Ghosts of Winter

by Rebecca S. Buck

  The bedrooms were mostly located towards the back and sides of the house. Along the front was a large room with many windows. The Long Gallery. I smiled, admiring the pride of whoever had named it, for the room was only long in relation to the other rooms in the house. I’d been in plenty of grand stately homes, with real long galleries, and this did not even begin to compare. Still, it was one of the easier rooms in which to imagine the inhabitants of former times admiring the portraits of their ancestors on the walls. The hooks and uneven colouring of what remained of the wallpaper showed clearly where such pictures had once hung.

  There was something wistful about that faded, patchy wallpaper, the shadows of the portraits which occupied these walls. It was such a simple consideration in a house with so much to discover, but it moved me. I wanted to pause for a moment, stop my exploration and think over what I’d learned already, consider my feelings for my new house. The windows in the Long Gallery each had a broad window seat. I perched on one and cleared a small patch of the dirty glass so that I might see out over the parkland.

  The sky was a heavy grey and the daylight had taken on an oppressive yellow quality. I wondered if it was going to snow. I looked out at the bare-limbed trees, jagged and black on the horizon, and at the dull green of the grass. The meadows sloped down to where a small river flowed through the park. Somewhere out there was a bridge over the river. A flock of crows flew past, ignoring the house entirely as they swept by. It struck me at once, as I stared, nothing had changed at all since my arrival yesterday. This house had stood here for hundreds of years, at first glorious, then decaying. As much a part of the landscape as the river and the stark trees. I was nothing in that great scheme of things. But I had to make a mark, I owed that much to Auntie Edie and to this building. It wasn’t really such a big house, as country houses went, but it was as proud as any other, with its Long Gallery, grand staircase, and high-ceilinged Saloon. Winter Manor still aspired to something, even after all the years it had seen come and go. It wanted to be more than it was, it remembered what it had once been. I could empathise with that. I wanted to help it to be all it could be again. Maybe there was a chance I could find my own way to being all I could be in the process.

  My thoughts strayed back to my visitor of earlier that morning. The jury was still out on whether I liked Anna or not. I chose to entirely blank the nagging part of me that insisted on pointing out just how attractive my architect was. Those thoughts were neither appropriate or helpful. So what if I still tingled slightly where her fingers had pressed mine? I wasn’t used to being on my own yet, I was bound to have moments where the most unlikely women appealed to me. They were most emphatically not feelings I should act upon or consider.

  However much more Anna thawed, whether she became a friend or stayed as just the architect, I wouldn’t let myself think about her in any other way. She was married and I was an emotional mess. Two good reasons right there.

  That the restoration of Winter was mostly in her hands I was pleased about. I already trusted her abilities and her work ethic. Though with my turbulent emotions and hazy self-confidence I didn’t relish the idea of her coming to the house again and intruding into my refuge, a confusing presence. She made me feel judged, though she had done nothing to provoke it. Just recently I’d felt the whole world was finding me wanting in one way or another. As I established myself at Winter I wasn’t sure another visit from someone so wonderfully competent would help. But maybe calling in to her office in the city wouldn’t be so bad.

  I thought back to our parting conversation. I hoped she hadn’t found my reticence when it came to the topic of my employment rude. I didn’t want to discuss it with anyone, let alone someone who trailed clouds of professional capability in her wake.

  Professional achievement had always been one of my aims in life. I’d considered myself reasonably successful only this time last year in, fact. I was looking good to be deputy head of year. Now I was sitting in a dusty window seat of a run-down manor house, avoiding conversations about my job. Truth was, I tried to avoid too many thoughts about it. I leaned my head against the window frame and let my eyes drift out of focus. How did I get to this point? One moment I’d been fulfilling a vocation, the next I was unemployed. Maybe if my mother’s cancer hadn’t been diagnosed too late. Maybe if I’d gone straight back to work after all those weeks caring for her. Maybe if I’d given more thought to my relationship with Francesca before Mum was sick. There was a chance I’d be in an entirely different place now. But maybe was a futile word and I knew it. I was here, be it by fate or accident. Perhaps Winter Manor was the answer to finally erase all the sentences beginning with what if?

  Tears stung my eyes. I wiped at them and found that my fingers were freezing cold. I dragged my gaze away from the window and the view of the Winter parkland, and back into the spacious, shabby room. Would this really be the step forward I needed? On my own in a rotting house, relying on somebody else’s money to revitalise a legacy that was really nothing to do with me. Surely it was the ultimate in running away? I sat on the edge of the window seat and looked around me pensively.

  Suddenly Winter Manor was very large and full of shadows. I could lose myself here in a way I’d never intended. I ran my fingers over the wood of the seat I sat on, grooved and warped in places, the varnish flaking. Looking into the gallery I tried to envisage the paintings on the walls, the ancestors who were really nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t find my history here in this isolation. In taking on this project, was I really grasping at straws, hoping fate had thrown an answer my way, when I wasn’t sure which path to take next? A wave of heavy sadness, such as I’d not felt since immediately after my mother’s death, enveloped me. The sheer depth of it disturbed me and I rose quickly to my feet, shaking myself, hoping to drive the melancholy away. I had to look forward to the future now, stop lingering in the past. Easier said than done, when the route into that future was so unclear and apparently more subject to the whims of chance than any decisions I could make.

