The Winter House

by Unknown

  The door to the tiny room where Oliver slept was shut – what if he had drifted off to sleep? Marnie tiptoed towards it, as far as it was possible to tiptoe in damp wellington boots, catching her hip on the edge of the table and almost yelping in pain. She pushed at the door.

  ‘Oliver?’ she hissed. There was no reply. Holding her breath, she could hear no sound of his. ‘Are you there?’ She reached out and found the divan-bed, patted it for Oliver’s body. Nothing. He was gone then, and she felt a stab of panic because it meant she had to go too.

  The door swung open onto a gust of cold, spitting air. The ground was spongy and sodden beneath her feet, and when she took a few paces she could actually hear the gurgle of water beneath the surface. When the breeze strengthened, a sudden shower was shaken from overhead branches. Marnie tipped her head and stared up into the moonless, starless sky. She felt that she was standing in a different world from the sunlit summer one of yesterday. It felt larger, less friendly, full of blankness and emptiness, swilled around by slanting rain and cold winds. Her boots slipped in the thick mud.

  At the end of the mown grass stood the small tent, but Marnie could no longer see it. Ralph had turned out the torch. She moved very slowly forward towards the pitch black of the forest. Where dark met darkest, there Oliver was waiting. Marnie put her hands under the waterproof and did up the buttons one by one, in an act of demureness that struck even her as comic. Never mind, he wouldn’t be able to see it – he would see nothing and neither would she: they would be blind except for touch. She pushed her hair back. It was so quiet she could almost hear the beat of her heart. She touched her face, as he had earlier, to remind herself.

  An owl gave a single muffled hoot.

  No, not an owl.

  A sea-bird far from home called, its melancholy cry melting into the sob of the wind.

  Not a sea-bird, no. Oh, no.

  Marnie stopped in her tracks and listened. There it was again. She put her fist to her mouth.

  A boy gave a sob in the night. It was a piteous sound, half animal in its grief, and it curled into her heart.

  And again. Had she ever heard anything so abandoned? Slowly she turned and went in its direction. At the mouth of the tent she knelt and pulled off her boots, then unzipped the flap and crawled inside. ‘Ralph,’ she whispered. ‘It’s me. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. It’s all right.’

  Ralph made an indistinct noise. She couldn’t tell if it was a word or not.

  She put out a hand and touched a bare leg. He was lying on top of the sleeping-bag.

  ‘What is it? Please tell me.’

  Another sob tore out of him, then another.

  She crawled further up the tent, found his shoulder and touched it. Her fingers felt for his face, his wet cheeks. ‘Is it because of me? I can’t bear it if it’s because of me.’

  ‘Please go,’ he managed.

  ‘I can’t go and leave you like this.’ She leant forward and kissed his damp forehead.

  ‘Stop,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want your pity. Anything but that.’

  ‘I don’t pity you,’ she said. ‘You’re my dear friend. I love you.’

  ‘Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ.’ Or that was what she thought he was saying. He had turned away from her and put an arm over his face; his words were choked.

  Marnie took off her waterproof and lay down next to him in the musty darkness. The floor was lumpy and water seeped through the canvas where it touched her back. She very carefully put her arms around his body, naked except for boxers, and felt him go absolutely still. Through her cardigan, she could feel the serration of his spine. He smelt like grass, soil, woodsmoke. His skin was damp.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Just go to sleep. I’ll stay with you until then. Everything’s all right. Really.’

  ‘Marnie,’ he gulped, and then he was crying in earnest. Crying as a tiny child cries, holding nothing back. His body shook in her arms. She could feel the grief ripping through him in great waves, which broke over him. Sometimes there were words. He said, ‘David,’ and he said, ‘Grace.’ He mentioned his father – except he called him ‘Daddy’, as if he was a small and trusting child again, not a young man whose father beat him and whose mother (‘Mummy,’ he said, shuddering in Marnie’s arms) blamed him for his brother’s death.

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ he gasped. It was such an old-fashioned, unlikely expression, which Marnie had never heard him use before, and for some reason it made her feel almost unbearably tender. The buttons of her cardigan were pressing against his back and she wriggled out of it and tossed it to one side, then pressed her warm, half-naked body against Ralph’s cold flesh, her legs against his, held him close in the thick darkness. She needed to go, she needed to calm Ralph and find Oliver, put everything right that was wrong – but everything Ralph had stored up was gushing out of him, a torrent of misery, rage, guilt and despair. Marnie thought his body must break under the pressure of the black flood that was roaring through him. She imagined him as a landscape that was disintegrating, whirled around with fallen buildings and hurled boulders. She whispered into his shoulder that she was there.

  She pictured Oliver standing by the fallen tree, waiting. How long would he wait? She thought, Please don’t go, please stay for me, to be there at the end and hold me in the sheltering calm of your presence. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and prayed that Ralph would stop weeping and release her from this torment, but still the sobs continued until she barely heard them; they rose and fell with the wind outside and with the beating of her own heart. She didn’t know what time it was, had no idea of how long she had lain there with Ralph, holding his thinness against her, listening to him sob, to the drip of water outside the tent, the strange creakings and sighings of the trees, the occasional rustle as if there were animals outside in the undergrowth.

