The Winter House

by Unknown

  ‘It’s all right.’ He spoke before she could say the words. ‘We won’t tell Ralph. We won’t tell anyone. This is just us, you and me.’ He traced a line round her jaw, ran a thumb over her lip.

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Thirteen days’ time.’

  ‘Thirteen days.’

  So began Marnie’s secret life. She was surprised by how easily she could be two people. At home and at school she was the same Marnie Still, quiet, stubborn, attentive, self-contained. She got up early each morning and fed the hens, collected their warm eggs, bits of feather sticking to the shell. She sat at breakfast with Emma, eating porridge with Demerara sugar, or toast with marmalade, and drinking tea – or on days when there were guests, she helped her mother fry bacon, grill fat pink sausages until their skins burst, and wash dishes smeared with yolk. She went off to school on her bike, her bag slung over her shoulders, her eyes watering in the wind that whipped up from the sea. She bent over her desk, chewing her lower lip, mouthing the words on the page silently to herself because, however hard she tried, reading remained difficult, letters squirming on the page and rearranging themselves; she was painfully aware that she was seventeen and read aloud like a ten-year-old. She met up with Lucy between lessons, sat over cups of instant soup in the sixth-form common room where they would gossip, exchange confidences, make plans, arrange when to go out together and when Lucy would next come round.

  With Ralph she was reassuring, warm, friendly. She watched hope flower in him and hated herself. On the evening that she had first met Oliver again, Ralph came round for supper and they cooked it together, with the giggling ease they had not had for months. She had teased him, and seen how he flushed with delight, taught him how to make a cheese soufflé, listened as he told her about imaginary numbers, played cards with him before he went up to Seth’s old room under the rafters. With her mother, she was always pleasant and unconfrontational, but shied away from proper discussion and Emma’s discerning gaze, and spent more time than usual in her room.

  And then: she would sneak out of school during her lunch hour and meet Oliver; skip lessons and meet Oliver; hurry to his house as soon as the last bell had gone, breathless with desire, and he wouldn’t say anything when he opened the door, just take her hand and lead her up to his room, lay her down. A couple of times she waited until Emma was asleep at night, then went to the beach where they’d met on that first day to find him there, waiting for her again in the cool salty darkness, under the hazy moon. The world receded, became a pale blur in the background. Only Oliver was vivid. Alone in bed she would replay how he had looked, what he had said, how he had touched her, pushed back her hair, how he had lain in her arms. She would never forget those secret days. Even at the time she understood that a new self had at last been born, unfolded in delight, and that when she was very old she would look back and remember how softly beautiful she had felt, how flush-full of love, tenderness, melting desire.

  She had always thought she was an honest person, but deception came easily. She told Ralph that she was busy because she had to do catch-up study, Lucy that she was helping Emma more than usual but soon things would be back to normal, Emma that she needed to use the school’s darkroom to develop her photographs, or that a few girls she hadn’t been friendly with before had invited her round. Once, in town with Lucy, they had bumped into Ralph and Oliver together, and the four had stood in a self-conscious huddle on the pavement. Neither Oliver nor Ralph had said anything to her about their patched-up friendship, but Marnie didn’t mind: indeed, she felt an illicit thrill that they were all hiding from each other. Nobody was in plain sight – except perhaps Lucy, who looked between the three of them with her beady, deceived gaze.

  Now she understood that the reason she kept Oliver a secret was not just an over-protective impulse towards Ralph. It had begun that way, certainly, but she had gradually discovered that she liked her life to be hidden from view. She didn’t want to be an official couple, whom other people had opinions about (‘What do you make of Marnie and Oliver?’ ‘Oh, it can never last’). She loved sitting in her room until she was sure the house was silent and all its other inmates asleep, then creeping down the stairs, avoiding the one that creaked, three from the bottom, opening the door to the night tang, feeling for him in the spooky darkness. If Ralph knew, he would be wretchedly happy for them – she could already see the look on his thin face; if Lucy knew, she would be sceptical, curious and sour; if Emma knew, she would understand too much about her daughter’s life. Marnie did not want anyone to understand her life – except Oliver, to whom she offered fragments of her history like gifts.

