by Nicola Upson
The choir was halfway through ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ when she noticed the snow, although it had obviously been falling for some time. She opened the front door and stood in the garden, just beyond the square of lamplight that followed her out from the house, and stared in wonder at the mournful, quiet beauty. Inside, the final notes of the organ died away, and she was left with the peculiar stillness of a silent land. The thatch was already swathed in a blanket of gleaming white, the bushes curled more sharply to the ground, and Josephine sensed that the sky was leaden with the weight of what was still to come. It would be a miracle if she could venture as far as the gate tomorrow, let alone the Essex borders, and she could not decide if she should bless or curse the prospect of a solitary Christmas. The snow was still falling at midnight, when she welcomed the day in and went up to bed. She blew out the lamp and drew the curtains back as wide as they would go. Outside, the landscape was a cacophony of blues, deep indigo for the sky and a pale, shimmering cyan where the moonlight hit the snow. Everything, it seemed, had been suspended, as though nature had deliberately chosen the most haunting and emotive night of the year to bring the world to a halt for a moment, to reflect on what really mattered.
When she woke on Christmas morning, the fields seemed to stretch for ever under the snow’s gentle grace, a scene so different from the dramatic winter landscapes she was used to. The sun glistened on the ridges, the trees stood quiet under their burden of white and, in the distance, she could hear the peal of church bells, punctuated occasionally by the scraping of a shovel on tarmac or the chipping away of ice from the animals’ water troughs. Josephine knew that she must try to let Marta and Lydia know that she was snowed in, so she dressed hurriedly and set out for the rectory to ask if she could use the telephone; if she went now, while the morning service was under way, she would not intrude on Hilary and Stephen’s family Christmas, or be invited to stay and celebrate with them. The depth of the snow made for a punishing scramble to the top of the slope, and she looked back at her own footprints, struck by how – after delivering its initial blanket of concealment – snow stripped the earth of any right to secrecy; every movement of every creature was written on the fields and in the lanes, and they stood exposed and in sharp silhouette against an alien backcloth, robbed for the moment of their camouflage. When she reached the end of the track, at the junction with Marten’s Lane, Josephine could see that even the short distance to the rectory was too ambitious: the roads were now rivers of snow, with drifts thrown like frozen waves against the hedgerows, and nothing in any direction looked passable. Reluctantly, she turned back, hoping that the snow would be widespread enough for Marta not to worry when she didn’t arrive.
She stamped the snow off her boots in the porch and removed her outdoor clothes. Inside, the cottage was warm and welcoming, and she paused at the door, delighted by the image that greeted her, by the holly pinned to the beams and the presents piled expectantly onto the table. It wasn’t quite the Christmas she had planned, but she was by her own fireside and determined to make the best of it. She stoked up the range, took a hammer to the water butt outside the back door, filling the air with a sound like breaking china, and prepared a pheasant to roast for lunch, along with bread sauce and all the trimmings. Before long, the cottage was filled with steam and with all the familiar smells and textures of past Christmases, evoked as a substitute for the company she would dearly have preferred. She switched the wireless on while she ate her lunch, hoping that the battery would outlast the snow, and listened as a strange, hesitant voice delivered his first seasonal message; how many of his subjects, Josephine wondered, would raise their glass to the King’s health this Christmas, still thinking of the man who was now overseas?
Darkness came early, and with it the dancing of new snow against old. Her adventurous spirit faded a little more as she looked out of the window and saw the charcoal branches disappearing once again behind a soft gauze of white. She could only guess at how long her enforced solitude would last, and the evening brought with it a melancholy curiosity about the people she loved and what they might be doing; in her mind’s eye, she watched them all without her, visiting each home with a Marleyesque knowing, and when she got to the fireside at Lydia’s cottage, she knew she needed a distraction more compelling than an anonymous voice over the airwaves. She finished her drink and took a selection of candles and lamps upstairs, then went back to fetch the sturdiest knife she could find and the hammer she had used to break the ice. The room could be forgiven for its chill on a night like this, and she shivered as she looked at the trunk in the corner and the sheet that had slipped down to the floor. Shadows from the candlelight flickered playfully across the discarded window seat, bringing the words to life again in a shifting, staccato dance of regret, and Josephine hesitated, wondering if venturing up here really was the best way of entertaining herself when there was a whole bookshelf downstairs. But curiosity spurred her on – curiosity and, if she were honest, guilt: she still felt that she had failed Hester by not securing any form of justice for her death, and she was tired of loose ends; if the trunk offered the smallest insight into the rest of Lucy’s life – the life Hester had so badly wanted to bring out into the open – something at least would have been achieved.