  They lay there for a long time. The wind died down and Ralph stopped crying. At last there was silence, inside and outside the tent. Marnie stirred and loosened her clasp.

  ‘I haven’t cried until now.’ Ralph sounded exhausted. ‘Not since he died. I thought I’d never be able to cry again. That there was something wrong with me.’

  ‘Well, you certainly made up for it.’ Marnie tried to keep her voice light. She eased away from Ralph and sat up, feeling the sodden roof of the tent against her. She was chilly now, and tired, depressed. She groped for her cardigan, damp from the rain that had seeped in through the canvas walls, and started to pull it over her head, getting her hair caught round one of its buttons. She took if off carefully, untangled herself, and started again. There was no need to hurry now. She knew she was too late.

  There was a sound outside, and before either of them knew what was happening the tent flap was pulled aside and a torch shone in on them. Marnie sat caught in its beam, in her bra and pyjama shorts, her cardigan around her neck. Beside her Ralph crouched in his underwear, his face puffy and creased from weeping, his hair matted round his face.

  ‘What?’ she started. ‘Who’s there? I can’t see.’ But she knew anyway; she didn’t need light.

  The torch swung round and now the beam pointed back into Oliver’s face.

  ‘Me,’ he said. ‘Who else?’ Then he dropped the beam and they were all invisible again, in an ominous silence.

  ‘Ollie!’ said Ralph. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Oliver.’ Marnie tugged the cardigan down over her stomach and scrambled towards him. ‘Listen… wait, don’t go. Please don’t go. This isn’t – I was on my way –’

  ‘Crap,’ he said coldly.

  Then he was gone. She sat at the mouth of the tent, watching the wavering light cross the grass towards the house.

  ‘Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry, Marnie.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to – you didn’t need this. I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying sorry.’

  ‘No, sorry. Oh, bugger.’

  ‘I ought to g
o.’

  ‘I’ve ruined everything.’

  ‘No,’ she said dully. ‘There wasn’t really anything to ruin.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. You were comforting me, just being kind. He’ll understand. It’s me. I ruin everything. I’m like a plague-carrier or something.’

  ‘Stop. Shut up, will you?’

  ‘People should keep away from me. I ought to have a bell to ring, warning of my approach.’

  ‘I said, shut up.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  It was no longer absolute darkness: a new dawn was breaking. The wind of the night before had blown the clouds back and, through them, Marnie could see the stencilled shape of a crescent moon and, just beneath its horn, a single pale star. A narrow band on the horizon glowed orange and pink – after the storm, it was going to be a beautiful day. Her boots were outside, toppled into the grass, and she pushed her feet into them, feeling how wet and gritty they were inside. She picked up her waterproof.

  Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she said, ‘It wasn’t your fault, Ralph. Don’t think that. It’s no one’s fault and it doesn’t matter anyway.’

  ‘You’re just being kind.’

  ‘No. I chose to be with you and I’m glad I did.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Now try to get some sleep.’

  ‘I won’t sleep. But don’t worry, I’ll stay here and you go and talk to Ollie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  In the gathering light, she trudged towards the house through the slushy grass. A light had been turned on downstairs: Oliver in his little room. At the front door, she kicked off her boots and stepped inside, turning on the overhead light and blinking in its dazzle. She felt grimy and dejected. Her cardigan was inside out and streaked with mud; her feet, she saw, were filthy. She didn’t want to think what her face looked like. But she went through the kitchen and knocked on the door of Oliver’s room, quietly so that no one upstairs would wake.

  It opened and Oliver stood, blocking her way in. His face, usually so warm, was empty of expression. Behind him, she saw that his rucksack stood beside the divan and clothes were strewn around it.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Don’t speak so loud – everyone will wake up.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said, but in a furious whisper. ‘Tell me what you’re doing.’

  ‘What does it look like? Packing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘But we’ve got one day left,’ she said stupidly.

  ‘You have – not me.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to travel back with us?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Ollie.’ She stepped forward, but he still didn’t budge. She put a hand up to touch his arm, then let it drop. ‘It wasn’t what you think.’

  ‘What do I think, Marnie?’

  ‘Please. Don’t speak like that. You think that I was – was with Ralph.’

  ‘You were with Ralph.’

  ‘Not like that.’

  ‘Naked. I saw you, remember?’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘While I waited in the forest. Waited for hours in the rain and the wind.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You promised.’

  ‘I wanted to come.’

  ‘Yeah?’ His voice was hard. ‘It didn’t look like that.’

  ‘Oh, stop trying to punish me and listen. I heard him crying. I couldn’t bear it.’

  He looked at her for a few moments. ‘I really cared about you, you know. It doesn’t happen to me very often. I fell hard.’

  Marnie winced. ‘Don’t say it like that, as if it was all over.’

  ‘Over? It didn’t even begin. Maybe that’s how you like things – the bit just before anything happens.’

  ‘Ollie. What do you think I should have done? He was sobbing his heart out. Ralph, your friend, mine – I couldn’t just walk past and put it out of my mind. I couldn’t.’