  I heard a distant ringing. At first I thought I was imagining it. Seconds later the bell sounded again. It sounded like a doorbell. I turned back to the window and looked down to the front of the house. Sure enough, parked there next to my car was another, small and blue, a model I couldn’t distinguish from above. The bell rang once more. It had to be the doorbell. I hadn’t noticed there even was a doorbell.

  I hurried over the uneven floorboards of the gallery, across the landing outside, and down the grand staircase. It struck me how the stairs and entrance hall were already beginning to feel familiar to me, as though they belonged to me. Or, at least, as though I could be at home here. That was a hopeful sign.

  I jogged across the tiled floor to the door, wishing, as I opened it, I’d thought to take care of my appearance instead of exploring the house. I’d not planned on any more visitors, and frankly, I wasn’t really in the mood for this level of social interaction. So far Winter Manor had not been quite the retreat I’d hoped it would be.

  Standing on the top step and already smiling at me as I opened the door was a woman I put to be in her early sixties, maybe a little older. Her hair, scraped back and secured with pins at the back of her head, had once been chestnut but was mostly fading to grey, and her hazel eyes were framed by a web of fine lines. She wore a purple waterproof coat which was fastened tight over a rather large bosom. She was holding a foil-wrapped package in her hands.

  “Hello there, pet,” she said. Her words were heavy with the warm accent of north-east England.

  “Hello.” I couldn’t help reflecting her smile. Difficult to resent a smiling intruder.

  “I’m Maggie Potter, pet, your neighbour.”

  “Ah, you’d better come in then,” I said, curious since I’d not noticed any nearby buildings and slightly alarmed by the prospect of a friendly neighbour. That was really more social pressure than I wanted. She came into the hallway and I closed the door behind her, glad to shut out the December air,
growing colder as the day progressed.

  Maggie Potter looked around at the entrance hall, as if she expected me to have transformed the house completely in just a day. “It’s a fine place.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’m in awe of it actually. You said you’re my neighbour? Where do you live?”

  “Oh, we’re not close neighbours, hun, it’s about two miles to my house from yours, longer by road. But the land to the east of yours is mine too.”

  “To the east?”

  “Yes, and a little to the south too. It’s mainly pasture, for the cows.”

  “You’re a farmer?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my tone. Why shouldn’t she be a farmer, after all?

  “Well, I’m a farmer’s wife really, pet—or girlfriend, since we didn’t marry, quite a scandal we caused at the time you know—but my Jack moved on two years ago, so that leaves me as a farmer now.”

  I couldn’t tell if she meant her partner had died or left her and didn’t like to ask, so it was hard to choose an appropriate reaction. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t be. I miss him but I know he’s in a better place.” I assumed she meant heaven and not the arms of another woman. “And I enjoy running the place. It was my parents’ farm, so I’m used to it. I’m converting us to organic.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes, pet, should be certified by this time next year.”

  “Well done, that’s no small undertaking.”

  “No, but it’ll be worth it.” She paused and I was acutely aware that this conversation had really gotten ahead of itself. She clearly concurred, asking in her next breath, “So, pet, what do I call you?”

  “I’m Ros. Ros Wynne.” I held out my hand and she shook it warmly.

  “Good to meet you, Ros.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Well, hun, when I heard Edith Burns had passed on, I wanted to know if we were going to have any problems with the new owners. You know a lot of the old houses and parks up here are being made into hotels and golf courses, or being demolished and built on. They’re not the sort of neighbours I want. So I contacted the lawyers and they told me she’d left the place to a family friend who would be moving in about now.”

  “I guess that’s me then.” I shrugged, unsure what else to say.

  “You’re younger than I expected,” she told me.

  “I’ve just turned thirty.”

  “When you’re seventy-five like me, pet, you’ll think thirty is young.” She looked serious for a moment, and I considered a comment about how she looked at least ten years younger. Before I could make it, she laughed lightly. “Anyway, look here, I brought you a cake.” She passed me the foil package, which was surprisingly heavy.

  “Lovely, thank you.” I was genuinely touched by the kindness. I peeled back part of the foil and caught the scent of spices and dried fruit. “What sort is it?”

  “Dundee, except I’m afraid I didn’t have the blanched almonds for the top, so I suppose it’s just a fruit cake. I didn’t realise until I’d got it all mixed and then it was too late.”

  “I’m sure it won’t miss them, it smells heavenly. I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I don’t have the camping stove set up yet.”

  “Oh no, hun, I’ll leave you to it in a moment, I just wanted to say hello. What are you doing for washing?”

  “There’s still running water, believe it or not. I thought I’d heat some up on the camping stove. The bathroom is first on the list of rooms to renovate, believe me.” I hoped she wouldn’t ask me in depth about my plans for the renovation, since there really weren’t any and I felt suddenly very ill-prepared.

  “Well, if you ever want a real bathroom, or to use my washing machine, you’d be welcome.”

