The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  And now it’s my job to look after it. How long has it been empty? Why did the previous owners go?

  And, of course, who wants it now, and why?

  I look down at the floor plan, which I scooped up as I tiptoed out of the bedroom. The ground floor spreads out from the large reception rooms at the centre to what look like dozens of smaller ones. Our bedroom must once have been something else – a small sitting room, perhaps, or a study. I work out where I am – somewhere on the eastern side of the house – and soon I’ve navigated my way back to the entrance hall where we came in last night. It’s large and impressive, with a chequered black and white stone floor and a landing high above it. In the far left-hand corner, a staircase, oak and rather Gothic, climbs up towards it. A sturdy door opposite the way I have come leads to the western side, and I go through it and enter a new corridor lined by closed doors. One is ajar, and I peek inside to a large dining room with windows giving out onto the front driveway. The walls are an intense turquoise colour, the plasterwork white, and the wood floor scuffed and faded. In the middle is a huge old table, its surface dull with dust, and about sixteen old chairs are tucked under it. I wonder how long it has been since anyone sat around and ate a meal at that table.

  This place feels so deserted.

  I know so little about the house. The company hasn’t told me much more than it’s been empty for a while now. Not that it’s falling down. It’s just dirty and faded with that musty smell that settles on an empty house. No wonder they want someone in here. It’s squatters’ heaven with all this room. I look at the table.

  It’s strange what gets left behind. I wonder why they took everything else, but left the table and chairs? And who picked this colour for the walls? It’s extraordinary.

  I’m about to leave when something catches my eye. On either side of the fireplace, which is surrounded by a big grey marble chimney piece and a mottled mirror above, are arched alcoves with shelves built into them. In the alcove nearest the window, on one of the high shelves, is a small object. Curious, I walk into the room, and circle the huge table until I’m standing directly opposite the alcove. I can see it now, though it’s too high to reach and tucked back almost out of sight. It’s a marble bust, only about twelve centimetres high, of a beautiful little girl, her head cocked to one side, her eyes closed, her carved hair pulled back into a bun. Her lips are curved into a sweet half-smile, and on her shoulder sits a bird, its wings open as it looks up at her. I can almost hear the high lilt of birdsong as I look at it, and the small sigh of rapture from the girl as she listens. But . . . those closed eyes and the white cheeks and its unutterable stillness suddenly repel me and I turn and run out of the room, pulling the door to behind me, my heart racing and my breath coming short and sharp.

  Don’t be silly, I tell myself firmly, as I stand in the corridor outside. I mustn’t let myself get spooked. The last thing I want is to start getting frightened of this place, when there’s only the two of us here.

  It’s just a house. An empty house. Anything else you bring to it is only in your imagination.

  Breathing deeply to calm myself down, I consult my plan and set off towards the kitchen.

  The kitchen, like the rest of the house, is thick with dust and dirt, and has evidently never been modernised beyond the installation of an old gas stove, the kind with an open grill at eye height. It sits in the chimney breast, from where a much bigger range was probably removed, looking rather too small for its home. Next to it, a small fridge has been tucked in, its cord winding out and round to the nearest plug up on the worktop. The floor has been covered in patterned vinyl, probably to hide the original stone floor, but the real charm lies in the open wooden shelves that run along the sides of the room in an L shape, and the tall windows on the far side which look out over a mass of green beyond. The shelves are old-fashioned, and are no doubt where pots and pans and mixing bowls and all the rest of the paraphernalia once resided. On the far side, they are topped with a thick wooden worktop, worn with much scrubbing, and on the return they have a marble top. The shelves are almost empty now, apart from a small stack of mismatched china – some plates and bowls and cups and saucers, in a variety of floral patterns. The huge chipped double Belfast sink is surmounted by an ancient heater with a rusty tap for hot water.

  Hmm. Not exactly overprovided with stuff. Still, let’s see what there is . . .

  As I wander about, I find more in the kitchen than I suspected: a drawer of mismatched old cutlery – a carving knife and fork with handles made of antlers; a stained plastic spatula. Then I spot a doorway that leads into a large larder cupboard, and that yields a small treasure: an old tin with three teabags lying in dark brown dust at the bottom, a jar of instant coffee, a box of ancient, concrete-hard sugar cubes, a tin of cocoa that looks to be at least a decade out of date. There’s a glass jar of what might be table salt, though I don’t feel inspired to taste it, some mustard powder and some empty tins. There’s also an old-fashioned kettle, the type that whistles on the boil.

  Then I can have a cup of coffee. Black, yes, but at least it means I don’t have to go outside yet. Does instant coffee go off?

  I take the kettle back into the kitchen and fill it at the sink. Cold water gushes out, fast and strong, and the gas stovetop lights with no problem, so the utilities are all intact. Then I spoon some of the old coffee into one of the flowery cups and wait for the kettle to start hissing.