She slid the blade of her knife behind the rusted clasp and struck the handle hard with the hammer, surprised when the whole fitting came away in a single blow. The padlock clattered to the floor, absurdly loud in the silence of the room, and the now defenceless chest seemed to dare Josephine to violate it still further. She put her hand on the lid and raised it a few inches, and a stale, musty smell rose up to greet her, the scent of mould and damp and years of neglect. It was easy to see why: the trunk seemed to be packed with rotted clothes and linen that had failed the test of time, but her initial disappointment gave way to excitement when she saw what was resting on the very top of the pile. The book was a leather-bound journal, purpose-made and far grander than the makeshift volumes in which Lucy had recorded her earlier years, but filled with the same familiar handwriting. The pages were stained and fragile, but still legible, and Josephine felt a rush of excitement when she turned to the beginning and saw that it picked up again not long after the last diary had ended, at Lucy’s Boxing Day wedding. There might be more books inside, but this would do for now and she took it downstairs, clutching it as tightly as a child with a favourite present.
She put a log on the fire, unwrapped the wine meant for Dodie and stood the bottle to warm, then settled down with the diary, just as she had a couple of months earlier.
27 December, 1828
This is the first day of my new life, and I will try to write down the joys as they come in this special book that Samuel gave me this mornin’, my first in wakin’ at Red Barn Cottage. He says he hopes I will need many more to hold all the happy days that are to come. Everyone has been kind, and Samuel is a sweet and gentle man. The Missis sent the most beautiful present of Irish linen. Samuel’s new master provided a side of beef and more beer than we c’d drink for our weddin’ party, and Molly was the prettiest girl at the weddin’. The Martins have given me Maria’s clothes chest for a weddin’ gift. Her father said she w’d have wanted me to have it, and that she c’d not have had a better friend. I shall treasure it all my days, but his words mean more. How I wish Maria had been there.
The first snow is startin’, and Samuel has gone to fetch Molly from his sister, where she stay’d last night. Hannah filled the cottage with holly and mistletoe for our weddin’ night. It has never look’d finer, but perhaps that is because it is now my home.
Josephine smiled to herself when she remembered her own pleasure at decorating the rooms, and the pride she had felt in how beautiful everywhere looked; it might be a century later, but life at Red Barn Cottage didn’t seem to have changed very much, and the sense of tradition and continuity was satisfying. She moved on to the next entry, noticing that this was not a regular diary like its predecessors, but a more
occasional record of a busy and happy life; as Samuel had said – a book for recording special days.
12 February, 1829
My birthday, and Samuel brought me snowdrops early this mornin’. Molly made me give her my book so that she c’d draw a picture of us all together, and I will treasure it. She has drawn us in the garden, which she loves. I have promis’d her that when the spring comes we will make a garden together. Samuel is away at market with the master’s cattle. While he is gone, I am sewin’ a quilt for our bed, which I will give him when it is finish’d.
As far as Josephine could remember, Lucy’s needlework skills left a lot to be desired, but it was a moving gesture and, having learned in the churchyard that neither Samuel nor Molly were long-lived, she was glad to know that family life had been happy for Lucy while it lasted. She looked at Molly’s drawing, saddened to think that she had died so young, and wondered how Lucy had borne the sorrow of it all.
25 March
Took Molly for a walk by Flaggy Pond. Spring is finally here, and everywhere I look the world is alive with somethin’ new. I hope soon we will be bless’d with a brother or sister for Molly. Samuel says I must be patient. I am teachin’ Molly her letters, and she is learnin’ the names of the flowers in the garden. She is quick to learn and always askin’ me questions, and she fills the house with laughter.
3 July
Nan Martin told me today that they have taken William’s bones to a hospital in Bury, where people can see them for a few pennies. She said her father went yesterday to look, and put a shillin’ in the box. It made me think of Maria, and I know she will come to me again tonight in my dreams. I have promis’d Samuel to try to forget, and I will not speak to him of Maria any longer, but I will not turn my back on my friend like the rest of the village has.
So the journal was not to be simply for special days, Josephine thought; even now, although Lucy’s life was so different, the memory of Maria obviously threatened her relationship with Samuel. She remembered the cherry trees and the rose; it must have been hard for a husband to live in the shadow of that murder, to know that – whatever he did – he could never entirely dispel his wife’s grief, or fill the hole left by the loss of her closest friend.
11 August
It is a year since they hang’d William. Some of the village folk say they have seen his ghost near Maria’s cottage. They say he came in a dark shadow in the cloak he wore at his trial, but if anyone has the right to walk this earth, it is Maria’s spirit they sh’d fear. She comes to me when I least expect her. The parson has agreed that she may have a stone on her grave at last, so folk will not forget her.
15 September
Took some of Maria’s roses up to the churchyard, and c’d have wept. People have chipp’d and broken her stone. Samuel says strangers have done it to make money, like they did with the barn. So the Reverend Whitmore is right, and it will not be long before he tells us so. Still they come to the field, dress’d in their Sunday finest, to see the barn where she lay. They will not let her rest.