  A few days before he left, she said to him, ‘I’ve been thinking of Seth recently.’ Then she waited, feeling the familiar bulky anxiety lodge in her throat and stomach.

  They were in his room, sitting on the floor with their backs against the bed, eating toast and Marmite. She was wearing Oliver’s thick striped dressing-gown, which smelt of him, and their legs were tangled. It was early afternoon, hours before either of his parents would come home, and outside it was raining steadily: it pattered on the roof and streamed down the window, so that she felt they were cocooned inside a bright, warm space while the world outside was wet, grey and cold.

  Oliver didn’t answer immediately. He shifted his position so that he was sitting up straighter, and then he picked up one of her hands and held it between both of his own, fiddling with her fingers. ‘You’ve never talked about him before,’ he said finally.

  ‘But you knew, of course?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From Ralph?’

  ‘No. He’s never said anything to me.’ Marnie was surprised, but at the same time felt a surge of affection towards her friend, who let her tell her own stories. How many other people could she say that about? ‘My mother told me, after I first met you.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘It’s just one of those things that people round here know.’

  ‘You mean, “Do you know what happened to those poor Stills? No wonder they’re a bit odd.” ’

  Oliver grinned wryly. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘But you never said anything. Why not?’

  ‘You never said anything, Marnie. I was waiting.’

  ‘Well, now I have.’ She sighed and put her head on his shoulder and he stroked her hair. ‘If I was writing an essay about it, I’d probably say that being with you has stirred up lots of things in me that I’ve never really thought about – or, at least, tried not to think about. Like a muddy pool.’

  ‘What have you been thinking?’

  His voice was measured, quiet; if he’d pushed her or expressed his own opinion, Marnie knew that she would not have continued. ‘Stupid things, mainly – like, if he was alive, what would he be doing, what would he look like, would he have a girlfriend and what would she be like, would we get on, would we actually like each other. One of the things I sometimes feel is that he’d look down on me, wouldn’t be bothered – I’d still be his silly baby sister, still tagging after him, petitioning him for favours. Would he like you? And things like, what would my relationship with Mum be if she had a son as well? Would he be her favourite? Would I be less special to her? Or does she resent me because I’m alive and Seth’s dead? Does she ever look at me and think it should have been the other way round?’

  ‘The one thing I can be absolutely sure of, Marnie, is that your mother never thinks that.’

  ‘Are you? When someone dies, they become perfect, especially when they die young. That’s what happened with David – look at how Ralph’s parents reacted. Ralph never stood a chance when David was alive, but dead – well, he’s like a god. Seth was little, sweet, clever, innocent and unblemished, the first-born. And then there’s me – no, don’t say anything – and I can’t compete. Oh, I know it shouldn’t be about competing, but sometimes I feel like that. And then I feel so guilty for feeling like that. Not just guilty for being alive when he’s dead – it’s
like I’m jealous of my brother, jealous of someone who died in a terrible accident when he was seven! What kind of person would feel that?’

  ‘A normal one?’ Oliver suggested.

  ‘You know why Mum adores Ralph so much, don’t you? He’s her replacement son. The moment she set eyes on him, it was like love at first sight. I saw it happen.’

  ‘For both of them.’ It was barely a question.

  ‘Oh, yes. She needed a son and he needed a mother. He’s the only person who makes her melt. I don’t.’

  ‘And that makes you feel…’ He paused, waiting for her to fill in the gap.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Marnie stood up and went to the window. Outside, the large garden was soggy; the trees at the end were turning golden. She leant her forehead against the cool pane and looked out at the falling rain, the grey and blurred horizon. ‘Ralph’s like my – I was going to say burden. That sounds terrible and I don’t mean it like that. More like my penance. I suppose he’s my family now. He has this hold over me.’