  As I stand, leaning against the worktop in the huge room, I remember Rory making coffee in the mornings. Our kitchen was new, Shaker style, with dark blue units below and cream above, all wooden and dovetailed joints, granite worktops, a vast range cooker in baby blue, and shiny appliances tucked away behind tall cupboard doors. Only Rory’s Gaggia was allowed to sit on the surface, and every morning he went carefully about the ritual of making our coffee: thick, dark, rich espresso with steamed frothy milk, exactly as I liked it. As we both liked it. We’d grown to share each other’s tastes without trying. At weekends, we’d drink our strong coffees slowly over breakfast – muesli, toast and marmalade for him; something with fashionable seeds, berries, nuts and oat milk for me. But that’s how life used to be: full of ease that I took for granted. There was our comfortable house, always warm and well lit, clean and pretty. It had taken years to get it as we wanted – with careful planning and budgeting, every year undertaking a project that brought us a little closer to our final vision. But all the while we thought we were making do, putting up with less than perfection, we were actually happy. Everything was fine. It was lovely. I can see our old house now: cheerful red brick behind thick green hedges, the path up to the dark-blue front door, the lamp glowing in the sitting room window. I remember stepping into the hall, throwing my keys into the china pot on the table, the cat blinking at me from her favourite spot by the hall radiator as she soaked up the warmth of the hot water pipes. I’m slipping off my coat, calling out, ‘Hello? Where is everyone? I’m home.’

  The china cup clatters onto the wooden worktop and coffee spills out in a black puddle as I’m caught by a horrible pang of pain and regret and overwhelming loss that weakens my fingers, bends me and makes me gasp sharply, shaking me with the fierce jerk of an electric current. It’s too much to bear and if I let it go on for too long, I know it will start to destroy me so I summon all my strength and dispel it by an act of will.

  I will not. I will NOT think of it. It’s gone. It’s over. I’ve made my choice.

  I’m not in that oasis of calm and comfort and happiness anymore. I’m here in this strange place, where no one knows me. No one knows where I am.

  And there’s Heather. Her face comes into focus in my mind, and I imagine her waking alone in that room, wondering where she is, where I’ve gone. It’s enough to make the pain release me. I take a deep breath and shake my head. I’ve got to get back to her. There are only the two of us now, and we have to look to the future.

  Chapter Three

  Heather and I wander about,
looking at our new home. It’s the time of year I used to hate the most – early February, cold, murky and grey, with the promise of something brighter if we can just wait a little longer – and the empty rooms are gloomy with winter. Despite their dormancy, they seem to be calling out for buckets of hot soapy water, cloths, dusters and mops. The light shows that the windowpanes are laced with patterns of dirt and strewn with cobweb strands, and I can’t prevent a surge of desire to clean it all away.

  ‘No wonder they couldn’t find anyone else to take this place on,’ I say out loud to myself. I was warned that it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. It’s been empty for some time and the new owners only took possession of the place a few months ago. I wonder if they’ve even been here. I suppose they wanted to save money by not having it cleaned before they put people in it and that was probably why it was cheap. But it means I’ll be busy with the mop and bucket for a while. So much for paradise.

  ‘What do you think of it, Heather?’ I ask, as we open doors and inspect the rooms beyond. At first we take our time, but after a while we start just peeping in to see more of the same: empty space, wooden floors, fireplaces, dirty windows and little else.

  ‘It’s big,’ she pronounces. ‘Where are all the people?’

  ‘There aren’t any other people, just us.’

  She frowns. ‘But why do we need all this to live in? There’s no furniture!’

  ‘We’re looking after it. We’re staying here for a while, until the owners need it.’

  ‘Will other people come?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I don’t know why I say that when there’s no one coming, and immediately regret it when Heather looks interested.

  ‘Who are they? Will there be children?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say vaguely, ‘I don’t think so. They’re not coming for a long time, anyway. That’s why they need us.’

  She seems happy enough with this, and we resume our wandering through the ground floor, ending up back at our bedroom. This is certainly the best room for us, I think, not least because it’s the only one with a bed. Heather seems tired so I settle her on the bed with a picture book, and sit down with the file of papers I’ve brought with me. It’s the information about the property supplied by the owners, and I want to find out what I can about the way it all works, and how I’ll switch the heating on. There are ancient radiators in every room, each one stone cold. The bathroom at the end of our corridor has a huge old iron bath and taps that ran icy and never warmed up. We’ll need hot water before too long.

  Despite going through the papers several times, I can’t seem to locate what I need.

  ‘Dammit!’ I say crossly at last, and fling the papers down in frustration. It’s like this all the time now. I can’t take in information the way I used to. I’ll just have a wander around and see what I can find.

  Heather is looking over at me, concerned. ‘Are you all right, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ I smile at her. ‘I’m fine. Let’s go and get all our things from the car. Then we can make it nice and cosy.’

  She comes out with me and we spend the rest of the morning emptying the car of stuff: food and supplies; simple cooking equipment; more clothes, towels and linens; toys, books and games for Heather; a radio; cleaning things. Heather trots along beside me most of the time, not really helping much even when I suggest that she carries something for me. She gasps with delight when she sees some of her favourite books and in the end, I leave her sitting on the floor of the hallway, occupying herself with them, while I continue unloading.

