A thrush calls from a tree, and I am ridiculously pleased. Although it’s as invisible as the ghosts I no longer believe in, the sound comforts me. Listening hard I try to conjure Meredith’s voice again and for a moment I almost do. And I can see her, waving to me, disappearing into the trees, her laughter lingering on the air, daring me to follow.
From the time she could walk my sister spent as much time as possible out of doors. Birds followed her and at dusk foxes waited on the edge of the garden, enticing her into the wood.
You can think more than one thing about a person in the same second and each will be true. Meredith was a pest and a kindness and an angel. She was fearless then too. Until Allegra made us leave Gull House she was unafraid of anything.
It may be shabbier now – the house isn’t without its charm. It isn’t that it’s falling down – Nain was right – it would take a hurricane to dislodge it. Time has simply softened the edges, changed the brilliance of the original, muted it the way Allegra did with paint when she swirled her brushes in a jar of water, making the colours merge.
On the edge of the terrace, a series of steps lead down to the garden. I sit and lift my face to the pale sun, lean back on my hands. My finger catches on something hard. It’s a stubbed-out cigarette, a filter-tipped one. Frowning, I pick it up. It smells disgusting; strong and fresh. It’s half-smoked, as if someone has been disturbed and abandoned it.
I tell myself it can only be the caretaker.
For several years, Nain has employed a man to keep an eye on the place, see to necessary repairs, tidy the garden, look out for damp patches and slates falling from the roof, a jackdaw nesting in a chimney. Eying the wilderness it’s obvious to me that, whoever he is, he’s clearly reneged on the latter task. And leaving half-smoked cigarettes lying around is a bit of a cheek. I dig in my bag for a tissue, wrap the offending butt and stuff it in my pocket. The idea the caretaker might be taking advantage irritates me.
Above me, gulls drift against the sky and I hear my mother, almost smell her – her perfume mixed with the sweet scent of burning liquorice and for some absurd reason, I want to cry.
I am motionless, uncertain what to do.
The keys in my bag mock me. I touch them again and my fingers move as if by their own volition. I now wish myself anywhere other than here. The cigarette butt has unnerved me. The idea someone might have been here, by arrangement or not, makes me uncomfortable.
Was he still around?
Perhaps it wasn’t the caretaker at all. The house has been empty for a long time. Tramps and vagrants could easily have found their way here. My heart patters against my ribs. I try and work out how long it’s been since Nain visited. The last years were hard for her and following Allegra’s death she shrank before my eyes. My vibrant, marvellous grandmother became a shadow.
She used to telephone him from time to time – the caretaker.
‘Remind me to call him, cariad. I’m worried about the pipes.’
And I remember now – the last time was not long before Allegra died. Mared wouldn’t have had the hwyl for it since.
I try and recall the caretaker’s name. Huw somebody? Hywel? I can’t remember. His telephone number is in my iPhone under ‘Caretaker’. My mind is racing, trying to piece things together. I don’t want to look at the house; a sudden confusion takes me unawares. I can hear Meredith saying everything was falling apart; how irritated it had made me, how I told her not to be disrespectful.
These are Nain’s things, Meri. They matter.
I can see my sister as if she is in front of me: Meredith, her incandescent eyes wide and considering, as if she doubted everything and had no choice but to challenge even me, answering, Things don’t matter, Verity. They’re not the house. It’s only the house that matters.
The gulls wheel and swoop, crying and seeing the world.
For a moment the air suspends the sound of them and the waves as they break on the shore below. ‘This is our castle and no one can scale the ramparts,’ Meredith used to say.
Her voice is distant and as far away as she is.
Eight
Meredith’s bedroom was a clothes-strewn, book-scattered space.
It overlooked the ocean, and she could lie in bed and watch the moon.
Lying back against the pillow, she hugged a grey velvet rabbit.
Meredith had no words to describe how she might be hearing the voice of a ghost.
She knew the difference between daydreams and the ones that came to her as she slept.
Do you have the courage…?
‘Courage for what?’
The voice came again, an echo, as if it was a memory, only Meredith didn’t recognise it.
Could it be Angharad’s? Was it possible to recall a dead person’s memory? Meredith was headstrong and unruly. Her world was made up of infinite possibility and reckless promises, of light pouring through an open window urging her towards the day’s adventure. Life presented itself exclusively to her and she grabbed it with both her unworldly hands. She was made from air and impulse and she hung a fishing net outside her bedroom window to catch falling stars.
‘Then we can wish on them,’ she told her sister.
Meredith’s imagination had wings; it could fly and frequently did. She wasn’t taken in by mundane fairy tales with their castles and princes and wicked spells; she preferred more benevolent landscapes where girls really did have wings and it was possible to talk to trees, where things were fair and kind. If the land of the Fae existed, in Meredith’s version unkindness was the worst of sins, trickery and disloyalty out of the question.
She refused to learn how to tell the time because she said if she needed to know it, she could ask someone. She told little lies all the time and unlike most people, remembered them. As a result, she was rarely found out.