Josephine didn’t doubt that anyone living so close to the scene of a notorious murder would tire of the constant attention, but how much worse it must have been for someone who had loved Maria, who still missed her so desperately. The agricultural unrest that had led to the burning of the barn – while difficult for a farmer like Samuel – was surely a blessing for Lucy.
31 May, 1832
There is joy in our house. At last the day has come when I can write in my book that I am with child. Samuel will not say it, but I know he hopes for a boy. I am so happy that I do not mind as long as he or she is well.
The next few entries recorded Lucy’s growing excitement over her pregnancy, and Josephine could barely read them, knowing as she did that Lucy and Samuel were to lose two daughters. She did not know, of course, if other children had survived, but by November her fears seemed justified.
25 November
Never have I known a winter to be so hard. Samuel works all the hours God sends to put food on the table and I try to help as I can but the child is a heavy burden and I am not as strong as I might be. Molly runs wild with no one to watch her and Samuel will not scold her when she disobeys me. I am so tired, and I fear our child will come before its time.
19 December
Hannah has come to help with my lyin’ in, and has made a bed for me in Molly’s old room so that Samuel can get his rest. It is strange to be away from him, and to see them all carry on without me and have another woman runnin’ my home. I will be glad when the child is here and I can take my place again. I try not look out at the barn, but there is no help for it in this room.
6 January, 1833
We have a little girl. I have never known such pain and joy as she fought her way into the world. Samuel says that I am to name the girls and he will choose what the boys will be call’d. So she is Maria, and I hope she will have a long and happy life.
9 February
I can still barely write these words. My small, beautiful child was taken from me a week past. The ground is still frozen and we cannot bury her. She lies at the foot of my bed in the cradle that Samuel made for her. I want to look on her face, but my heart is broken. Samuel begs me to return to his bed where I will not be so sad, but I will not leave my little Maria until she is laid to rest.
Born in that room, carrying that name – it was hard to see how things could ever have turned out differently for Lucy’s first-born, and the desperate sadness of both mother and child found Josephine easily across the years. She read on, and the diary became a mockery of its original purpose; there were very few precious days in Lucy’s married life, and the pages recorded a series of miscarriages and bitter self-recrimination rather than happiness and fulfilment. Lucy’s relationship with her husband and her stepdaughter seemed to deteriorate with each new loss, and Josephine felt desperately sorry for all of them. There were no villains here except circumstance and luck – but Lucy’s continued obsession with Maria blighted the whole house, making her overprotective of Molly’s childhood and driving her and Samuel apart.
17 July, 1835
Samuel has taken Molly to the Cherry Fair as a birthday treat. She will be twelve next week, and I know that he will spend money we do not have and spoil her as he always does. I can do nothin’ with her. The parson has said there is a place for her at the doctor’s house in Layham, which is a good position, but Molly does not want to go and Samuel will not make her. She is a lazy girl and can play him for a fool whenever she chooses.
15 February, 1836
Phoebe Stowe call’d at the back door today and told me that the Missis is married again to a man called Harvey, and has been taken to court by William’s wife. She is askin’ for money for the child, who will never work because he has a wither’d hand. The court has said she must pay the boy what is due to him.
The description of William Corder’s son jumped off the page at Josephine – it was the same genetic defect that she had noticed in John Moore – but she was too absorbed in Lucy’s pain to give it much thought.
Hannah came later with a pie for dinner. I know she thinks I cannot feed my family and manage my house. She said Samuel needed lookin’ after, as he is tired and worn out. We are all tired and worn out, and what she knows about keepin’ a man happy when she c’d never get one is more than I can think of.
In the past, Josephine had enjoyed Lucy’s barbed asides, but they carried a bitterness now that saddened her. She longed in vain for some joy, but she knew there would be no change of fortune with the next child. This time, out of superstition or resignation, Lucy did not even mark her pregnancy, and the child’s name – Daisy, Josephine remembered from the parish register – was not recorded either.
21 June, 1837
Samuel says I held my baby, but I have no memory of her. I was taken with fever after she was born, and he told me today that she died three days ago, before she was even a week old. He has taken her to the churchyard to lie with her siste
r. I am no good to him as a wife, and I cannot bear him children.
From now on, the entries became sporadic and unconnected, as if Lucy could not bear to weave the bleakness of her life into a pattern, or to see it written down. Josephine knew that Molly and Samuel had less than two years to live after the next date, but the funeral that it recorded harked back to the past.
10 September, 1841
Went to the churchyard today to see the Missis laid to rest with her men. It was a sad day, as she was always good and fair to me, but most of the folk there were happy to see the last of the Corders put in the ground. Thomas Henry stood by the Gospel Oak, near his mother’s grave, a fine lad of seventeen. She w’d have been so proud of him, but I wonder how much he remembers of her. I miss him comin’ to the cottage as he used to when he was a boy. I hop’d once that he and Molly would grow to care for each other, but she will have nothin’ to do with the Martins.