  ‘He’s in love with you.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it? He’s still my friend.’

  ‘He’s in love with you and so was I.’

  ‘Don’t say was.’

  ‘Grow up, Marnie.’

  ‘It’s you I chose. Choose, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You didn’t, though, did you?’

  ‘So.’ Marnie folded her arms across her chest. Anger was rising in her. ‘That’s that, is it? You’re going to pack your bags and leave because one night went wrong? That’s how much you cared about me?’

  ‘Not just one night. You’re not being honest. You didn’t want anyone to know about us. You wanted it to be some furtive secret, not out in the open. You’re scared.’

  ‘Scared? Of what?’

  ‘You tell me. Sex. Needing someone. Being vulnerable.’

  ‘Hurting Ralph.’

  ‘Hurting Ralph, yeah. Disappointing your mum in some way. I don’t know. Not being the good little girl any more. Growing up, being an adult, making your own decisions.’

  ‘OK. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am scared. But I was still going to come to you. It wasn’t going to stop me.’ The fight went out of her. She was too tired and dispirited, too cold. There was no room in her for desire or even affection. She sat down heavily on the divan beside a pile of dirty clothes and rubbed her eyes. ‘Fuck off, then, Ollie.’

  ‘Right.’ He picked up the clothes and pushed them into his rucksack, then slung in a couple of books.

  ‘Have a good life.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will.’

  And that was it. He put his rucksack on his back and went out of the room. She stood up and followed him as far as the front door, where she watched him walk up the track and over the hill. It seemed a long time ago that she had seen him arrive and she remembered how her heart had flown into her mouth with fear and delight. For a moment she thought she would run after him and pull him back, but she didn’t. Instead she sat down at the kitchen table and rested her heavy head in her grubby hands. Summer was over.

  ‘Marnie? Marnie?’

  She must have dropped off to sleep. She raised her head blearily to see her mother and Eric standing in the room, both in dressing-gowns. They looked like a married couple, she thought, and rage surged through her. ‘What?’ she retorted crossly.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Why should anything be going on?’

  ‘It’s half past five and you’re asleep in the kitchen covered with mud.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Why are you up?’

  ‘No reason. I just couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  Emma tightened her dressing-gown and looked at her shrewdly. ‘I’m going to make you a mug of hot chocolate and then you’re going to get into a nice hot bath.’

  Marnie shrugged, dangerously close to tears. ‘You don’t need to bother.’ She paused, then said coldly, ‘Both go back to bed, why don’t you? I don’t want to get in your way.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. What were you doing outside? Are the others up as well? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I thought you were going to make me hot chocolate and run me a bath, not ask me endless pointless questions.’

  ‘Here comes Ralph,’ said Eric, who was standing by the window, ‘looking like something the tide washed up.’

  It was true that Ralph, when he came in, looked truly awful. He had pulled on the oversized, grubby shorts and a T-shirt that clung to his body, making him appear malnourished, with thin, sloping shoulders and a scrawny neck. His hair was in a clotted tangle, his face was puffy from lack of sleep and still tearstained from his crying jag. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark shadows beneath them. More than all of that, he looked drained of life – his restless energy and turbulent enthusiasm had leaked away and he was empty. He moved a bit like a sleepwalker, and came into the house dragging his sodden sleeping-bag behind hi
m. His bare feet shuffled.

  ‘Hello, Ralph,’ said Emma, gently, her eyes darting between the two of them. ‘I’m making Marnie some hot chocolate. I’ll get you some too.’

  Ralph sat down at the kitchen table opposite Marnie and gazed at her but she didn’t look up. She wanted to feel sorry for herself, not him.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Eric, suddenly. ‘Ralph and I are going to go fishing. Early morning is the perfect time, and it’s our last opportunity. We’ll take hot chocolate in a flask and I’ll make us honey sandwiches for breakfast. We’ll bring back pike for lunch – OK, mate?’

  Marnie saw the look her mother gave him. She watched how their eyes locked before they turned away. They love each other, she thought. My mother loves Eric and he loves her back. They are a real couple. She didn’t recognize the feeling that flooded through her, didn’t know if she was angry, resentful or glad that, after all these years of silent grieving, Emma was able to feel this kind of happiness again. She suddenly understood that this was what the holiday had really been about: not her with her blind, feverish longings and adolescent terrors, but Emma and Eric carefully finding each other in the forests and the meadows. She lifted her head and gave her mother a watery smile. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘We’re both fine, aren’t we, Ralph?’

  ‘Are we?’ He gazed at her pleadingly.

  ‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath and laid a hand on his arm reassuringly.

  ‘Marnie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wish you’d marry me one day.’ Ralph’s eyes widened in shock even as he spoke the words; he hadn’t known what he was going to say and he actually put a hand over his mouth after he’d spoken.

  The words hung in the silent room. Marnie closed her eyes and pressed her hands together, willing the moment to pass. ‘I’m seventeen,’ she said, trying to turn it into a joke. ‘And you’re mad.’ She turned to Emma and Eric and tried to sound casual; her face was rubbery with tiredness. ‘Ollie’s gone.’