  “Thank you so much,” I replied, truly grateful and feeling unworthy of such generosity.

  “It’s easy to find my place. Out of your gates, turn right, follow the road along, eventually you’ll get to another gate. It says Winter Park Farm on the sign next to the gate. Turn in there and follow the track to the house.”

  “Winter Park Farm?”

  “Yes, pet. It was all part of the Winter estate centuries ago. But a lot of the land was sold off. I always respected the fact that the family never chose to sell the house itself.”

  “It’s really amazing isn’t it? I only hope I can do the legacy justice.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will, hun. Do you know much of the history?”

  “Some.” I hurriedly thought back over what the lawyer had told me. “It was built in the seventeen fifties—”

  “That’s right, pet, by Lord Fitzsimmons Winter. Though later the Richmond family owned it, and then the Burns family, of course.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it,” I said with a smile. I wondered just how many tales Maggie would have to tell. I found I hoped I would one day have the time to listen.

  “Oh, my family have always lived in these parts, so I know a thing or two.”

  “When was it last lived in?” I asked curiously. “I think the lawyer said the nineteen forties?”

  “That it was. They requisitioned it you know, as a home for wounded soldiers to recuperate during and just after the war. A good cause, of course, but the state they left it in, no wonder none of the family ever came back here. It was such a fine house before the Depression and the war.” Maggie looked wistfully around the hallway.

  “I’m hoping it can be fine again. Auntie Edie saved up a lot of money to make sure I can restore everything.” I reassured her with more confidence than I’d known I had.

  “I suppose she never stopped thinking about the old place,” Maggie said.

  “That’s right. The lawyer told me it meant the world to her, even more after her mother died in the sixties. She always wanted to see it restored. I really hope I live up to her expectations.”

  “You will, pet.” Maggie reached out and patted my arm. Her faith in me was unexpectedly soothing. “Are you all on your own here?”

  “Yes, afraid so.”

  “No boyfriend coming up to visit at weekends and give you a hand?”

  “No. My girlfriend and I split up a few months ago.” I felt my throat tighten. They were difficult words to articulate, a detail of my life I still wasn’t used to. Whenever I thought about Francesca, my heart ached. I watched Maggie Potter’s reaction carefully. The hazel eyes showed no surprise or disapproval, only sympathy.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to pry, hun,” she said, patting my arm. I sensed prying, in a kindly way, was one of Maggie’s favourite pastimes. I wondered if she would discuss what she discovered about me with other neighbours, if there were any. If she did, what did it matter? I had no plans to be a belle of the local social scene anyway.

  “That’s okay,” I forced myself to say, though I didn’t feel especially okay in that moment. “I’m hoping being here is a new start in lots of ways.” I sounded more assured than I felt, but I made myself smile through it. Maggie Potter, a widow in her seventies managing a farm all by herself, clearly incredibly capable and not at all afraid of the things the world threw at her, put me to shame. If she could cope with loss and hard work, chances were I could too. To her I must have appeared brave, moving halfway up the country, taking on a project of this scale, all by myself. She couldn’t see the anxiety that twisted my heart or see the sadness I struggled with. Did she feel such emotions too? The notion came to me that maybe everyone felt the same things as me, and we were all just struggling to cope and putting on a brave face. The idea made me feel a little less alone and, to my surprise, more optimistic. If Maggie could find her way through life, there was no reason I couldn’t.

  As though she’d noticed the change in my expression, Maggie moved towards the door, assuming, I suppose, I’d like to be left alone. I was not wholly sure I wanted her to leave, since such kindly treatment from someone who was a stranger to me was something I found reassuring. I knew once I had closed the door behind her I’d be l
eft alone with my thoughts. But I could hardly demand that she stay and keep me company, especially when I was being such a terrible host, so I walked with her towards the door.

  “Next time you call in I’ll be more organised. I’ll at least have a kettle and a couple of chairs so we can sit down to a cup of tea.”

  “That’d be nice, pet. I reckon you’ll find a chair or two in the attic here. I heard that everything the family couldn’t take out of here got locked away up there. It’s a miracle the place wasn’t broken into more times, mind.”

  “It was broken into?” I’d not noticed any signs, assuming the smashed windows to be simply decay over the decades.

  “A few times. But with it being empty and all, even the kids lost interest. It’s a good job we’re not closer to the town, we’d probably have had a fire here by now, or those raves or whatever they call them. But no one wants to come out into the middle of nowhere just to break into an empty house. And no one’s ever wanted to develop it either. The world’s passed the old place by since the war.”

  “Just as well, I guess,” I said, as we reached the door. “Thanks so much for the cake, and for calling ’round.”

  “You’re welcome, hun. I expect we’ll be seeing each other again before long.”

  “I’m sure.” I gave her my warmest smile as she opened the front door and let herself out.

  “Take care of yourself rattling around in this big place on your own, pet.”

  “I will. See you again soon.”

  She turned her back on me and made her way down the stairs. I watched her climb, with no evidence of the stiffness I would have expected of a woman of her years, into the driver’s seat of her car. The engine rattled as she started it, and she accelerated hard away from the house.