Allegra called it charming and, needing an ally, made a favourite of her youngest child. Knowing this didn’t mean Meredith colluded. Her mother wasn’t always nice to Verity and Meredith didn’t know why. She adored Allegra, she didn’t always trust her.
She certainly didn’t trust her with this new secret.
Do I trust Verity enough to tell her about the voice in my dreams?
‘Can you hear anything, Nelly?’ The benign face of the rabbit fell against Meredith’s arm. Through the window, light from the moon picked out the gold paint on the lid of the sewing box. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Meredith lifted it onto her lap. Her hand shook, knocking against the box, almost toppling it to the floor.
Running her hand across the lid, she opened it, lifted out the tray. Underneath, the flannel hearts lay in a bundle and she was reminded of tiny animals. Taking one out, she laid the tip of her finger on it. A shiver ran through her.
The birds know…
Was Angharad a trick? She didn’t think so. The box was too real, too present. Could a girl from a hundred years ago really come back from the dead to haunt someone? And would she pick a child?
‘Why would she choose me, Nelly?’
Was the voice she thought she was hearing real or part of a dream?
I have been waiting for someone to hear me…
People who die before their time can’t rest.
Had she read this somewhere? It sounded wise. Perhaps her grandmother had said it.
‘If you want me to, I’ll try and hear you.’ A whisper was all she could manage.
As Meredith placed the heart in the palm of her hand, a voice like a sliver of lost wind echoed in her head.
If I held them close to my heart, I could hear my blood and know I was alive … I sewed my hearts in secret…
‘I’ll try.’ She still spoke softly, afraid of being overheard.
The walls of Gull House were thick but she knew that ever since she had been a baby, in the middle of the night, her sister listened out for her. And her mother wasn’t above listening at doors.
Mothers cannot be trusted…
A latticework made of moon-shadow
branches and moths on their way to find her, decorated the bedroom wall. She strained to hear more. The voice was gone and the only thing she heard was the rustling of wisteria against the windowpane. She fell asleep, and then she woke again, confused and cold, with no idea if a minute or an entire night had passed, or if what she had heard was dream or reality.
A moth came in through the open window. It was transparent and light as a feather, its wings moving in a blur. Meredith reached out her hand and to her delight the moth landed on her finger.
‘You’re back.’
Nine
Early the following morning, Meredith came into Verity’s bedroom, insisting on getting into bed with her.
‘I’m cold. My room’s like the north pole.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s a lovely day.’ Verity wasn’t sure how true this was. In spite of a sliver of sunlight at the window, the temperature was still unseasonably low.
Meredith’s feet were icy. She had dark patches under her eyes.
‘You look a bit tired,’ she said, keeping her voice non-committal.
‘I’ve been awake all night. And now I’m cold and my room’s absolutely freezing.’ Meredith rubbed her hands over her arms. ‘It’s creepy cold, not like when it snows. It smells of weeds and dead things and I don’t like it.’
‘You’re making it up.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Well, you’re imagining it.’
‘Perhaps I am. I’m supposed to.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Verity, can I trust you?’
‘You know you can’
Meredith let out a long breath. ‘It’s the story. It’s inside me trying to get out.’
Verity felt her sister’s cold feet against her calves and sighed. ‘Of course it is.’
‘Don’t make fun of me, Verity, not after you said I could trust you.’
Something in her sister’s voice struck Verity as out of kilter. Meredith’s bruised eyes were huge, the irises the colour of winter fog.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I don’t know. I think it’s her, the ghost. She’s talking to me.’
Verity bit back a retort.
‘She said she needs to be remembered.’
‘You dreamt this?’
Meredith nodded.
I thought you said you’d been awake all night.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Meredith said. ‘It wasn’t totally like a dream. It was like I was between a dream and a real place; as if she was there in the room and in my dreams at the same time.’
‘Did you see her?’
‘I told you, Verity, you can’t see ghosts.’
‘And yet you know she’s talking to you?’
‘I can’t explain it. I know something weird’s going on and she’s trying to tell me what happened to her. She wants me to know.’
‘Is it like being haunted?’ As soon as she said this, Verity regretted it.
‘No.’ Meredith bit her lip. ‘I feel visited.’
Verity swallowed. ‘Aren’t you frightened?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
I am.
Shivers of alarm ran down Verity’s back. She was nearly sixteen and she was as scared as a child of five.
As if nothing had happened, Meredith was smiling again.
‘It’ll be okay, Verity,’ she said. ‘The cold’s probably because it actually is going to snow and it’ll be the best thing ever.’ She leaned her head on her sister’s shoulder. ‘Angharad will explain and you wait, my story’s going to be a million times better than yours and one day I’ll be famous.’ She snuggled down under the covers. ‘You’d better make an effort if you want to keep up.’
A day or two later, with nothing more than a title, Verity knew she was in trouble.
‘You aren’t even trying.’ Meredith scowled across the kitchen table. Her hand gripped a crumpled notebook and she pointed at a piece of paper on the table. ‘What kind of a title is, “Behind You?” ’
Verity made a face. ‘A joke?’
‘For once, why can’t you take me seriously?’
‘Because it’s stupid.’
