, having told Polly to get in as many logs as she could—if she could—from the emergency pile in the outhouse, hung up, promising to phone again that evening.
A little later, Polly and Hugh, both well wrapped up, ventured out. A few snowflakes twirled idly down from the grey uniformity of the sky and Hugh stared in silence at the absolute transformation of his familiar world. Polly realised that she would have to dig her way out. She remembered seeing a spade in the utility room and silently blessed Michael for his forethought. She went back through the house, trailed by Hugh and Ozzy, found the spade and returned to the porch.
‘OK, Huge,’ she said. ‘I’m going to make a path. Stay close behind me.’
She began to dig a path along the front of the cottage to the outhouse at the end of the building. It was hot work and she wasn’t very good at it. Hugh staggered in her wake, the cold stinging his cheeks to a bright poppy red, and Ozzy made plunges into the drifts while Max watched cautiously from the doorway to see what madness might now ensue. Fortunately for Polly the outhouse door opened inwards and she was able to take armfuls of logs along to the front porch where she stacked them against the wall inside. After a few trips she stopped to draw breath and to watch Hugh, who was taking fistfuls of snow and flinging them into the air. Max had now ventured out and was sniffing at this strange white stuff. Polly had the sensation that the four of them were the only creatures left in the world and the real effect of her isolation was borne in upon her. She stared out upon the unfamiliar, desolate landscape and felt a deep atavistic fear. She could be trapped here for days, with just a child and two dogs, helpless and alone. A tremor shook her and, quite suddenly, she abandoned all ideas of snowmen and the like and her one desire was to get back into the house.
‘Come on, Hugh!’ she cried, her voice high and nervous. ‘You’ll be getting cold. Let’s go in and have a hot cup of tea.’
Max had already gone back in and Hugh came to her willingly. She called to Ozzy, who had gone to attend to his own business, and felt an immeasurable relief when he appeared, tail wagging; now they could all go inside and she could shut the door.
Twenty-six
DURING ELEVENSES IT OCCURRED to Polly that she should have telephoned Thea to tell her that she wouldn’t be going over to stay and also to impart the good news about the baby. It seemed very unlikely that Michael would have done so. Now that she came to think of it, she was rather surprised that Cass, or at least Saul, hadn’t telephoned her to see how she was coping. She decided that she felt a little hurt. In fact, by the time she had finished her coffee, she had worked herself up into that ‘nobody cares about me’ state of mind that is so injurious to our well-being. Nevertheless, she decided, it was only right that she should inform Cass that Harriet was safe and well and delivered of a new son and then telephone Thea for a good long chat.
She settled Hugh with his new colouring book and crayons, gave the dogs a biscuit each and picked up the receiver. Silence. She pressed the rest a few times and peered to check that the plug was firmly in. It was. How odd, thought Polly, jiggling the rest a few more times.
After a moment, she left the kitchen and went into the sitting room to try the phone there. More silence. Polly stood frowning. Michael had rung earlier and it was fine then . . . Slowly a dreadful thought crept into her mind. The telephone had been cut off. The snow must have brought down the lines since Michael’s call. In a sudden panic, Polly banged the rest up and down again. Nothing. Very slowly she replaced the receiver and stared about her. She was cut off, alone. If there were to be an emergency she would be able to contact nobody. No one would come to her aid. Her heart gave a great somersault of terror and she strove for calmness. Hugh must not suspect that anything was wrong. Be calm, she told herself and took several deep breaths. There’s nothing to fear. We have food and heat . . . Another thought struck her and galvanised her into action. She leaped for the light switch and pressed it down. Nothing. She switched it up and down furiously, ran across to the television and pushed the ‘on’ knob. The screen remained blank.
Polly stood up and pressed both hands to her mouth. They were completely cut off. What Michael had feared had happened. Thank God he’d been able to tell her what to do about lamps. Polly stood for a little longer trying to pull herself together before she crossed to the wood-burning stove to pile on more logs. The flames leaped up, warming and encouraging her. She must get more logs in from the porch before it got dark and she must put the Gaz lamps ready. Preparing her face in what she hoped was an ‘isn’t this all fun?’ expression but which in fact looked more like the death rictus of a homicidal maniac, she went back to the kitchen.
‘Look!’ cried Hugh. He brandished his colouring book. ‘I done a picture of Mummy and Daddy and the new bruvver.’
Polly went to look. It was a picture of the Holy Family. ‘Lovely,’ she said automatically, ignoring the fact that Mary had become Negroid, Joseph Ch
inese and the infant Jesus bright blue. Perhaps he’s feeling cold there, lying in a manger with no clothes on, thought Polly and pulled herself up sharply. ‘It’s smashing, Huge,’ she said. ‘Mummy will love it. Now you must do one for Daddy.’
‘No.’ Hugh was bored with colouring. ‘He can share. Get down.’ Polly sighed and lifted him out of his high chair. He went to Max, who lay before the Aga, and knelt beside him. Bending his head so that it rested on the big dog’s back, he took some of his own hair and some of Max’s between his fingers and began to twiddle it. His face took on a dreamy expression and he began to suck his thumb. Presently he slid sideways and closed his eyes.
Polly left him to it and went to fetch the lamps. She put one on the kitchen table to light as soon as it should become necessary and took another through to the sitting room with a spare box of matches. She remembered that Michael had told her not to light them all at once and felt another thrill of terror at the thought of all three lamps running out of gas and she and Hugh and the dogs left alone in the dark.
Stop it! she told herself fiercely. Michael would get here somehow, she was sure, even if he had to walk all the way. He would try to telephone again and would realise what had happened. There was really no need to panic. If only his cousin would arrive. Perhaps he’d been caught in the snow himself and was lost on the moor. She found herself wishing that she’d let Saul stay after all and then remembered that she had to get the logs in.
Leaving Hugh and Max fast asleep, she went into the hall and opened the door into the porch. Taking armfuls of logs, she went to and fro until the two wicker baskets w ere full to the brim. Perhaps it would be sensible to get some more logs into the porch in case the snow kept on falling. She pushed her feet into gumboots, pulled on her coat and, opening the porch door, stood looking out.
The snow still fell; slowly, silently, inexorably covering the garden so that it now merged in one long stretch with the moor beyond. The path that she had so laboriously dug had virtually disappeared and there was no sign of Ozzy’s tracks from his earlier expedition. Polly realised there was a world of difference between the Christmas card version of snow with blue skies and j oll ν robins and this cold, bleak white-out with its eerie silence.
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