  After I’ve given the bedroom a good clean and made it more homely, with Heather’s stuffed puffin on the pillow, it’s time for lunch – tinned soup and ham rolls – and then I make a start on the kitchen, this time with Heather helping me when she’s not distracted by playing around in the shelves and the larder. She starts ‘cooking’, mixing up the old powders she finds in tins and jars in a crackled china bowl, and adding water to turn it into what she says is a delicious soup, until she changes her mind and decides it’s a magic potion.

  ‘What does it do?’ I ask, shaking damp hair out of my eyes. I’ve worked up a sweat cleaning out the old fridge.

  ‘It can take us wherever we want to go,’ she replies, stirring it hard.

  ‘Where will it take you?’ I ask, thinking she’ll say ‘Disneyland’ or something made up.

  ‘Home, of course,’ she says at once.

  There’s a pause. I swallow, feeling a lump in my throat. I open my mouth to say something, anything, that might distract her from her impossible wish, but she speaks again before I can think of anything.

  ‘Can I eat a sugar cube, please, Mummy?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, relieved she’s let it go so easily. ‘Just be careful to suck it. You’ll break your teeth on it otherwise, it must be hard as concrete.’

  After I’ve finished as much of the kitchen as needs doing, I’m exhausted, and relieved to be able to make a decent cup of coffee with fresh milk, now stowed away in the clean fridge.

  That’s it for cleaning today. I’m bushed.

  But then I find, a few doors down the corridor from the kitchen towards the middle of the house, a room that must once have been a morning room or small sitting room. It’s cosier than most of the downstairs rooms, with windows and a pair of filthy French doors overlooking the tangle of garden at the back of the house. Its comfortable air comes partly from the fact that it still has some furniture: a round mahogany table with a few mismatched chairs around it, an armchair and an old sofa – a softly curving thing covered with scuffed and threadbare velvet in a mustardy yellow colour. The walls are papered with a delicate chinoiserie wallpaper in shades of silver and pale green, with pink, grey and blue birds perched among slender branches and blossom. It’s the prettiest room I’ve yet come across, although, like everywhere else, it’s neglected and dirty.

  ‘We’ll make this room much nicer,’ I say, looking about. This will be our sitting room. There’s a blocked-up fireplace and I wonder if I could possibly unblock it and if I would dare use it if I did. I try the French doors but of course they’re locked and there’s no sign of the keys. It doesn’t matter. It’s too cold to go out and, anyway, the state of the garden is a bit too much to take on right now. The inside is more manageable by comparison. A bit of work and this room could be lovely. I don’t mind the work. I’ve enjoyed what I’ve done today, losing myself in the task of cleaning. It’s good to have something simple to do – plain, physical labour that helps me relax. It’s all I want. Simplicity. Quiet. Peace. Just me and Heather.

  Even though I’m bushed, I bring in my little vacuum cleaner and give the sofa a good going over, until I feel it’s possible to sit on it, then dust the entire room and hoover again. This is definitely going to be our HQ and I’m eager to bring in some books and make it more homely. While I work, the afternoon sun disappearing quickly into gloom, Heather mooches about, plays with her miniature animal families and reads quietly in the hall. I glance at her every time I go past. She’s kneeling, leaning forward on her elbows, her chin on her hands, rocking back and forth as she turns the pages. It reminds me of when she was a baby, and I’d come into her room to see her asleep in her cot, her bottom up in the air, her legs tucked under her, her flushed cheek pressed against the sheet. I remember how Rory and I used to stand together at the door, peering in and marvelling at how beautiful she was, how perfect.

  Rory.

  I wonder, in a flash, if he’s realised yet that we’ve gone. If he has, what does he think and feel about it? He’s going to be desperate, surely, wondering where we are, trying to find us. I ought to feel sorry for him, but I can’t. I haven’t got room for how he feels anymore. I only have an overwhelming urge to stay hidden, far from everyone, where it’s safe.

  Later, when it’s dark outside and the hall is too gloomy for reading, we settle in the sitting room and I plug in the small electric fan heater, grateful I packed it just in case. Then I put some cartoons on the tablet
for Heather; I brought one without internet access but loaded it up with plenty of films and programmes and music and stories to keep Heather occupied when it’s not possible to play outside, or when she’s tired. While she’s lying on the sofa watching it, I put on my glasses and sit at the table to go through the paperwork from the company. Their logo is at the top: a centaur holding a stretched bow and arrow, like the emblem for the Sagittarius star sign. Below are three letters: ARK. I read the letter again.

  Welcome, guardian!

  We like to think of you as our guardian angels – people who are providing vital protective care to our properties. Thank you for joining our band. ARK has properties throughout the country and we need them to be occupied, so that we can prevent the decay and degeneration of our assets and guard against the dangers of squatters. Your role is absolutely vital to our work.