Meredith glared at her. ‘You promised.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You won’t say I’m stupid when I tell you mine.’
‘Let’s have a look then.’ Verity reached across the table, only before she could grab her sister’s notebook, Meredith snatched it up.
‘What?’
‘You can’t. It’s…’
Verity narrowed her eyes. ‘You haven’t written anything either, have you?’
Meredith’s look turned fierce and she held the notebook against her chest.
‘Let’s see then.’
The black circles under Meredith’s eyes darkened. Verity didn’t care enough to enquire anymore about lack of sleep or nightmares about ghosts. She was tired of Meredith’s nonsense.
‘You don’t understand,’ Meredith said, and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s not the kind of story I can write down. Not in actual words. I’ve tried, Verity but she wants me to listen.’
‘I’m right then. You haven’t written anything. So why are you giving me a hard time?’
‘It’s not my story. I told you, it’s hers.’
Exasperated now, Verity shouted. ‘Why do you do this? You’re always trying to draw attention to yourself. You’re as bad as Mam.’ She threw up her hands. ‘I’m done. Sod your stupid story. I’ve got better things to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘For one thing, some school work. Just because Allegra doesn’t believe education matters, I do. Because she thinks you’re some kind of miracle child who’s going to somehow make a success of her life by doing absolutely nothing, doesn’t mean I have to join in. I want to make something of mine. Not end up like some thicko pretending to be a writer.’
‘I don’t care about that any more, I…’
‘Oh, leave me alone, Meredith, go and be crazy somewhere else.’
‘Well if you won’t help me, I’m taking back what I said about telling Nain. Don’t you dare tell her about the sewing box.’
‘Like I care about your tatty old box.’ Verity walked to the kitchen door and opened it.
The sky reached down, grey and pale.
It looked as if it might snow.
There is a feeling of rejection in the ritual favouritism feeding sibling rivalry.
What threat had I ever been? How were my desires for an education subservient to my brother’s?
I did nothing wrong yet I was made to sit indoors, denied access to all but the most boring books and told the world was no place for me. My father’s conviction was that the female brain was inferior. To educate me beyond my capacity would be a waste of money. He despised my cleverness insisting it was a vanity, unbecoming and unnatural. When I protested, he told me I ought to mind my tongue lest it cut me.
Contemptuous of my desire he said all I needed to learn I could acquire from my lessons with a dour governess who came to the house a few mornings a week. The rest I could learn from my mother and a kitchen maid. Young ladies from respectable families should be content to settle for suitable marriages. The only things required were a little learning embellished with a few decorative and domestic talents.
I was surrounded by indifferent silence, unremarked unless it was to criticise some perceived fault. Then I was noticed, with attentive eyes and thin mouths offering only rebuke.
Restless and frustrated, I wandered in the garden, feeding the birds. They were the only living creatures I had any affinity with. Robins ate out of my hands and chattering sparrows vied for crumbs. Even the bold, beady-eyed rooks didn’t appear to mind me. They cocked their gleaming heads on one side as I passed as if they listened to my thoughts.
And haughty as ash-coloured galleons, the gulls swept across the sky and I saluted them.
The birds saw everything…
Ten
; The Pryce sisters knew that outside the bounds of Gull House another more modern world existed.
Their days were a mixture of the carefree and the kind of isolation normally associated with children of a previous era.Although they were curious, they were fearful too.
In spite of her anxiety at their ignorance, and her secret desire to go to school, Verity still had reservations. If she were contemptuous of her mother’s half-hearted efforts to educate them, like her sister, she was equally afraid of being exposed to a classroom of her peers who might ridicule their eccentric lifestyle. It was the early days of the home-schooling model; contact with the authorities was minimal.
Studious by nature, Verity tried to keep up. The problem being she was unsure what she was supposed to be keeping up with. Frowning at a page of sums, she laid down her pencil.
In the hall, the telephone rang and she ran to answer it.
Nain!
Discovering she was right only added to her delight.
‘Hello, my darling.’
‘Are you coming to visit?’
‘Indeed I am, cariad.’
‘When?’
‘Don’t I get a hello?’
Verity laughed, greeted her grandmother and repeated her question. She hadn’t seen her for months and could barely contain her excitement.
It was Mared’s turn to laugh. ‘Slow down, child, take a breath! How are you? How’s your sister?’
‘Irritating.’
‘Now then, that’ll do. Sisters shouldn’t fight,’ Mared said. ‘I never had one; you’re lucky, don’t you forget it.’
‘I know. I love her to bits, Nain, it’s only sometimes…’
‘Sometimes you wish you could wave a magic wand and make her disappear.’
‘Is that bad?’
It was Mared’s turn to laugh. ‘Maybe we can make a small spell – for special occasions. Turn her into a bird; make her fly away for a few hours.’
‘I wish you could.’
‘And how do you know I can’t?’
Verity squeezed her eyes shut, searched her mind for her grandmother’s face and found it. Her skin, soft and traced with a net of lines, so fine unless Verity was close enough to kiss her she couldn’t see them. And her eyes, the colour of summer mist.
Snow Sisters Page 5