  ‘I know,’ Oliver said wryly.

  ‘You’re going to say we have to tell him.’

  ‘But we do. Every time I see him, I feel rotten.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It’s not some dirty secret, Marnie. We’re going out, that’s all.’

  ‘Can we wait till Christmas, when you come back for the holidays?’

  ‘Three months.’

  ‘But you won’t be here, anyway, so you won’t have to be feeling rotten.’

  ‘That’s not how it works.’

  ‘By Christmas, he’ll have taken his Cambridge exams and done his interview. I don’t want anything to get in the way of that.’

  Oliver stood up and joined her at the window. ‘Do you think that if he gets into Cambridge, he’ll be all right and you won’t have to worry about him any more and, miraculously, you’ll both be free of each other?’

  ‘Kind of,’ she admitted.

  ‘You know how ridiculous this is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if Ralph knew, he’d be furious and humiliated that we were hiding from him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, then.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know, this is the first time you’ve talked about the future.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About us having a future, beyond the next few days.’

  ‘You mean, you going away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘How can you ask?’ He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘I’ve never felt this way before.’

  ‘Never? What about all the other girls before me?’

  ‘Which other girls?’

  ‘I don’t know. Like…’ She pretended to search for her name, though it was branded on her heart and even now she would remember her bright smile, her air of confident propriety. ‘Lou.’

  ‘Oh, Lou.’ He spoke dismissively. Marnie’s heart lifted in delight.

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Marnie, I don’t know what you think but I haven’t had loads of girlfriends.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘No. I’m quite shy, you know. A good Catholic boy.’

  Marnie pushed her hand through his hair, kissed him half on his mouth, felt his lips smile under hers. She felt Ralph recede, their betrayal soften and fade. This was what mattered: here, now, in this room.

  ‘How many, then?’ she said.

  ‘You want numbers?’

  ‘Well, it’s only fair. You know about me: there was David and that’s all. One before you, and I didn’t even like him very much and we certainly didn’t sleep together.’

  ‘At school,’ said Oliver, ‘everyone talks about sex as if it’s easy. You listen to boys, even the nasty ones and the fat ones and the spotty ones, and you’d think they were having sex all the time. They’d boast about it and compare notes and name girls who were up for it. I didn’t understand how they could be so confident. Now I think most of them were probably just making it up, but then I’d ask myself, “Why is it so simple and so casual and meaningless for them when for me it’s so…” ’ He trailed off.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Different. I dunno. Complicated. Scary, even. I didn’t know how to talk to girls, even though I’ve got all these bloody older sisters.’

  ‘You always talked to me all right.’

  ‘I saw you standing there in your shabby clothes, your hair all messy, paint on your face. How could I resist?’

  ‘You did resist, though – for ages.’

  ‘I told you, I’m shy. Anyway, one, since you asked.’

  ‘One?’

  ‘And that wasn’t even Lou. It was a pissed, unhappy girl at a party who I’d never met before and never saw after. I behaved just like the oafs at school who used to brag about doing it in the cupboard under the stairs.’

  ‘So, one pissed girl and then me.’

  ‘Are you disappointed?’

  ‘Do you know what I am? I’m happy.’ She wrapped her arms round his neck. ‘I’m so happy I feel blurred. I’ve lost my boundaries.’

  At that moment the doorbell rang.

  ‘Ignore it,’ said Oliver, his lips in her hair, his hands undoing the belt of the towelling robe she was wearing. ‘We’ve got at least two hours before Mum gets back.’

  So it was that they were lying on his unmade bed, naked and entwined, when they heard Ralph’s voice, calling Oliver’s name, saying he knew he was there and he should just take a look at what he’d brought him. Before they even had time to cover themselves with a sheet, he burst into the room, sopping wet and carrying a tall, cumbersome parcel wrapped in brown paper. He was shouting something about a going-away present, which he hadn’t been able to resist – it was a bit like the one he had only much better. Even after he had seen them, and his face was full of wild distress, a few words still managed to escape.

  ‘I hope it’ll fit in the car,’ he said feebly, looking away as Marnie sat up and brought the sheet under her chin. Carefully, he stood the parcel upright just inside the door.

  ‘Ralph,’ said Oliver, ‘we were going to tell you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does matter.’

  ‘No. You don’t need to say anything. I’ll let myself out. I left the spare key on the table by the way.’

  He backed from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

  ‘Shit,’ Oliver said. He stood up and started to pull on his clothes.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Run after him, of course.’

  But he didn’t need to, because the door was flung open again and Ralph stood in the entrance and now his face was blazing with fury. ‘What did you think? That I wouldn’t be able to cope? Better to protect me? Is that it? Sweet Ralph, helpless, hopeless Ralph. Treat him like a child.’

  ‘No!’ said Marnie, although, of course, that was what she had thought.

  ‘What? What? You thought I was in love with you and would be too upset to deal with the truth, so you could just go along and pretend that nothing was happening. You’re my friends. God, you must have laughed. And you,’ he said, jabbing a finger into Oliver’s chest. ‘I told you you should go and make it up with Marnie – I pleaded with you – and you said maybe one day. And all the time you were fucking her?’

  ‘It was wrong,’ said Oliver. He cast a single stony glance at Marnie, then turned back to Ralph. ‘I know it was wrong. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That time we all met and you two pretended you hadn’t seen each other since Scotland? And, Marnie, when you said you didn’t care about Oliver any more? And you even flirted with me – yes, you did. You know it’s true. You played with me, like a cat with a fucking mouse. Why? That’s – it’s not right. It’s wrong.’

  ‘Ralph,’ said Marnie. She got out of the bed, keeping the sheet draped around her, and went to him, tripping over the folds in her haste. ‘Please. It was my f
ault.’

  ‘You didn’t trust me, either of you.’

  ‘That’s not it,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Yes. You thought I’d collapse or something. Maybe I would even have been pleased for you – at least you could have given me the chance, allowed me some kind of control over my own life. You had power over me and you abused it.’

  ‘Ralph –’

  ‘Both of you. You’ve ruined everything.’ He turned to Oliver. ‘Have a good time at university,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you will.’ Then he kicked at the vast parcel and it fell to the floor with a dry, rattling sound. ‘You fucking shit.’

  Marnie wasn’t sure how it happened. Later, she couldn’t piece together the events in the right order or say who hit whom first. But suddenly the two of them were throwing wild, ineffective punches at each other, their faces puckered as if they were about to burst into tears. They looked farcical, ugly.

  ‘Stop it!’ she cried, trying to pull them apart while still holding her sheet in place. ‘What do you think you’re doing? This is stupid. Look at you both. Stop!’

  They didn’t reply. She heard their laboured breaths. Their feet pattered on the floor. Then Ralph’s fist landed on Oliver’s right cheek, just under his eye, and Oliver staggered backwards, banging into his desk and slipping to the floor with a comical look of surprise on his face.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Marnie, in disgust. ‘I don’t believe you two.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Ralph. ‘I’m off. You can forget I ever existed. ’Bye.’

  This time he did not return. They heard the front door open and close. There was absolute silence in the room. Oliver crawled over and knelt down by the parcel, tearing away some of the paper. ‘He’s given me a skeleton,’ he said. ‘A life-sized skeleton.’ He sounded as if he was about to cry. ‘He must have spent every last penny he had on it.’

  ‘What did you both think you were doing?’

  ‘I’m not even doing medicine. One of the arms has come off.’

  He didn’t look up as Marnie pulled on her clothes and left, walking out into the gathering darkness, knowing it was over.